Oath of Swords

“Lady,” the Horse Stealer spoke slowly, each word forged of iron, “I’ll bow down to no one, god, demon, or devil. What I do, I’ll do because I choose to do it, and for no other reason.”

“I know. We know,” Chesmirsa said. “Nor is it my task to ask you to accept this burden. I ask you only to consider it, only to be willing to hear so that you can choose when the time comes. Is that so much for anyone to ask?”

Bahzell met her eyes levelly, then shook his head, almost against his will.

“Thank you,” she said softly, and her eyes told him she knew how hard it had been to make even that concession. “But as the choice must be your own, so must the decision to hear. You will be troubled by no more dreams, Bahzell Bahnakson, but think well and hard upon what I’ve told you. When the time comes that you’re ready to hear, then hear you shall. And if you never decide you’re ready, then we will leave you in the peace you desire.”

Bahzell recognized an oath when he heard one, and he bent his head in acknowledgment. The goddess gazed at him for one more moment, then turned her eyes to Brandark, and her face lightened.

“And so to you.” The Bloody Sword looked up once more, his eyes bright, and she smiled. “Ah, Brandark! Brandark! What shall I do with you?”

“Do with me, Lady?” he asked hesitantly, and her smile became an urchin’s grin.

“Alas, Brandark, you have the soul of a poet, but the other tools-!” He felt himself blush, yet her eyes lit a bubble of laughter in his heart even as she shook her head at him.

“I do my best, My Lady,” he said humbly, and she nodded.

“That you do, and always have. But the truth, Brandark, is that you were never meant for the task you thought. You are too much my brother’s, too apt to other tasks. You will never be a bard.”

“Never?” Brandark Brandarkson had never dreamed he could feel such sorrow-or that so much joy could wrap itself about the hurt-and his goddess smiled upon him.

“Never,” she said firmly. “Music you will have always, and my blessing on your joy in it, but another career awaits you. One that will demand all you have and are, and which will fill you with a joy you never knew to seek. I promise you that, and-” her eyes danced at him “-I think you’ll find it one to suit a poet’s soul. Live it well, Brandark.”

“I’ll . . . try, My Lady,” he whispered, and she touched his head once more. Then she returned her harp to its case and slung it upon her back. She shook out her plain, everyday cloak and draped it across her shoulders, and smiled at them.

“You are not quite what we expected, either of you. And yet each of you is precisely what you must be. It’s only that you’re so much more than we dared hope, my children. Farewell.”

She vanished. One instant she was there; the next she was gone, and the hradani shook themselves. The gray light of dawn glimmered in the hole in the cave’s roof, and Bahzell frowned as he tried to calculate how many hours must have sped past in what had seemed so few minutes. Yet the fire still burned, the horses and mules still drowsed in their corner of the cave, and their three companions slept on, untouched by all that had happened. He should have been exhausted from a sleepless night, but he felt rested and restored, and he looked at his friend.

Brandark looked back, his eyes huge with bemused sorrow and joy. And as they looked into one another’s eyes, the Bloody Sword felt unseen fingers tug gently at his ear once more while a husky contralto voice ran around the cave like the laughter of the first day of creation.

“Remember, Brandark,” it said softly. “You may have another task, but you do have a poet’s soul, and that means a part of you will always be mine. Live your life well, Brandark Brandarkson. Take joy of it, and remember I will be with you to its end . . . and beyond.”

Chapter Eighteen

A south wind blew misty rain into Bahzell’s eyes as the gray walls of Angcar rose before him. It was two hours till gate-closing, but lanterns already glimmered from the battlements, and he blinked away water, looked back over his shoulder, and bit his lip. All of them, including those who’d slept through Chesmirsa’s visit, had felt invigorated and renewed when they left the cave. But they’d no sooner set out once more than the gray, persistent rain had returned, and flooded valleys and mud-treacherous slopes had taken toll of their mounts and slowed them badly. The rain looked like blowing itself out at last, but Tothas was hunched in the saddle, his face pinched and gray, and his harsh, rasping cough came all too often. Short of funds or no, they had to get him under a roof, Bahzell thought grimly, and increased his pace toward Carchon’s capital.

They’d fallen into the habit of letting Tothas act as their spokesman in the towns they passed, for he was less threatening than a hradani, but he was folded forward over his saddle pommel in a fresh, wracking spasm when they finally reached the gates. Bahzell stood beside his horse, one hand on the beast’s neck, hiding his anxiety as best he could while he watched the armsman cough, and Brandark trotted ahead to state their business.

The guards, already surly over pulling gate duty on such a miserable day, looked less than pleased to see a hradani, but Bahzell had little worry to spare them. The rain was far worse on Tothas than the dry cold had been. Finding the cave had been greater fortune than they had any right to expect, and what would happen to the Spearman if they met the same weather in deep wilderness frightened the Horse Stealer.

The thought touched him with strangely bitter frustration, and he stroked the neck of Tothas’ horse again while he grappled with it. He had a notion finding that cave had been something more than a stroke of simple luck, and there was a certain seductiveness to the idea of being able to call upon a god for aid. Only, if a man got into the habit of counting on some poxy god to save his neck, what did he do the day the god was busy elsewhere or got bored and decided to do something else? Besides, there was something bribe-like about the way that cave had popped up. It was like a bait, a bit of cheese enticing him into the trap.

He snorted in the rain. The dreams had stopped, as promised, but he wasn’t certain that was an improvement. He’d always believed knowing the truth was best, that it meant a man didn’t have to wonder or torment himself with hopes, but he’d learned better. Bad enough to suspect a god was after him; having it confirmed was much, much worse. This business about destinies, and tasks, and “pain beyond your dreams”-!

He watched Brandark speaking with the gate guards and shook his head stubbornly. Pain didn’t frighten him. He relished it no more than the next man, but any hradani knew pain was part of life. Yet he’d meant what he’d said. What he did, he would do because he chose to do it, not because someone or something commanded him to, and he still saw no reason any man-especially a hradani-should go about trusting gods. He couldn’t deny Chesmirsa’s impact upon him, how much he’d . . . well, liked her. But the goddess of music and bards damned well ought to be likable, charming, and all those other things! And all that talk of him and Brandark being “more” than she’d hoped-! Best be keeping your hand on your purse when you hear such from someone who’s wanting something from you, my lad, he told himself sourly.

He pulled himself from his thoughts and glanced at Zarantha, and her momentarily unguarded eyes echoed his own fears for Tothas. She felt the hradani’s gaze and looked back at him, and a spark of anger for what she was doing to her armsman burned within him, but her expression’s sick self-loathing silenced any outburst, and he looked away once more as Brandark trotted back.