The Golden Sword (4 page)

I nodded, and told him what Chayin had said, and how I had responded.

“He is canny,” Hael said when I was done. “There is no way to change it now. You are his. I might have objected, claimed you myself. We came upon you at the same time. I might have been tempted. You could have value beyond that which seems apparent. But he saw that. Privately, but valid nontheless, you have spoken the words. Nothing can change that.”

“He does not know who I am. My name meant nothing to him,” I protested. I would have much preferred to belong to this Day-Keeper, if I had to belong to any of them.

“Do not be a fool. There are none upon Silistra who do not know that name. The halls of Arlet ran with blood upon your account. He knew, before you told him. He made no sign, because he was not surprised. The haste with which he took your commitment proves it.” His voice was wry. The threx’s footfalls were muddled upon lush grass. Chayin was already dismounted, stripping the carved and tooled Parset saddle from the steaming dapple’s back. He slipped the headstall, with its bloody double bits, from the threx’s mouth, hobbled its front feet, and turned away to seat himself beneath a tyla palm. I thought it a wonder the animal was sound, if such negligence was the cahndor’s practice. The threx was badly overheated, steaming.

Hael lowered me to the ground, to the luxuriant grass that grew in the jer. Chayin, from where he sat under the tyla, watched me. The dark was fast receding, the sky greening in the east, the stars fading away. The night noises were gone, the moon absent from above our heads. I heard the jingle, snort, and blow that was the rest of the Nemarsi jiasks straggling into the jer. Hael rubbed his threx down and turned him loose. He dragged his carved saddle with its webcloth rolls and voluminous saddlepacks to Chayin. Color and tone came almost perceptibly to the jer, silhouette became substance, as the sun’s first rays burst over the Sabembes.

When there were nine more threx loose in the jer, the jiasks went about raising apprei. From their saddles they took the web-cloth rolls, from their bags arm-length tubes of green stra metal. These tubes they fit together into long stachions and set them deep into the earth. Over the pyramid frameworks they fastened the web-cloth panels. By the time the sun showed its full disk, three appreis, each resplendent with those psychotropic designs favored by the Parsets, Stood beneath the tyla palms.

Into the largest of the three went Chayin, his saddle thrown over his shoulder, the tooled leather packs almost dragging to the ground. I still stood where Hael had left me, my hands bound behind me, my feet upon the moist, cushiony grass.

I heard a rustle, a crackling, and Hael slid down a tyla’s trunk, a cluster of fruit stuck in his sword belt. Two of the jiasks were busy with a fire, another two with a haunch of meat. Gear was strewn everywhere. The jer rumbled with their mutterings as they unstoppered bladders and passed them back and forth.

The Day-Keeper motioned me, and I followed him meekly into the largest apprei.

The apprei was a clutter. A Parset keeps his treasures around him, wherever he may be. Chayin squatted in a corner, pulling still more from the bottomless saddlepacks. I saw a full set of threx shoes, and all that was needed to set them. I saw a small brazier, piles of clothing, boxes, and rolled mats. I saw wraps of meat, plump full bladders. Over the grass the cahndor had spread thick-piled mats; from the stanchion in the apprei’s middle he had hung his harness and sword belt, coils of braided leather, and a lit oil lamp.

“Sit, little crell,” Hael said to me, and knelt down himself, to unpack his own gear.

I sat upon my heels, conscious of my bonds, of the rope upon my belly. It was cool in the apprei.

The mat under me was all red and gold, rich, warm. I let my eyes follow the dancing
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patterns. I sank within them, searching.

In Chayin I saw a beast in a blood rage, a dorkat wounded. I deep-read him, and what was there made me shiver. He was law unto himself, but he knew no law. Stealthy desert stalker, he craved the kill. Within him was a terrible anger. He cared only for his satisfaction. He was what a Slayer might have been, were there no Day-Keepers’ laws to restrain him.

And Hael, the Day-Keeper, I read also. I liked what I saw no better. The picture I had for him was that of the kepher, that tree dweller from the swamps of Galesh, with its warted skin and suckered, webbed feet, that waits invisible upon the bark for unsuspecting wirragaets. I saw its long, sticky tongue shoot out, waving. I could only wonder at the vision’s meaning.

The two, knelt together, fitting pieces of wood like demented children with a puzzle. As I watched, the three-level board took shape under the light from the middle stanchion. It was the yris-tera, part game and part oracle, that is played by forereaders and Day-Keepers for its auguries, by Slayers and advisers for its strategies, by children for the fun of the contest.

When they had it built, they settled around it with the leather shaker, in which were the sixty game pieces of carved bone, and began to play. I was forgotten, ignored, as the first throw was cast.

Upon the first level of the board fell the spear and shield, and the dayglass. Through the shots in the first level tumbled two threx and the woman and man symbols, to land upon the second, and the fire and spear, and the Well, to land upon the third.

Chayin spat, disgusted. He still wore the Shaper’s cloak, thrown back over his shoulders. Upon his arms I could see his tattoos, rippling as if with their own life as he shook the leather cylinder, to throw again. Upon his right arm was the slitsa, curled around the undulating Parset blade. On his left the uritheria, symbol of his rank covered his entire bicep, winding around it, its tail trailing down his forearm. Its fanged mouth was open, its forked tongue seemed to dart and writhe in the uncertain light, its leathery wings about to snap into flight.

A jiask entered, bearing two full bladders, one larger than the other. He passed me without notice, and stood before the cahndor and the Day-Keeper, bent over the board. Chayin nodded absently to him. The jiask laid the two bladders by Chayin’s side. He looked at the board, and his brows knit together.

“Is it for Frullo jer?” asked the jiask.

“For what else could it be?” The cahndor’s tone was sour. The jiask squatted down to watch. Hael leaned forward as Chayin threw again. The oil lamp picked out the Day-Keepers’ signs in blues and reds upon his shoulders; the compass, the dayglass which contains the world, the eight-pointed star in circle. Within that star I saw glyphs I did not recognize. All except for one. That one I had seen upon Estrazi’s ring, and upon the platform beneath the Falls of Santha. The glyph means “messenger” in Mi‘ysten. I wondered if it were by chance that he wore it.

I was not pleased by my reading. Doubtless, I thought, it was the drug they had given me, blocking my talent. I, who wore the deep-readers’ chain, had gotten little help from my strongest skill.

The second throw gave Chayin another woman upon the top level; an ebvrasea, winged fury, opposite one threx, and a sword upon the other, on the middle; and two men and one woman upon the bottom. The placement of these was most unusual, one woman and man beside the Well, and the other obstructing them with the fire and spear. These, certainly, were no random falls. Sometimes one can get much from the boards, sometimes little. It was my guess that this game might show the cahndor and the Day-Keeper more than they wanted to see. It was a board of crisis and polarization, of struggle and death. It had fallen so upon only the second throw.

Hael pointed to the top level.

“On the board of catalysts, the spear and shield, upon the red, are what is needed. The dayglass, upon the black, represents the will that controls. Thus we have what is preordained by the demands of time. Into this is drawn the woman, upon the gold, the place of the prime mover, through which the dayglass works. What think you, Chayin?”

“Besha,” cahndor said. The jiask shifted his position. His brow was furrowed.

“Perhaps,” said Hael. “But I think not. Upon the mid-board, of movement and manifestation, we have a threx on the gray of death, and one upon triumph’s purple and loss’s yellow. We see a woman, near the dying threx, within the swirl square of’ change. And the man, almost atop the threx that abides in both triumph and loss. Corning to challenge these we have the ebvrasea, opposite the man, and upon the square of overriding purpose. Thus, the ebvrasea will use the threx and man to its ends. And lastly, the sword, upon the threx in the death square, its blade pointing to the woman within the square of change. Remember, as you consider this board, whose symbol the ebvrasea has become, and what rumors about its flight we have just recently heard. I think, as it falls, that Besha lies here.” He pointed to the woman in the swirl.

Chayin nodded, leaning forward, his eyes narrowed, his chin resting upon his fist.

“And last, the board of outcome,” Hael continued. “The Well in the white of what may be gained, with the fire upon its home, what is needed, and the spear upon the square of the heart. Into this come two men and one woman. One man takes up the spear with the power of the fire at his command, and opposes the man and woman who stand before the Well. The woman stands in hate, and the man in love. I think we have thrown for Frullo jer, and gotten a glimpse of something else, of which the races at Frullo jer are only a small part. Only in the mid-board are the pieces concerned with our question.” He looked up from the board, at Chayin.

“If the ebvrasea seeks your aid, will you give it?”

I wondered who the ebvrasea represented to them. I knew of no Well or city, town or tribe, who used that great soaring mountain carnivore as a symbol.

Chayin met Hael’s eyes.

“Would you, brother, were our positions reversed?” The jiask, silent, watching, had his hand upon his sword hilt.

“I think I would. The board demands it. The time demands it. And yet, much blood would flow, if such a thing were done, for reasons that are none of our affairs. Or were not, until this day. If one made this move”—he reached to the top board and plucked the woman from it, and placed it atop the ebvrasea upon the second—“one could perhaps avoid the entire sequence. With the prime mover surrendered to the square of overriding purpose, one might avoid what follows. It would have to be done before this occurs.” He pointed to the threx within the square of death.

Chayin regarded the changed board. He reached out and removed all the pieces with the exception of the ebvrasea and the woman Hael had placed beside it in the green square. He tossed the bone pieces in his closed fist.

“Could you not be wrong, could that woman not be Besha also, and the ebvrasea the speed of the threx, the purpose of the race itself?”

Hael smiled and shook his head.

“When did you last throw the Well, brother? There is but one Well,” he reminded Chayin gently, “among all the pieces.”

“I threw it six passes ago, sets before we went to Rollcall at Yardum-Or.” He grinned ruefully.

“And did you not, while, in Yardum-Or, ride close to two hundred neras to see Well Oppiri?”

“It was an impulse, drunken and ill-conceived.”

“But you did, against your own judgment and intentions, enter into a Well soon after you threw one. Had you ever thrown the piece before?”

“You know I did not ever before throw one. And you know what you would make of this board,” Chayin said sharply. “I say it is Besha that is our problem, at the moment. If the Menetphers attend, and Aknet aniet Boshast rides the Son of Tycel, who has taken the Golden Sword three years in a row, then Besha’s Gtianden is our only hope. Saer has not the stamina for the two-nera run, and your Quiris has not the speed to take a Tycel son.”

It was clear to me at that moment that the Nemarsi had been upon the desert to toughen the threx. I had wondered why they carried no helmets, no spears, no shields. Nor had I seen the deadly Parset lash, the huija, upon any of the men. Readying the threx for racing, they traveled light.

“I, also, would hate to see the sword go again to the Menetphers,” Hael agreed. “But. I think you still miss the point of the board.”

“The point, as I see, it, is that Besha is insufferable. She is more lofty than her station. I would be as loath to see her triumph as I would the Menetphers.”

Chayin gestured to the jiask, who unstoppered one of the bladders he had brought and handed it to his cahndor. He drank deeply and handed the drink to Hael.

“Still,” Had said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “Guanden should run. Besha will be only more difficult
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if you leave her behind. Perhaps something will occur at Frullo that will remind her of her place. But neither you nor I, such as it would pleasure us, can be the one to do so. Doubtless her insolent manner will attract some other jiask, someone not of the Nemarsi. Let us cast again.” Hael pointed to the board, to the pieces Chayin still held in his hand.

“Marshon!” snapped the cahndor. The jiask jumped to his feet. His blue eyes were startling in his sun-weathered face. I saw he was younger than I had thought. He wore only breech and sword belt, and his ribs showed clear under his binnirin-colored skin.

“Marshon, take this crell and get her cleaned and fed and return her to me. And have a meal brought to us.” Chayin dropped his gaze to the game and threw the bone pieces.

Marshon the jiask was leaning over me, obscuring the board, and I did not see how the throw fell out.

“There is nowhere for you to run,” said the jiask, looking me up and down, “and no use in you causing yourself trouble. I will unbind you, and we will walk to the pool. I would not have to wash you like an infant.”

I nodded, and he removed the rope that bound my hands in back of me. Then he led me through the tylas to the deep, wide pool, cool in their shadows. The young jiask reached among the vegetation and broke from its stalk the fruit of a large succulent.

“This will take the dirt from you,” he said. “Watch.” And I watched while he thrust the plant beneath the water, swirled it around, then snapped it in half lengthwise and rubbed the exposed whitish pulp against his skin. I tried the strange whitish plant upon my arm. It slid across my skin, and where it had been, I was shades lighter. Convinced, I lathered and rubbed and dunked and lathered again, until the water was murky with silt and suds. Moving deeper, I worked the strange, fruity gel from the plant into my hair. When that was done, I lay upon my back and floated still upon the pool’s surface. My abraded feet throbbed my heart’s rhythm.