The Golden Sword Read online

  So the Parsets had chosen. They speak a dissimilar language, wear a different chald. The chains of chaldra which have bound them from hide days are not the same as those which bind the rest of Silistra. I recalled that the Parsets had instigated no Wells, where a woman might go to get herself with child. I knew also that their jiasks, warrior men, and tiasks, warrior women, were not bound by the Law of Seven, as were the Slayers of the north, east and west. And that they alone, of all the peoples of Silistra, still made war.

  I heard the flap and snap of wings about my head, saw a shadow cross the full moon. It was bright as day upon the barrens, but a day sucked dry of color and tone. I recollected stories I had heard about the Parset Lands; that many had entered them and few had returned; that one was better off to give up one’s body to the chaldra of the soil than to walk the Parset barrens uninvited. Because their chaldric chains differ so markedly from those worn upon the rest of Silistra, all not Parset are, to them, chaldless.

  Occasionally I had seen Parsets at games or festivals. Once I had been, before I reached my majority and took up the Keepress’ robes in Astria, at Day-Keepers’ Rollcall, that greatest of gatherings held four times a year on the plains of Yardum-Or. With my teacher Rin diet Tron, first of the Slayers’ Seven of Astria, had I been there. I had seen a number of Parset jiasks, swaggering bold among the crowd, with their feather-plumed helmets, their tiasks beside them. At such gatherings they do their trading. They come to barter their woven rugs, their precious metals, their rare drugs. I was standing with Rin beneath the Slayers’ awning when a pelter from Galesh accidentally jostled a tiask woman in the crowd. Her mate turned, aired steel, and struck in one motion, and the pelter’s headless body took several steps before it fell and pumped out its lifeblood upon the grass. I remembered the fury in Rin’s face, how his hand grew white upon his sword hilt, and how he turned away. By the Day-Keepers’ edict, the Parsets had immunity. To the jiask, the pelter was nothing. He struck within his chaldra, as a Slayer might an outlaw in the forest, whom he had hunted for sport, or as a woman the wirragaet sucking blood from her arm. It was well past eighth bell, after evening meal, before Rin diet Tron, of the, Slayers’ Seven of Astria, had again spoken, had regained his good humor.

  Occasionally I have seen a Parset man within the walls of Well Astria, there to partake in the normal fashion of the fruits of Silistran womanhood. But never has Astria been petitioned to admit a Parset woman, never have I heard of a Parset man so much as allowing one to compete in the Well testings. How they keep their birthrate at an acceptable level was a question much bandied about. I had seen a number of women, such as Celendra, Well-Keepress of Arlet, who had been sired upon wellwomen by Parsets. It is said among the well-women that the Parsets are the most potent of Silistran men, and that a woman couched by one is almost certain to conceive. Some maintain that this is because of the strong infusion of Gristasha blood in the Parset hide days. When the hide aniet was put into use at the time of crisis, when the Day-Keepers and the forereaders went underground to avoid annihilation, the hide aniet was only half-filled. Then did the Day-Keepers of aniet invite into the hide as many as could be accommodated of the fierce and primitive Gristashas, those anachronistic tribesmen who had kept their line pure from the very beginnings of Silistran prehistory. The Parsets bear strong and clear the Gristasha stamp, even do they still tattoo themselves, as did their ancestors before them.

  Again the wind from the abyss blew chill about me as I lay beneath the full moon, though the evening was so warm that the air wavered and rippled in its heat. I did not welcome that cold, which upraised every hair upon me and caused my skin to pebble and crawl. No, I did not welcome the wind from the abyss, which had blown me from the keeps of Astria, whipped around me where I lay with Dellin in the Slayers’ camp, whistled through the halls of Arlet. The cold of it seeped deep inside me, chilling me as it had when it drove me forth into the Sabembe range. It keened in my ears as it had at the death of Tyith bast Sereth. It roared as it had roared beneath the Falls of Santha. Upon Mi’ysten I had been free from it. Until this day had I been free from it, and the evil portents of its fetid breath. Now again it blew around me, and my belly cramped into a knot so tight I drew my thighs up against my chest as the Parset came toward me, silver-gilded in the full-moon light, my father’s cloak thrown carelessly over his shoulders.

  Where I lay, upon my side, he squatted down by my head and reached out a hand toward me. Upon his chest I saw what I had not seen before, swinging from a heavy golden chain. As he raised me to a sitting position, it swung inches from my face, that palm-sized medallion upon which was worked the likeness of the uritheria, that mythical beast of the desert who is winged and scaled, clawed and horned, and from whose mouth came the fire that ignited the sun in the sky. Its jeweled eyes glittered in the moonlight, cruel, sentient. One of the other men had called this one Cahndor. Such is a title of respect among the Parsets. But this man was Cahndor in the word’s formal meaning—war chief of a Parset tribe, will of the sand, who held sworn death oaths from every man, woman, and child under his protection.

  I swayed, dizzy, my weight against the arm that held me upright. His grip upon my shoulder tightened. His hand, horny against my skin, seemed exceedingly large. Black eyes, all pupil under bushy straight brows, examined me minutely, appraising, thoughtful. His other hand was at my belly, at my back, and my bonds fell away.

  I rubbed my wrists, crossed my legs under me, felt him withdraw his support. My eyes were caught by his; I felt the insect in the webber’s snare, waiting, paralyzed. I looked away, at my wrists in my lap, at the rope print upon them.

  “How is it with you, little crell?” he asked in Parset, slowly, distinctly. I could not place the dialect. He shifted hack on his heels. The silvered light played on his heavy-muscled thighs, upon his thick neck and corded arms. He was a large-boned thick-maned man, in his prime, massive but not clumsy. Tight-curled hair poked through the chain links about his neck, forested his chest, thinning as it approached his navel, where it fanned out on his flat belly, to disappear beneath a metal-studded breech. Over this was buckled his sword belt, which held the undulating Parset short sword, a small sheathed knife, and the coiled length of braided leather.

  I did not answer, but only looked up at him.

  “Hael, attend me!” he called, and that one came to join him, sitting cross-legged beside his master. Hael was of almost identical stamp, save that his skin seemed a trifle more black, his lips a bit fuller, his nose flatter above his full beard.

  The one called Hael brought from his belt a tiny bladder, as small as my palm, and removed the stopper from it.

  “This will strengthen you. Open your mouth,” he said. I was sorry that I had done so when the bitter, burning liquid hit my tongue It was fire inside me, and that fire slowly spread through my whole body, calling every artery, every vein, every capillary to my attention.

  “What was that?” I choked. My vision dimmed and sharpened, my ears rang. The drug was strong. I heard the air rustle; the two men, breathing sounded loud as the roaring of Santha. My heart was a kapura drum keeping double time.

  “So you speak. Good. Here. Only drink three swallows,” the bearded one said, and handed me a larger bladder.

  This I smelled before I tasted, and it was water, cold and good. I was reluctant to stop after the third drink, but their eyes were upon me, and I handed it back. Hael took it from my grasp and corked it. He leaned over me and put his thumbs to my eyelids, each in turn, and then to my temples and wrists. He turned to his cahndor and nodded. That one grinned, white teeth flashing.

  “Chayin,” said the one called Hael, putting his hand upon his cahndor’s shoulder, “we should either ride or raise apprei.” He got to his feet. “She is strong and resilient. When she is healed and clean, she might even be pleasing. If you would find out, you should leave her be, let her rest.” And he turned and was gone without waiting for answer or dismissal.

  I thought it strange tha
t a jiask would talk to his cahndor so. To raise apprei, the portable cloth house of the Parset, or ride on was surely a decision the cahndor was capable of making on his own. A Slayer would not have spoken so to one of the Seven.

  The cahndor gazed after the one called Hael. He spat upon the ground, and turned back to me. He raised my chin with his hand, gently, so that his eyes met mine once more. I saw the nictitating membrane for a moment; then it was gone.

  “What shall I call you, little crell? Hael says you will live. Do you want to live?”

  “I am Estri of Astria, Hadrath diet Estrazi,” I said. I thought the second question rhetorical. I watched his face closely, but my name meant nothing to him.

  “No,” he said to me, “you are not. You are an unnamed crell, bound for the appreida of the Nernarsi. Your chald”—he ran his hand under the eighteen-strand belt at my waist—“means nothing here. You have but one choice open to you; you may live, crell to me, Chayin rendi Inekte, cahndor of the Nemarsi. Or you may, at this moment, choose to die. Choose now, for the choice will never again be given you.”

  The look upon his face convinced me he did not speak in jest. The wind from the abyss buffeted me. To renounce my chald, my heritage, my Well, my freedom, to renounce all of those for my life—what choice was that? And yet, death renounces life.

  “What if I do not wish to choose?” I asked him. My voice trembled in my own ears.

  “Then I will choose for you. But if that be the case, then you are bound by my will.”

  “We are all bound, Chayin rendi Inekte.” It was my voice that spoke, insolent and defiant, but I had not willed it to do so.

  I saw the anger in his eyes. I swallowed, my fear-dry mouth sour and sticky. If he chose death for me, so be it. If he chose to make me crell, then it was not by my will, and I was not bound by his choice. I was not unhappy that the power within me had so spoken.

  Chayin rendi Inekte, cahndor of the Nemarsi, took up the rope in his hands. He slid its length between his palms, coiled it around his fists. A long-legged, narrow-beaked pandivver landed, snapping its wings, near my knee. It regarded me, unblinking, head cocked. I could see the pulse beat in its throat. Finally, satisfied, it furled its pinions and began to hunt, stabbing its shari, beak into the ground, throwing its head into the air to swallow, then repeating the process. Its long legs carried it away, bobbling, its feathered rear raised to the moon.

  “You know nothing, crell, of our customs. Uncommitted, your lot will be hard. Perhaps too hard. As a favor, I will bind you here and leave you for the desert,” he said as he rebound my hands behind my back, and passed the loop of rope about my belly, tying it in front. “I have not the time for you.”

  He got to his feet. I looked up at him from where I knelt on the sand. The horror of my situation had me frozen. I had thought he would take me, or kill me quickly, mercifully. But he would leave me bound and helpless in the barrens, food for whatever first happened upon me. He turned his back to me, and the moonglow fired the Shaper’s seal on the cloak he wore. My father had done this to me, placed me here in the path of pain and dying, that I might not interfere in his plans. Of all I had suffered at the hands of men, his stroke had been the cruelest. Pawn had I lived, pawn would I die. Defiance rose in me. I would not be so easily dealt with!

  “Cahndor,” I called softly to his retreating back, though the word came hard and bitter to my tongue. I would beg for my life, bide my time. This was no Mrysten I faced, but a desert primitive. I had not spent so long in Well Astria for nothing. I would play the conquered, but eventually, it was I who would conquer. As he had bound me with rope, so would I bind him, with desire. I would spread the knowledge I had gained upon Mi’ysten and free us from the Shaper’s Mi’ysten manipulation. To do so, I must live. To live, I would do what was needed.

  “Cahndor,” I called again.

  Chayin rendi Inekte, cahndor of the Nemarsi, turned and came to stand before me.

  I put my cheek to his booted foot and kissed it. Kneeling, my hair in the dirt, my lips against the rough leather, I waited.

  “Speak, little crell, speak the words.” His voice held amusement, triumph.

  “I choose to live, I beg to live. Do with me as you will.”

  “Say, then, that you choose to live as crell to me, and speak my name.”

  I did so, though the dust blurred the words and my voice was weak and shaky. For a moment I thought he would not accept me, but would leave me; even though I had prostrated myself before him.

  “I think,” he said, after a silence in which my heart thundered, deafening, “you shall be Miheja. It is a good Parset name. Live up to it.” And he lifted me to my feet. I was much shamed; my sense of purpose, my plan did not ease me. The smile that tugged at the corner of his lips, danced in his eyes, burned my skin. My legs were unsteady under me; I weaved upon my feet.

  “A crell does not gaze into the eyes of her cahndor, unless so commanded,” he informed me. I dropped my eyes.

  “Nor into the eyes of any man or woman of the Nemarsi,” he cautioned. His voice seemed far away, the words unclear. The ground beneath me reached up, calling. A haze of red consumed it; then the red was dark, and I felt his arms about me, and the dizziness faded. The drug was wearing off, the stimulant effect receding. I was again conscious of my throbbing feet, my thirst, my hunger, my weakness. He picked me up in his arms and carried me. His skin was hot, and slick against mine.

  Among the others he set me down. I counted ten of them, squatting on the rocky ground. Bladders of drink and wraps of meat littered the sand. Beside the bearded Hael he placed me, and sat himself. Hael’s eyes were for his cahndor. My eyes were for the wrap of leather upon which rested a half-eaten joint of meat. The smell of it had me salivating. My stomach voiced its need. Chayin rendi Inekte picked up the meat and gnawed at it.

  “What name have you given her?” Hael asked.

  “Miheja,” Chayin answered around a mouthful. I lay between them, hands bound under me. My cahndor had not seen fit to free me. Hael looked at me; his eyes searched mine. I looked away, remembering.

  Hael uncorked a bladder and lifted my head that I might drink. In the bladder was not water, but some warming brew with which I was not familiar. He then cut some meat and fed me pieces, slowly, with his fingers. After three bites, my shrunken stomach could hold no more. I turned my head away. His hand on my forehead turned it back to him, so that I could not avoid his bearded face. He smiled down at me, and his smile was gentle.

  “Perhaps you will win, in the end, little Miheja,” he said in a voice so low the others could not hear. He leaned over me, his hand once again on my forehead. I felt strength pour into me through his palm, the heat of it burning. He had the healer’s touch, and I wondered what other touches he had, what he meant by his obscure comment as his hands did his work.

  “Put her up before you. I would not overly tire Saer. If we leave now, we will make Wiyuta jer by sun’s rising. There we will raise apprei,” Chayin said. He got to his feet and strode to the dozing threx, huddled together, heads drooping. The men were up and moving, hurriedly reclaiming their bladders and meat. None spoke as they worked. I thought it strange that so many men were so quiet. It is not that way among the Slayers.

  Had picked me up and carried me to the threx, where he sat me astride a large black and swung up behind me. I would not ride, this time, upon my stomach, with my face in the dirt. He reached around me and drew up the reins. Chayin’s threx was already started, a cloud of dust marking his trail. Hael kicked the black into a run. Its gait was easier than the cahndor’s mount, but with my hands bound behind me I had no way to keep my balance, and was glad of Hael’s arms around me on the reins. The threx’s bristled neck snaked low as he hit his stride, and I could see the pointed ears flicking back and forth as he picked his way at breakneck speed across the treacherous ground. Foam sprayed up, rising on the wind from his frothing mouth. Hael gave him more rein.

  When the black threx was so close to Ch
ayin’s dapple that each bristle of its tail was distinct from the others, Hael reined him up, content to follow. The Shaper’s seal sparked in the moonlight like some festival firestick before us in the night.

  “How did you come by that cloak?” Hael asked in my ear. His beard itched my neck, his matted chest hair my back as I leaned against him.

  “It was a gift from my father, when I entered the desert.” I turned my mouth to his ear, that the wind would not snatch my words away.

  “And what did you seek here?”

  “A way home, to Astria. And a man of Arlet. And a Day-Keeper.”

  “What father,” said he, “would allow his daughter to seek where she cannot find? The home you will see will not be Astria. Except among the crells, there are none of Arlet with us. There are few enough in Arlet. But a Day-Keeper, now, that is another thing. If you sought one, then you have found one.” His arms tightened about my waist as the threx swerved to avoid some obstacle, then veered back behind the cahndor’s mount.

  I had thought as much. The way he had spoken to Chayin, the concern he had shown for me, his healing skills, all marked him. And he had the cryptic tongue of his kind.

  “It is a certain Day-Keeper I seek, one for whom I have a message.”

  “Although there is little exchange between us and our past-brothers, the times have pushed us closer. I could deliver such a message.”

  “For a crell?” I asked bitterly.

  “That cloak marks you. Chayin is ignorant by choice of what does not please him. He will learn. One does not instruct the cahndor. There is little enough I can do for you. You should accept my offer.”

  “To Vedrev of Arlet, then, take this message. I am Estri, returned from discharging the chaldra of the mother. I had success in that, and it should be so written. Say also that Sereth crill Tyris’ actions on my behalf were above reproach.”