Paul Thompson: Sister of the Sword

He dashed off, darting between singing and drinking revelers like a child after a firefly. Lyopi shook her head and smiled ruefully.

“Thirty-nine years old and still a boy,” she said, speaking chiefly to Karada and Samtu.

“Aren’t they all?” Samtu replied.

“No. Truly, he is. Amero’s always bringing home the oddest things. He collects sacks of rocks from all over the valley and sits by the fire cracking them open to see what’s inside. Sometimes he brings home animals, too.”

“He still hunts?” asked Karada.

“No. He brings them home alive! One autumn he brought back an enormous bullfrog from the fens on the west side of the lake. Big as a chicken it was.”

“Why?” Samtu asked. “Does he like to eat frogs?”

“No! He wanted to measure how far it could jump!”

The women burst out laughing. After a moment’s pause, Karada asked, “How far could it jump?”

Lyopi raised her hands and dropped them again in an exasperated gesture. “We never found out. It wouldn’t budge, even when Amero prodded it with a stick!”

“Must’ve been a male frog,” said Karada. That set them off again.

Pakito studiously stayed out of the conversation, until their laughter subsided. Then he asked, “Where are the Silvanesti? I haven’t seen them all day.”

“They’ve taken to lingering by Amero’s old foundry,” said Duranix. He’d sated his hunger and moved a bit closer to the fire. By its light, his massive bronze head seemed to float in the air all by itself, his body masked by the deepening shadows. “They were there when I left the cave at sundown.”

“Wonder what they’re up to?” said Pakito.

“Be calm,” Karada said. “They won’t cause any trouble. I have Balif’s word.” She drained the weak wine mixture from her cup. “You know elves. They’re up there gabbing at each other, using more words than any decent human would.”

“Any decent human but Amero,” Lyopi observed dryly. The laughter started anew.

Amero found the Silvanesti, as Duranix had told the others, at the old foundry. When he arrived, still brimming with enthusiasm for his mating day, the elves were busily cleaning and packing their gear.

Balif returned Amero’s greeting but declined his invitation to join the feast. The elf lord knew there were still many in Karada’s band unwilling to share a cup with a

Silvanesti. As he pointed out, the converse was also true. Few were the elves in Silvanost who would willingly dine with a human. In any event, he and his soldiers were busy preparing for the next day’s departure.

The Silvanesti were certainly diligent and organized. Four elves were doing nothing but polishing bronze—sword blades, knives, buckles, gorgets. Others were down by the lake, washing mantles and leggings, while another half-dozen carefully packed their loose gear in bundles.

“Would you and Farolenu come just for a short time, to see me mated?” asked Amero. “It would be a great honor to me.” He explained their custom.

“I would be happy to attend,” Balif said, bowing. Farolenu likewise accepted.

Amero was ready to lead them back right then, but the elf lord begged for time to change into clean attire. It was agreed to delay the mating declaration until Soli appeared in the southwest. That would give Balif and his bronzesmith time to prepare themselves.

When the Arkuden had hurried away, Balif turned to his nearest elves. “Did you get them?” he asked, keeping his voice low, even though he was speaking in his own tongue now.

“Yes, my lord,” said an elf, on his knees packing.

“Show me.”

Making sure no humans were in sight, the fellow unrolled the bundle he’d been working on. In it were four bowstaves, bowstrings, and ten arrows.

“How did you acquire them?”

“As you suggested, my lord. We traded bronze and gold to some nomads for them. We have seven complete weapons and twenty missiles.”

Farolenu, already pulling on his best tunic and mantle, asked, “My lord, do you think what we’re doing is honorable? Aren’t we betraying the humans’ trust?”

“We are,” was Balif’s candid reply. “But we have given the Arkuden the secret of bronze. It seems only fair we take something in trade—something in addition to our lives, I mean.”

Every elf knew what was at stake. The nomads’ bows and arrows could devastate any Silvanesti army in their path. To avoid this disaster, the elves had to learn to use the new weapons themselves. Balif had agonized over his subterfuge, but he felt he had no choice.

“By maintaining a balance, we shall endeavor to keep the peace,” Balif promised. “Come, Farolenu, we have been honored with an invitation. Let’s do our duty by the Arkuden.”

Suitably attired, the two elves departed for the humans’ feast. The rest of the Silvanesti worked to complete preparations for their journey home.

A lone figure lifted its head from the soot-blackened ruins of the foundry. Driven out by Karada, fearful of the Arkuden and his supporters, Mara had tucked herself away in a forgotten corner of the foundry. She’d watched Amero converse with Balif but was too far away to register their words. When the Arkuden left, she crawled forward to overhear the elf lord speak to his followers.

Her time as a Silvanesti slave had given Mara only a rudimentary comprehension of the Elvish language, but she understood bits and pieces of what Balif said, and she had glimpsed the cache of nomad weapons. The words whirled confusingly through her head like a dust storm on the plains, coalescing with what she had seen, forming a realization dark and terrifying: The Arkuden must be in league with the elves. He had traded the secret of making bronze for the nomads’ bows and arrows. He was a traitor, not only to the human cause, but to his own sister.

Karada must be told. The knowledge would cause her pain, but ultimately she would be grateful to know the truth. Mara would be forgiven and restored to her rightful place at Karada’s feet, a beloved daughter of the great nomad chief, and together they would drive the rapacious Silvanesti from the plains forever.

In the midst of this satisfying vision, Mara frowned. The Arkuden had seemed in a great hurry just now. He was obviously bent on some urgent scheme. Silvanesti treachery knew no bounds. They could be planning anything with the Arkuden. Anything at all. Quick action was needed.

Her heart pounded. Resolution flowed through her limbs.

She would do it. She would spare every human on the plain from enduring what she had suffered at the hands of the elves. Most of all, she would save her beloved Karada.

Plainsmen say Soli, the white moon, is a messenger of change. It hugs the horizon when it first appears and rises into the open sky reluctantly. In spring and autumn it ascends modestly and in winter hardly appears at all above the mountains rimming the Valley of the Falls. Because of its habits, the plainsmen say Soli brings rain in the spring by climbing higher in the sky to pour water on the thirsty soil below, and it carries the green leaves away in the fall (sinking to the its low, winter-time position). Only in summer did Soli linger near the zenith of heaven, keeping temperatures high. It never made sense to Amero that a cool moon rather than the hot sun should be blamed for summer’s heat, but that was the lore he’d learned from his mother, a long time ago.

Now, standing with Lyopi between two bonfires, surrounded by the whole of Yala-tene, the nomad band, former raiders, a highborn elf, and Duranix, Amero found himself sweating. It was the fires, he told himself, or maybe all the wine he’d drunk—

Be honest, Duranix’s silent voice said inside his head. You’re nervous!