Oath of Swords

She drew out her harp, and air hissed between Brandark’s teeth. The strings shone silver in a frame of midnight ebony, and faceted gems flashed back the fire from the tuning pegs. The forearm was a woman, draped in a flowing, archaic gown, mouth open in song, and the Bloody Sword blinked as the bard tucked the instrument against her shoulder, for the carved face matched her own. He started to speak, but then her fingers stroked the strings and he froze, mouth hanging open, as music filled the cave.

No one could wring that rich, rippling purity from a harp that small! It wasn’t the sound of a single harp at all-he knew it wasn’t. Viols and lutes sounded in the background, laughing dulcimers wove in and out between the harp notes, bassoons and oboes crooned to violins and the deep, sweet voice of cellos, and he knew it couldn’t happen even as it did. But then she opened her mouth, and he forgot the music, forgot the smell of horses and smoke and wet cloth and the rock he sat upon. He forgot everything, for there was nothing-nothing but that voice.

He could never remember it clearly later. That was the cruelest curse and the greatest blessing of all, for if he had been able to remember, his love of music would have died forever. Who could be content with the mud pies of children playing in a ditch when he’d seen the work of Saramantha’s greatest sculptors? If he were able to remember-really remember -that voice, he would hunger only to hear it once more, and its perfection would turn all other voices, all other music, to dust and ashes in his mouth.

Yet if he could never recall it clearly, he would always know he’d heard it once. That for a single night, in a smelly winter cave, he’d experienced all the splendor after which he’d fumbled for so many years. Not death itself could take that from him, and he knew he would hear its echo in every other song.

She sang words they’d never heard, in a language they’d never known, and it didn’t matter. They sat motionless, two barbarian hradani, lost in a beauty beyond imagining, and she took them with her. She swept them away into another place, where time was irrelevant and there was no world, no reality, no meaning but the music of her harp, the majesty of her voice, and the glow of her huge brown eyes. They soared with her, flew on her wings, tasted things for which there were no words in any language, and then, as gently as she’d borne them aloft, she returned them to their own world, and the greatest magic of all was that she did not break their hearts. That they returned unscarred, content to be who and what they were, for it would have been so easy-so unthinkably easy-to surrender all they’d ever been for the chance to become two more notes in that glorious sound.

Her voice died, her hand stilled the strings, and Brandark Brandarkson went to his knees before her.

“My Lady,” he whispered, and tears fogged his voice and soaked his face.

“Don’t be silly, Brandark.” Her voice was no longer a weapon to break men’s hearts but laughing and tender, and her slender hand brushed his head. She gripped an ear and tugged, and he looked up, his own eyes suddenly laughing through his tears, and she nodded. “Better,” she said. “Now stand up, Brandark. You’ve never come to me on your knees before; I see no reason to begin now.”

He smiled and rose, and Bahzell blinked like a man waking from sleep.

“Who-?” he began, but then words failed him. He could only stare at Brandark, and the Bloody Sword touched his shoulder.

“Chesmirsa,” he said very, very softly. “The Singer of Light.”

Bahzell’s eyes flew wide, and he jerked upright. He towered two feet and more taller than the woman by the fire, but she’d put aside her mortality. He was less than a child before her, and fear and confusion boiled through him.

“I-” His voice died, and she smiled once more.

“Sit, Bahzell.” It was a request when she could have commanded, and he sank back onto the rock while he stared at her. She nodded to Brandark, and the Bloody Sword sat beside him once more, eyes fixed upon the goddess’ face. “Thank you,” she said softly. She laid her harp in her lap and leaned forward across it, still a slender, brown-haired woman and yet infinitely more, and her gentle eyes were compassionate. “I know how confused you are-both of you-and I suppose I was wicked to sneak up on you, but would you really have preferred a flash of light and a roll of thunder?” All the merriment of a universe danced in her dimpled smile, and they felt themselves smiling back. “Besides,” she added, “to be greeted as a mortal and offered the kindness of mortals-that, my friends, is a gift whose value you ca

“But . . . but why?” Brandark asked, and the silver, rippling magic of her laugh went through them like a sword.

“Because of your friend, Brandark-and you. You were the only reason I could come here, and I have a message for you, but it’s Bahzell’s stubbor

“My stubbor

“Your stubbor

“I’m not after understanding,” he said with unwonted uncertainty.

“Of course not; you’ve been fighting for months not to understand.”

“The dreams?” His voice was suddenly sharper, and she nodded again.

“The dreams.” A touch of ster

“Is that what I’ve been doing, now?” he asked more challengingly. Brandark touched his arm, but the Horse Stealer’s eyes were fixed on Chesmirsa’s face, and she cocked her head.

“Of course it is. Come now, Bahzell, would we send you dreams you couldn’t understand if we had a choice?”

“I’ve no way of knowing,” he said flatly. “I’m naught but a hradani, Lady. We’ve no experience with how or what gods send to folk they care about.”

Brandark inhaled sharply, yet the goddess didn’t even wince. Sorrow dimmed her glorious eyes for just a moment, but not anger, and she sighed.

“I know how you feel about us, Bahzell Bahnakson,” she said gently, “and who are we to blame you? If you were less of what you are your anger with us would be less, as well . . . and the time to send a hradani dreams would not have come.”

“My anger, is it?” Bahzell rose once more, meeting her gaze on his own two feet, and his eyes glittered. He felt her presence, knew she was veiling her power, that if she’d loosed it upon him he could never have stood before it, but he felt no awe. Respect and wonder, yes, but not awe. His people had suffered too much-been left to suffer too much-for that.

“Yes, your anger. And your fear, Bahzell.” His eyes flashed, and she raised a graceful hand. “Not of us, but lest we ‘betray’ your people once again by turning our backs upon them. But I tell you this, Bahzell Bahnakson, and I do not lie; what happened to your people was none of our doing, and its wounds cut deeper than even you can imagine. We’ve labored for a mille

“Words, Lady,” Bahzell said stubbornly. “All I hear are words.”

“No, Bahzell. All you’ve heard so far have been my words, and this task isn’t mine. It was laid upon my brother Tomanāk-and upon you.”

“Upon me?! ”

“You. It will be no easy task, Bahzell Bahnakson, and it will bring you pain beyond your dreams, for my brother’s province is war and justice, and those are hard masters for man or god. But this is the task for which you were born, the proper challenge for your strength and courage and stubbor