Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. Strange to feel embarrassed that someone had seen her naked – the Pack had seen her nudity as she voided bladder and bowels every day in the kennel. But that was different. That had been her choice, in a strange way.
This….
She looked around. She was in a bed with sheets as white as the seats of Devar's auto-car. Whiter, if that were possible. And they were so soft that they made her body utterly satisfied, and at the same time achy and worn. She was not made for such finery.
Beside the bed was a wood dresser with gold fittings. On it was her knife, still pocked and strangely awkward looking atop such an expensive piece of furniture. Still, it made her feel better to know it was there.
She put her feet on the floor. It was wood, too. But not the rough wood that the floors and walls of the kennels and arenas were made of. This was a wood so perfectly planed and polished that there were no splinters, no pains. Just even, slick surface.
On the floor beside the bed sat a pair of sandals. She put them on and stood.
Then screamed, because someone was in the room with her.
She fell back, knife rising, that strange hum pulsing through her as she raised the weapon.
The girl – for it was a girl, she saw – fell back in unison, raised her own knife, and she was just as fast as Samira. But she did not move after that. Just held fast.
So did Samira. Waiting. Waiting.
The girl did not move.
Samira slowly rose from her crouch.
So did the other girl.
It's me. Gods, it's me.
She walked forward, and realized that she was looking at a mirror. There had been no mirrors in the kennel, and she had not seen herself since the last time she went to auction, when she was nine Turns old. The Maids dolled her with rouges and berries, so she would be prettier for the rich men and women looking for a little companion. She had glimpsed herself in glass back then, but at no time since.
It was a shock.
She had grown. She seemed taller in the mirror, stronger than she would have thought. Even in the gray robe she could sense a wiry musculature wrought by years of fighting. There was a thin scar that curved from her right eye to the corner of her mouth – a scar she hadn't even known she had – but other than that she had skin that was clear and clean and oh-so pale.
Her hair was gold. It draped to her shoulders, and she knew that in addition to being dressed someone had cut it. It had been styled, with the locks curling in on themselves in a fashion she had seen on several of the more well-dressed women at the bazaar.
Her eyes were green. The green of the lawns she had passed in the auto-car, the green of emerald.
She was, she thought, beautiful. She had spent years covered in filth and hidden by deprivation. But if Trainer had ever bothered to clean her he could have sold her for a pretty price.
Something to be learned there. Treasure could be hidden in the meanest, rudest of packages.
There was a knock on the door. It startled her and she whipped around, the knife in her hand with its comforting throb that seemed to speak to her, to whisper, Death to those who stand against you.
The knock repeated, then nothing.
She didn't know what to do for a moment, then realized: Gods' bells, they're waiting for me to say something.
There were no knocks in the kennels. Just kicks and water, boots and screams and pain and wet and cold.
"Yes?" she said. The word came out harsher than she intended. A challenge, nearly an enraged whisper.
The door opened, and the man Devar had called Lieutenant pushed his head in. He smiled when he saw her. "Ah, you're awake. I'm so glad."
His voice was low and sturdy. It spoke of trust, of care, of calm standing tall before any storm.
She didn't trust it.
"What do you want?" she said. The knife was still up.
He walked toward her. His grin never faltered, and seemed sincere, but as he got closer she became more and more frightened. She slashed the air with her knife, a quick figure eight that caught the light of the glo-globe that hung on the ceiling.
The lieutenant didn't falter. He kept walking.
The knife caught him on the arm.
And bounced.
Surprised, Samira acted without thinking. Reversed her thrust and plunged it straight into the man's heart.
The knife shattered.
The lieutenant sighed. "The master sent me in because he thought, based on how you reacted on the ride here, that you might be a bit… overwrought." The older man sniffed, then chuckled. He didn't seem at all angered by Samira's attempt to kill him. Just amused. "Seems the master was right."
He nudged the bits of knife that had fallen to the wood floor with his foot. Looked perturbed. "This is a mess. I shall have to alert the cleaning staff." Then he looked at Samira. He bowed. "I shall, of course, replace your knife at my own expense since it was I who caused your loss." Without straightening he said, "I am called Armor, Soldier of the Imperial Army, Blessed One of the Empire."
"Sa… Samira," she stuttered. She looked at the knife, or what was left of it. "How did you…." Her voice drifted away to nothing, swallowed in the surprised silence between them.
Armor nodded at the bed. "By your leave, my lady?"
She had no idea what he was talking about, but she nodded because that was what seemed to be expected of her. Armor sat, then gestured for her to sit beside him. She did. Not sure what was going to happen, more nervous than ever because she had lost her knife.
It's all right. You've lived life without a knife, you can live life without it now.
"The Blessed – that is, the young lord who called himself Devar – sent me here to talk to you. I heard some of what he told you on the drive. About Gifts. Did you understand what he told you?"
She nodded. He waited, but she said nothing. She didn't have any questions to ask. She knew so little that anything she asked would have been wrong, so she remained silent.
"Very well," said Armor. He looked pleased. "As the master said, Gifts have powers that enable them to perform basic magics. Pushes can give things the power of self-motion, Shocks provide energy for some of our machines, et cetera. There are many different types, and about one in a thousand people is born as a Gift." He nodded. A single eyebrow crept toward his hairline, an expression Samira understood immediately: You getting this? She nodded. An approving smile from Armor.
She felt warm. She had received more validation from this man in the last thirty seconds than she had during her entire life.
"Very well. Out of those thousand Gifts, one in a thousand of them is blessed with a greater power. We call these people Blessed Ones, and their powers are unique. Not Pushes or Shocks or Threads or Eyes or Ears or any of the others." He sat back and puffed out his chest. "I, for instance, am the Blessed One called Armor, because my power is to make myself impervious to attack."
"You mean you –" Samira's mouth gawked open.
"When I use my power I cannot be harmed, by blade or bullet or raised hand." He grinned, the curls of his gray mustache turning up even higher. His face transformed when he did that, the severity of it leaching out and turning him into a kind-faced gentleman. He touched his hands together lightly. As he did, his skin changed subtly, and she saw it had a metal hue beneath it. An almost-sparkle in the light of her room. "I would offer to show you more of my Gift, but your knife is already broken and if you hit me with your fist you would only break your fingers."
"I believe you," she said.
"Good girl," he said. The mustache stayed curled up. Samira was starting to like this man. Which scared her. You did not like people in the kennels. You never knew when one would die, or be sold to another Pack and so become your enemy. Friends were nothing but liability there.
But here….
Can things really be this different?
And why am I here?
That was the question she finally asked: "Why am I here?
Why did Devar take me away?"
"Have you ever touched a knife before?" he said.
"No."
"Yet you used it with more skill than any battle-hardened soldier I have ever known or heard speak of. How think you that this was done?"
Samira had no answer. She shrugged.
"Exactly. There is no answer for this. No answer but that it is a Gift. That you have power of which men and women only dream. And more than that, the young lord thinks – and I think he is right – that you are destined to be a Blessed One."
"What if I don't want to be that?"
A strange expression stole across Armor's face. It came and went so fast that Samira wasn't even sure she saw it. But it seemed weary, sad. She wondered what could make this assured, strong man look like that for even a moment.
Then his smile returned. "I think you will," he said. He held up the black disc he wore on the gold chain around his neck. "This is the symbol of a Blessed One. It is a symbol of power, and with it I can walk into any store or home in the Empire and claim what I will. With it the young lord claimed you."
Samira frowned. "That sounds like a lot. It sounds like I have left one Pack only to join a larger one, with the whole Empire kneeling at the feet of the Blessed Ones."
Armor laughed at that. Laughed hard and loud, and with such genuine mirth that Samira felt her own face crack into the hint of a smile. Even a hint was more than she was used to. It hurt.
"Gods, no," he said. "We claim what we need to protect the Empire. For that is our task: to protect the Empire from all threats. That is our sacred responsibility, and everything we do is in service of that honor." He grew serious. "The young lord claimed you because he saw the power in you, and saw of you a Blessed One born."
"You're going to make me become one? One of these Blessed Ones?"
"No. You will be one of your own choice." Again that strange expression flitted across his face.
What is it about this that has him worried? That has him afraid?
"But I hope you will choose to join us. To serve," he said. "A service it is, and does not the Gods' Book say that to serve is the greatest love of all?"
"I don't know the Gods' Book."
He frowned. "We'll take care of that, too. Poor girl." He reached out a hand. Put it softly on her shoulder. But even in that touch she felt his power, immovable and strong as iron. Armor was a fit name for this man.
"This is the place for you. Please stay," he said. "Will you stay?"
"For now," she said.
"For now is enough. Enough to start, and enough to start is sufficient for good beginnings to become excellent endings." He looked hard at her. The smile was gone from his face, and Samira felt like he was staring past her eyes and into her mind and soul.
"I think we shall be friends, Samira. And I think I am glad of that fact."
He smiled again.
She smiled back. And it didn't hurt as much this time.
10
"I would like you to wait here, just wait and be patient," Armor told her. "If you choose to take the path of the Blessed, there will be many times you are given orders that you do not understand. This is the first of them. But it is an easy one, and designed in no way to bring you harm." He smiled.
"May I ask why?" The question was hard. Dogs did not question. They obeyed or they died.
"Certainly."
She waited. Then said, "Um… why?"
He smiled that amused smile again. His eyes crinkled a bit as he did so. They were gray as her knife had been, and she guessed that when Armor wished they could cut as sharp as any blade. "I told you that you could ask," he said, "not that I would answer."
He laughed at her expression. At the confusion and anger and amazement that she felt rippling over her face and warring for control of her feelings. And that only made her more confused and angry and amazed.
What's going on?
Who is this man?
How did I escape the Pack? The kennels?
"I will answer, Samira. I was simply toying with you a small bit. That was wrong of me. I beg your forgiveness." The older man somehow managed to bow even though he was still sitting on the bed. Then he grew serious and he stood.
"I have told you but little of what a Blessed One does. If you are one of us, you will be called upon to serve the Empire, to serve the Emperor. You will be what you have been: a dog. But a dog of a different sort. You will be one with a noble master, and a nobility of your own. You will be expected to answer the Empire's call, to come and go at the Emperor's whim.
"And if you wish to become one of us, the process starts now."
She nodded. More because of Armor than because she understood anything that was going on. She liked him. He did not feel like anyone she had ever met – certainly not like Trainer, with his boot and his screeching howls, or Assistant, with his shockstick and the nights when he took some of the Dogs away and brought them back the next morning shivering and afraid.
"Very well," said Armor. "Stay here. I shall send someone with books that I think will serve you well. You read?" She nodded. "Good. I shall send you books, and that way you will have something to do while you wait. The door will remain unlocked and you may leave if you choose, but understand that the moment your foot crosses the threshold of this door, your test will end and you can never be a Blessed One. Do you understand?" Another nod. "Good, Samira, good." His smile, that strangely compelling smile, grew again. "I shall send you food, as well. You have broken your fast?"
"No." As she said it a loud sound came from her belly. A snarl as loud as any Dog in the arena.
Armor laughed. "I will bring you what you will. What would you have to eat?"
"I don't… I don't know."
"What do you eat in the kennels?"
"Bread. Sometimes meat."
"Then I shall bring you those." Armor stood. "Soon I will return for you and we will continue. Remember: you may leave if you wish. But if you do, you cannot be one of us. You cannot be a Blessed One. And I very much hope you will be. Not just for the Empire, but because I suspect that, just as we cleaned away the filth of your body and found loveliness beneath, so we shall clean away the filth of the kennels and find a beautiful soul."
He bowed.
He left.
Samira was alone.
11
Samira didn't have to wait long before there was a knock at the door. She waited, but the knock didn't repeat. After a few seconds – or perhaps minutes or hours, it was impossible to tell in this windowless room – she went and opened the door.
There was food on the floor. She almost fell over looking at it. Bread, grapes, an apple, a side of what looked like beef. But none of it black, none of it rotting. No maggots on any of it.
She almost stepped out of the room to get it. Then remembered Armor's words. "The moment your foot crosses the threshold of this door, your test will end and you can never be a Blessed One."
She knelt down, her body well inside the doorway, and reached for the silver tray on which the food sat.
It was just out of reach.
Her stomach growled again. No longer the sound of a Dog but that of a wolf. Hungered to a rabid rage, ready to do anything it must to feed.
She poked her head out of the room. The room was in a long corridor lined with doors just like the one she knelt beside. No windows, but the walls were beautiful: smooth, white, with delicate scrollwork at the tops and bottoms. The floors were white and reminded her somewhat of the floor in her Dream – the floor of white and gold that changed to white and red once the blood began to flow.
There was no one there. No one to know if she left the room.
Armor must not have meant a single foot. Surely I must be allowed to step out just to get some food?
She almost walked out. Just far enough to get the tray. It looked beyond delicious
Instead she went back.
The room held little. Just walls, the bed on which she had slept, the mirror on the wa
ll, the small dresser beside the bed. The dresser had two drawers, but when she opened them they were empty. Nothing she could use to get the food.
She stared at herself in the mirror. Then turned away, and something scraped beneath her sandal: one of the shards of her knife, shattered against Armor's impervious skin. She looked at the pieces: they were all too small to be of any use.
But they gave her an idea.
She picked up the short hilt of the knife. Even that supposedly useless piece made her feel powerful, dangerous.
She swung the butt of the hilt at the mirror.
The mirror shattered, the pieces of glass raining on the floor with a crash first loud then almost merry in the silence of the room.
Samira picked up the longest shard. It was longer than her forearm. She went to the door. Knelt in the doorway once more. The glass was long enough to reach the tray with the food. She pulled it to her.
Closed the door.
And fell upon the food like the Dog she had been and still, in many ways, was.
It was delicious. She did not have an understanding of the world large enough to describe how glorious it was to eat the food that had been brought to her. Not even to herself, let alone to anyone else. The food didn't have to be gnawed like the bread that was so hard you could lose a tooth if you chewed it without softening it in your mouth. But neither did it turn to a sickening sludge the instant it touched her tongue, the way the rotten meat and bits of overripe fruit the Dogs occasionally received always did. This food was enough of an effort to chew that she knew she was eating, but not so much that it was painful or even difficult. It was just…
… perfect.
She ate until there was no more left. She felt sick. Wondered if she would vomit. She decided she didn't care. It was worth it.
She lay down on the bed.
And another knock came.
This time she stood straightway and went to the door. She held the glass again, expecting to find something beyond her reach. But this time there was a pile of books right beside the doorway. The titles were A Short History of the Empire, The Five States, Blessed Ones: A Study in Power, and A Geography Primer. They all sounded strange and even magical. They held knowledge of places and things she had never seen, never heard of, and never thought she would live to understand.
The Sword Chronicles: Child of the Empire Page 3
