Silverlight

by Jesberger, S. L.

  When they were done, I was messy and my hand ached, but the experience felt like forward progress. Why would I ever say no to that?

  Maybe they didn’t know it, but the three of us had become a team: two determined men rethinking a sword grip to get a blade in my hand, and the ruined warrior willing to humor them.

  I felt it then. A dim spark fighting for life deep inside me. Long buried, but not completely extinguished.

  It passed quickly. It was a wonder I sensed it at all – a small taste of the love I once felt for Magnus Tyrix.

  17: KYMBER

  Two weeks later, we got a note from Jorge, the blacksmith in Adamar, summoning us to his shop. My hilt was done, but he wanted to make sure it fit my hand to his satisfaction before it was passed on to Calvin Azim, the swordsmith.

  It was a moment I had anticipated and dreaded all at the same time. I think Magnus felt the same. We met Jarl in front of Jorge’s shop, tied our horses, and entered with one man on either side of me.

  Jorge was a big, brusque, dark man, bald as a newborn baby. Sweat rolled off his forehead as he pounded a glowing horseshoe into shape on an anvil.

  “The hilt is done?” Magnus asked when the blacksmith failed to take note of us.

  Jorge nodded and kept on pounding. “Sent word, didn’t I?”

  We waited several more minutes. Magnus finally shifted on his feet and headed toward Jorge, but I grabbed his arm. “I’ve waited this long to hold a sword. I can wait until he finishes.”

  Magnus gave me a look but stepped back. Jorge must have heard what I said, as he pushed the half-formed shoe into the glowing coals of the forge and smiled, his teeth perfect white against his dark skin. “I like you,” he said, pointing at me with the end of his hammer. “That hilt for you, little lady?”

  “It is.” I returned the smile. “And I thank you.”

  “I like working jobs for the ladies.” Jorge put the hammer down and wiped his hands on his apron. I pitied the person who had to clean the light tan smock. Black handprints streaked it from chest to hip on both sides. “The ladies appreciate what I do here. They say thank you.”

  “Make no mistake, Jorge, we all appreciate what you’ve done for her,” Jarl said. “May we see it?”

  “Hold your horses, Aldi. Give me a minute. Things like this can’t be rushed.” Jorge walked to the back of his shop and plucked something small and dark from a crooked and stained wooden shelf.

  He walked back to me, his eyes holding mine. He slowly opened his massive hand to reveal the hilt hidden within.

  The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Except for the color of the guard and pommel, it resembled Silverlight’s hilt. An exact replica of the closed fist of my scarred right hand, cast from a blend of metals to give it strength.

  “Open up, little lady,” Jorge said.

  I hesitated, terrified it would fit, terrified it wouldn’t. I attempted to spread my fingers and failed.

  Jorge laid the hilt against my upper wrist and thumb. “Going to have to be open wider than that.”

  I finally had to resort to prying my fingers open with my left hand. Jorge slid the grip into my palm and closed my fingers over it.

  It was so snug I barely felt it. I lifted my hand to show Magnus and Jarl. “Look at this. It fits.”

  “Like it was made for you,” said Jorge. “And it was. Jarl said you were brilliant with a sword, but someone you trusted hurt you real bad. So I did my best work for you, little lady. Hope you like it.”

  I turned to him, nearly breathless. “Oh, Jorge, it’s perfect.”

  “Does it hurt?” Magnus asked.

  “No. Not at all.” I allowed myself to feel the hilt, its weight and size, and tried to put my thoughts into words. It was the first time since Tariq cut me that I’d held such a thing. How does one describe the sensation of racing across the plains on the back of a wild horse? Or how it feels to jump off a cliff and suddenly realize you’re able to fly?

  “Swing it,” Jarl said.

  I took a few steps and made a figure eight in the air, as we’d been taught in academy. The weight was off without the blade, but the hilt didn’t shift in my hand.

  Not once.

  18: MAGNUS

  Silverlight, Kymber’s lost sword, was short and light as swords go. I hadn’t seen it in years, but I remembered it well.

  The grip was carved from the thighbone of a qhina, a flesh-eating creature halfway between a horse and a deer that had thankfully gone extinct thousands of years prior. Their bones were white and strong, highly prized, capable of taking a polish like no metal I’d ever seen. In fact, a secondary black market for qhina bones had sprung up in Calari. I often passed by fields full of people digging for them.

  Silverlight’s guard and pommel were a carefully controlled blend of Torani gold and rose plaorion. The result was an unbreakable metal with a pale pink matte finish. Kymber’s father had offered to have the oval scrolls adorning the guard embedded with precious gems, as many were, but she’d refused. “It need not be fancy, Father. It just needs to be sharp.”

  No, she didn’t care for jewels, but she did ask her father to have it engraved with a combined sigil. It was a complicated and breathtaking dance of lines and curves: the crest of T’hath Academy mingled with the ancient symbols of a bear claw for strength, the horns of a ram as a reminder to stand firm against the enemy, and the casiss fish, the fastest and most agile fish found in Calari’s rivers.

  The inscription at the blade’s tip was Kymber’s own design, her personal sigil. It was a hawk firing an arrow. I never asked what that one meant. She never told me.

  Silverlight was one of the finest swords ever crafted in Calari. With a barbed blade made of Jalarthian steel, how could it be otherwise?

  I used to tease her that her sword was as straight as her spine and as long as her arm, which made it sound impressive, but the top of Kymber’s head barely came to my breastbone. Her arm length was proportional to her height.

  The look on her face made my heart sing. She hadn’t expected the grip to fit so well. None of us had. Jorge had earned every copper centical he’d charged me.

  The three of us walked the hilt down the street to Calvin Azim, the best swordsmith in Adamar. I had already given him an approximation of Silverlight’s measurements.

  “Do you like it?” I couldn’t resist asking. Kymber looked so damned happy. “Do you think it’ll work?”

  “I do. It felt snug. Secure.” She entwined her arm with mine. “For the first time, in a long time, I feel like me again.”

  Oh, that precious smile. Those gem-blue eyes. Her skin was warm on mine. At that moment, the weight that had lived inside my chest for ten long years lightened considerably.

  19: KYMBER

  Twelve days later, we got my sword back from Calvin Azim. It was beautiful – gleaming and sharp – but it was not Silverlight. It was missing the barbs and the personal sigil commissioned by my father all those years ago.

  Still, the weight and balance of my new sword were acceptable. Comfortable. I was proud of it.

  I named it Promise.

  Once my sword arrived, the training began. The initial enthusiasm I felt was quickly doused. I’d forgotten what a brutal taskmaster Magnus could be. How he’d push until I nearly collapsed from exhaustion. It had been good for me when I was young and strong and enthusiastic about life.

  It frustrated me now.

  I truly did feel better. Healthier. My body had filled out. We’d worked with burlap bags filled with varying amounts of sand and rocks on the beach to strengthen my arms and legs, but I was not nearly as strong as I’d been in my prime. Perhaps I expected too much, but the sore muscles and the ache deep in my core were a shock to my system.

  Sure it would pass, I forged on.

  The first thing a student warrior learns is to draw a sword with as much speed and accuracy as possible. Pull with the right hand, grip with two, left below right, and assume a defensive stance with sword angled off to th
e right or out in front.

  I could do great things as long as I was given the time to open my right hand with my left and wrap it around the grip. Unfortunately, I couldn’t pull the damned thing from the scabbard to save my life. One can’t very well say to an enemy, “Take a moment to catch your breath while I pry my hand open.”

  Not terribly convenient in battle.

  And every time I’d think of charging into battle, I’d wonder why it mattered. Calari was at peace. There were no imminent wars to fight. Why did I continue to pound my head against a wall? Yet getting it right felt important. Like a requirement. I didn’t understand it, but I soldiered on, to coin a phrase.

  “You’re trying too hard,” Magnus said one day. We were down on the beach, away from prying eyes.

  I loosed a frustrated breath. “Not hard enough or I’d get it.”

  “You may never be as fast as you were. Just concentrate on the motions of unsheathing it. Then we’ll work on speed.”

  “I can’t pull it if I can’t open my hand. Damn it, Magnus, can’t you see that?” I stalked off down the beach, frustration eating me alive.

  I could pull the sword as fast as a lightning strike in my head, but my body had yet to catch up. My arm and hand felt clumsy, as though they belonged to someone else. I couldn’t reconcile what I remembered with my physical capabilities now.

  Magnus allowed me to storm away. My heels dug into the sand, throwing it up in a white spray as I moved. Fuming, I stared out at the rolling waves and searched for calm.

  Repetition. Practice. Over and over until I was sick of it, and then I had to do it again. I knew what it took. I was aware with every fiber of my being, but when I’d drilled at T’hath, I was young and whole.

  Old. Damaged. Broken. Is that what I was now?

  Well. Where was all that perspective I was supposed to find? I couldn’t do anything about my hand, but I didn’t need to absorb those three words and make them true. Garai wanted to break me. He’d come close a couple of times, but there was something in me that had fended off that surrender.

  That spoke to my talents as a warrior and my strength as a woman. I’d once slept naked and cold in a cage. Now I stood on a beautiful beach with a sword strapped to my side. I couldn’t open my hand yet, but I’d made progress. Compared to the past, my future was a piece of Mrs. Toolwin’s walnut cake.

  Good enough.

  I turned and walked back to Magnus. “Where were we?”

  He gave me a brilliant smile. “I’ve been watching you. You’re thinking about pulling the sword too late. You need to think about opening your hand before you even reach for it. If you concentrate, you can do this.”

  “Famous last words.” I sighed heavily.

  He faced me with a stern look. “It’s mind over matter, Kymber. Force of will. We learned it at T’hath. It has served me well over the years. And it must’ve served you too, or you wouldn’t have survived Garai.” He pushed a finger to the side of his head. “Think about it. You want to pull your sword, so you go over the movements in your head first. You picture your hand open and reaching. You see yourself taking hold of the hilt and pulling the sword free. Then, and only then do you move. Understood?”

  I did understand, but I was so tired of this. Weary of trying and failing. What was the point?

  Still, I closed my eyes, drew in a breath, and pictured my hand around the grip. I saw myself move as I’d been taught, pulling my sword successfully.

  My mind fixed the scenario in place. I willed my body to move, fast and sure and graceful as I once was. My muscles reacted . . .

  . . . and I somehow managed to get my hand open wide enough to grasp the golden pommel at the hilt’s end.

  20: MAGNUS

  I couldn’t believe it. She’d done it! She’d gotten her hand around Promise’s pommel.

  We’d spent all afternoon working at it, but all she’d accomplished was bouncing her knuckles off the scabbard. Her frustration had grown with each failed attempt. Ironically, it fueled my own patience.

  “Don’t move. Do you see what you’ve done?” I let my gaze drop to her hand. “Feel it. Remember it. Retrace the steps you took in your mind and burn them into your memory. If you can do that,” I gestured toward her hip, but I never took my eyes off her face, “You can get your hand around the grip. It’s only a matter of time before it’s second nature to you. Like breathing.” I gave her a saucy smile. “Or being so damned beautiful you steal all my thoughts.”

  “I did it. Sort of.” She laughed shortly. “I have my hand around the pommel. It’s tight and it hurts somewhat, but that’s not where my hand is supposed to be.” She gave me a dazed smile. “I can do this, Magnus. I can, but please . . . that’s enough for today. I’m worn out.”

  “I’m sure you are.” I folded her up in my arms and held on tight. “My dearest Kymber, I am so very proud of you. You’ve earned the right to the finest vintage in my wine cellar tonight.”

  21: KYMBER

  As with many things, abundant failure followed my initial success.

  I was much faster after two weeks of practice, but I still couldn’t open my hand enough to get a proper hold on the grip.

  Oh, I’d come close occasionally, but all I truly accomplished was turning my hand into a massive purple bruise. I kept trying long after I should’ve called a halt to the training. I just couldn’t bear to tell Magnus I wanted to quit.

  “Don’t look so disappointed. I never thought we had much chance of success,” I told him one particularly frustrating day.

  “That’s not the impression you gave me. It’s not.” Magnus regarded me with narrowed eyes. “You know, maybe that’s your problem. You don’t want this badly enough.”

  “’Don’t want it badly enough? You fucking jackass!” I jammed my sword point first into the sand. “You have no idea what I’ve been through.”

  “How long are you going to wear that martyr’s crown on your head, Kymber? When is your past no longer going to be a factor in your future?”

  “Oh.” I took a deep breath through my nostrils. “Oh, you miserable bastard. I can’t believe you said that. You have no idea.” Stiffening my spine, I growled, “I’m leaving.”

  “Go on then.” He pointed toward the house on the cliff. “We’re just wasting time, especially if all you’re going to do is make excuses for your failures.”

  Enough. I spun and lunged at him, my teeth clenched.

  In the span of a heartbeat, Magnus had captured both my wrists in his hands and now held me at arm’s length. “Look. Look at your hand, Kymber.”

  My injured hand was not completely open, but it was open wide enough to wreak havoc on that handsome face of his. Open as wide as I’d ever seen it. I loosed a breath. “Wha . . .?”

  He gave me a crooked smile. “Maybe we just need to approach this a little differently.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ve watched you pivot your upper body and reach for your sword. Something is being lost in that movement.” He let go of me and put his hand to his chin. “You can clearly open your hand enough to get it around the grip of your sword. Perhaps it’s too much to twist at the waist and reach at the same time.”

  “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

  He waved an open hand at me. “Just hear me out.”

  “I’m tired of hearing you out.”

  “Kymber.”

  “Magnus.” I eyed the steps that led from the beach up to the house, wishing I were on them.

  He laughed. “You’ll never make it. I still run faster than you.”

  “You are a complete bastard, you know that? Let’s hear it then. That pivoting motion is so ingrained in me, it’s like breathing. If I can’t do it, I can’t fight.”

  “At least not with the sword on your hip.”

  “You have completely lost your mind. If not on my hip, where? A warrior carries her sword . . .”

  “On her back.” Magnus was already reaching for the scabbard re
sting against my left hip. “I have a baldric up at the house that should fit you. We’ll find a way to angle your scabbard to the right. That way, all you’ll have to do is reach over your left shoulder and grab the sword. Less thought, less movement.” His bit his lip and fixed me with a speculative look. “Do you want to try it?”

  “No.”

  “That didn’t sound like a yes.”

  “That’s because I didn’t say yes. Damn you!”

  “Just try it, Kymber. You have nothing to lose.”

  “Nothing except my mind.” I snorted, frustration a living thing inside me. “All right, but you will keep your mouth shut if I can’t. No insults and no accusations.”

  “No problem.” He moved behind me and pressed the scabbard against my spine. “I won’t say a word, because this is going to work.”

  I had to forget years of training to reach for a sword strapped to my back. Well, not forget, exactly. Rethink.

  And it still wasn’t enough.

  A week passed by, then two and three. It was futile. My hand was opening wider, but not wide enough. I continued to jam my fingers into the pommel.

  We’d spent long hours on the beach when I finally said, “It’s time to end this, Magnus. I can’t do it. If you want to me to pack my things and leave, I will. You’re frustrated. I’m frustrated. I am bruised and sore from my eyeballs to my toenails. I can’t fight if I can’t draw a sword. This is finished.” I turned away to go to the house, determined that this was the last time I’d wear that damned sword.

  I skidded to a halt when I felt a sharp sting across the back of my bare arm. I turned with a yelp.

  Magnus had drawn his sword. He’d assumed a fighting stance, his eyes black with challenge.

  I glanced at my arm. He’d cut me. The jackass had cut me. It was thin and shallow, but he’d drawn blood.

  I was so shocked, I didn’t know what to do next. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. I just stood and gaped at him.