Sword-Bearer

Sword-Bearer

Prologue

When I walked outside to tend morning chores, it was snowing.

In the South.

In the desert.

I’d been north across the border, so I knew what snow was. In fact, my mind instantly registered what it was. It then instantly registered that this was an utter impossibility. It doesn’t do that here.

Except, snow.

Falling out of the sky. Fat, heavy flakes.

More than a trace upon the ground. Maybe two inches.

And demonstrably cold when one is wearing sandals.

I stood before my door, completely flummoxed. The world was white. Oh, structures still showed dark against the pallor of the morning, but roofs were covered. The east side of Alric’s and Lena’s four-room house, facing me, was snow-furred. And everything of the day was quiet.

Too quiet.

It occurred to me that I was dreaming. But a review of my ac­tions upon climbing out of bed assured me I was not. I mean, how often, in dreams, do you pee?

And then Del stepped into the doorway behind me and she said with shock akin to my own, “It’s snowing!”

So. Not dreaming.

“Ummm,” was all I managed. I turned to face her and managed a question. “It is, isn’t it? I mean, you should know. You grew up in the North where it does this kind of thing all the time.”

Del stepped out into the morning as I moved aside. Her face was turned up to the sky. She squinted and blinked as flakes landed in her eyes, then lowered her startled gaze to me. “This is impossible.”

I nodded vigorously.

And then we heard a call, turned as one, and saw Alric walking toward us from his own house. Like Del, a Northerner, tall and blond, clear-featured. And a sword-singer, as she was.

“It’s snowing!” he exclaimed, nearly upon us.

And so the three of us, having established that it was indeed snowing, stood there together looking out onto the whitened world and into the gray, shedding skies, and discussed reasons and causes.

But arrived at no answers.

“Maybe,” I said at last, “it’s simply one of those very, very, very strange, weird, utterly inexplicable, impossible‑to‑believe things that actually are real. Sometimes they just happen, after all. No reason or explanation. They just—are. You know?”

Snow had gathered upon the crowns of two pale blond heads. Two sets of Northern-blue eyes met one another briefly, exchanged some kind of realization, a message to which I was not privy.

“What?” I asked aggrievedly, feeling left out.

Del and Alric chorused, “Magic.”

Oh, hoolies.


Chapter 1

“Snow magic?” I asked. “There is such a thing?”

“Si’anasa, in Northern,” Del answered. “Weather-working.”

We sat indoors with flames licking at a pile of cut tree limbs stacked in the beehive-shaped mudbrick fireplace built against one of the walls of our cozy, three-room house. (Del calls it “cozy,” I call it “small.”) We’d started out at the table, but a certain two-year-old girl preferred to stand much too close to the hearth before the snap­ping, sparking fire, so Del and I had taken up residence on a blanket just in front of the fireplace. A fireplace, which proved highly ben­eficial as it warmed us in the midst of the snowstorm, and we blocked Sula from the hearth. It also served to dry out her wiry hair, which had become wet while playing exuberantly outdoors in the snow with four of Alric’s five children. Del had changed wet clothes to dry and toweled her own hair, but now heat was han­dling the duty.

“Weather-working,” I muttered. “What did you say? Si—what?”

“Si’anasa.”

“So it’s a Northern thing?”

“It’s a Northern word,” she clarified. “Do you not have weather-working in the South? Well, no, perhaps not, or surely you would never allow it to become so hoolies-cursed hot.” Del closed a hand on Sula’s small forearm and pulled her back around in front of us. “I had not heard of it being only a ‘Northern thing,’ but I suppose that is possible.” She shrugged. “It’s lesser magic. It doesn’t cause big storms, can’t melt all of the snow merely because one wishes it. One may ask, one may nudge, but it’s erratic. It does no one’s bidding. It’s wild magic.”

Wild magic. Of course. I had yet to see tamed magic. I opened my mouth to say so, but a pounding on the door interrupted. I rose, crossed the room, unlatched the door and pulled it open. Dislodged snow fell down from the roof’s edge, splattered down my front, and landed on my sandaled feet.
 
Outside stood my adult son, Neesha. His dark hair was wet and straggled nearly to his shoulders. I stepped aside to let him in, but before he could enter Sula shrieked and broke from Del, darting past me, out the door, past Neesha, and into the storm. By now there were five inches on the ground, enough to clog her feet, and she promptly fell down.
 
Even as, muttering, I stepped outside to retrieve her, Neesha bent and absentmindedly caught an arm, carefully hauled her up­right. “I just rode all the way back from Julah in this storm! When I left, everyone in town was standing out in the middle of the streets staring up at the sky.”
 
Having no orders to hang on to her, Neesha released Sula, who staggered around in circles, arms thrust skyward, snow sticking to hair and clothing. I exited the house, Del exited the house—she, Northern-born, had the presence of mind to actually close the door against more snow incursions—and now three adults stood staring up at the sky, mimicking the folk of Julah, as a small, shrieking girl-child circled all of us unsteadily.
 
“Has it ever snowed in the South?” Neesha asked, ruffling snow from his head.
 
“Not to my knowledge,” I replied. “Never since I was born, and I don’t recall ever even hearing of it. And that’s something everyone would tell stories about. So—maybe it is what Del described. Magic.”
 
Neesha said sharply, “Si’anasa?”
 
My brows ran up. “You know about that, too?” Well, probably he would. He’d grown up just this side of the border between the North and the South, not with me, and so he knew about snow. He knew far more about the North than he did the South.
 
“Yes, I’ve heard of it, but . . .” Now he looked at Del more in­tently. “Do you think that’s what this is?”
 
Del stopped watching Sula long enough to meet his eyes. “I don’t know. Possibly.”
 
As I stood there listening, I realized something was off. I did not feel—right. My skin tingled, ached, as if rising on my bones. I’d always been sensitive to magic, long before I knew what it was.
 
And that’s exactly what this felt like. I was reacting to the weather-working, the si’anasa.
 
Del noticed my expression. “Are you all right?”
 
“Fine.” With effort I set my mind on a different topic. “How hard is it snowing in town?”
 
“Like here.” Neesha turned his hands palm up, as if to catch flakes. “And it’s playing havoc with the festival.”
 
Festival. Hoolies, I’d forgotten all about it.
 
Del and I exchanged wide-eyed glances of realization, then looked as one at our daughter. We had promised Sula we’d take her.
 
Yes, she had heard us. “Fes’val!”
 
Neesha noted Del’s expression and my own, and grinned wick­edly. “You forgot! What kind of parents are you to forget about something like that?”
 
Sula now staggered around in a circle chanting “fes’val” repeatedly.
 
“How could you?” Neesha demanded in mock distress.
 
I glared at him, then looked back at Del. More was on my mind. “Could it be an on‑purpose storm? Not just random weather?”
 
Del frowned. “You mean— storm someone made?”
 
“You called it weather-working. Said it’s magic.”
 
She shook her own snow-dusted head. “Wild magic is just that, Tiger. Wild.”
 
Sula fell down again. This time she wailed. Del took two paces, bent, pulled her up, brushed snow away, murmuring to her in Northern.
 
I mulled it over. “Can someone tap wild magic? To make it snow in the South?”

Sula yanked ineffectively to get away from her mother’s grasp. “I don’t know,” Del said, distracted. “Does it matter?”
 
“It might,” I said grimly. My skin had settled and the ache in it was gone, but moment by moment my concern increased.
 
Neesha seemed puzzled by my attitude. “Why?”
 
My son knew little about Skandi, the island where my parents were from—and where Del and I had visited to learn about my kin—or ioSkandi, where mad priest-mages dwelled. He knew noth­ing about the magic wakened in my bones atop the spires called the Stone Forest. He knew nothing, also, of what I had done to rid my­self of the magic, or to reclaim it.
 
Nor did he know what had happened at Umir’s when the gri­moire called the Book of Udre-Natha, was unlocked, opened; when pages were cut free and committed to air and fire. When a portion of that magic, attracted by what once more burned in my bones, sought me, sought with a terrible hunger that ioSkandic magic, and joined it inside a most unholy host.
 
Me.
 
He didn’t need to know. I didn’t want him to know. Only Del knew about it, and I intended to keep it that way. I wasn’t certain why I was so adamant about keeping him in the dark, but adamant I was. And so I ignored Neesha’s question and scowled at Del. “So, what happens? Does this weather magic just stop? By itself?”
 
Del shrugged. “I don’t know much about it. I mean, not every storm is bred of si’anasa. Probably not many. I never paid at­tention. I remember a few times we had bad storms, strange weather, and my parents always made a joke of it, saying it must be si’anasa. But I was a child . . . I didn’t really think about that kind of thing.”
 
A child indeed, until raiders came down upon her family’s car­avan. Childhood ended that day for her. And innocence.
 
I shivered, long and hard. And it had nothing whatsoever to do with the weather.
 
A word. A name. Si’anasa. Wild magic. The same lived in me.
 
Another shiver ran down my spine. My belly did a slow flip. Two unwelcome guests inside my bones, though neither was cor­poreal, woke abruptly, like dogs startled from sound sleep.

I hadn’t felt this since my Skandic magic threw open the door inside me to the power I freed from the Book of Udre-Natha. I didn’t want that power, but it had recognized what was in me, and bur­rowed inside my bones.
 
I tipped back my head and squinted up at the sky. “And I really hope this is just some kind of bizarre happenstance.”
 
But I didn’t think it was. Not now. Not being who—and what—I was.
 
“Fes’val!” Sula shrieked.
 
Promises are promises, especially when made to children. Or so Del explained. Prior to Sula I’d had no experience. But I accepted the explanation, hitched the team to the wagon while Del bundled Sula into dry clothing and a small coat—during winter, such as it was, the desert grew cold at night, even if it didn’t snow, and we all had boots and coats—and we set out for town and the festival. By the time we got halfway there, a good three more inches of snow had fallen. It was piling up fast.
 
Sula sat between us on the wide seat, so it was impossible to discuss matters without her hearing us. Which reduced our conver­sation to fragments of sentences we hoped the other would under­stand.
 
“We might have to,” I said, working the reins.
 
Del, profile mostly hidden in the coat hood, kept her tone light. “There would be crying.”
 
“I know that.”
 
“Possibly something at a much louder, higher pitch.”
 
“I know that, too. But.”
 
“But,” she agreed. “Still, it’s dry and powdery. The horses are having no trouble.”
 
“For now.”
 
“Then you explain it to her.”
 
I considered that a moment. A long moment. Then a few more moments. “Well, the horses are having no trouble.”
 
Del laughed, which was a very good sound indeed.

Thick flakes, still falling. Del tightened Sula’s hood and coat. It sur­prised neither of us that a two-year-old child would begin to fuss. And Sula fussed. I wanted to fuss. Probably Del did too. But we were adults, and parents, and knew it was our job to refrain from fussing.
 
So we fussed inwardly.
 
Finally Del said, “They won’t hold a festival in this.”
 
“No.” And I’d begun to worry a little anyway. Del and I had rid­den in snow in the North, but I’d certainly never driven a wagon in it. Probably we should have gone horseback, with Sula taking turns sharing a saddle.
 
Del took on the task neither of us relished. She sighed, patted Sula’s hooded head with a gloved hand. “Sweetling, it’s snowing too hard. We must go home.”
 
Sula fussed.
 
“Sweetling, we can try tomorrow.”
 
Fussing.
 
I peered through falling snow. “The bluff’s just ahead— think. We’ll turn there.”
 
“No!” Yes, Sula’s tone was on the verge of tears.
 
And then I realized I had the perfect answer for her frustra­tions. “I know it’s disappointing, very disappointing, but think of the horses. It’s growing harder for Horse and Other Horse to make their way. We should turn back so they’ll be safe.”
 
It didn’t take her long. “Turn now!”
 
Del smiled at me from out of her hood and dipped her head in approval.
 
By the time we topped the bluff, it was almost impossible to see anything beyond a few paces. The world was white. The snow was deep. And while the bluff was very familiar, from drop-off to lean‑to, it was only familiar in the ordinary, uneventful daytime.

This morning was neither uneventful nor ordinary. And I didn’t relish the idea of driving off the edge of the bluff while turning the horses. I mean, I couldn’t even see the trees along that edge.
 
I halted the horses to contemplate a plan. And Del, recognizing the quandary, offered a solution. She told Sula and me to stay put and then simply jumped down from the wagon. Her, I could see, brown leather against the white. And I could see also that the snow was nearly to her knees.
 
Del read my expression. “I’m going to walk behind the wagon to the rock wall. Then I can tell you how far to back up.” Her face, framed in the hood, was pink-cheeked from the cold.
 
I didn’t like it. Didn’t say so; she knew. She tilted her head and arched her brows, clearly offering me the opportunity to come up with another suggestion. I didn’t have any. She smiled crookedly, shrugged, and waded toward the back of the wagon, using the side­boards to steady herself in deep snow.
 
Sula wished to join her mother. I explained that at the rate the snow was falling, it might possibly be over her head within a few moments. Sula, having no idea what snow was, didn’t care for that explanation. I grabbed a small, coat-fattened arm before she could reach the edge of the seat. “Stay put.”
 
Del called, “I’m as far as I can go!”
 
I could barely see her. Snow was falling faster. I began to fear that if it kept up like this, we’d get stuck.
 
Sula struggled. “Stay put,” I snapped, mind on how to work reins and horses. Then an idea occurred. “All right. Don’t stay put. Come on, Sula. You can visit your mother after all.” I scooped her up in one arm and climbed down. Though Del is tall, I’m taller still, so the snow wasn’t as deep on me. I waded back to her, thrust Sula at her mother. “Here. I don’t want to have to worry about her while I do this.”
 
Del, brows knit, nodded, took Sula into her arms. I waded back to the front of the wagon, climbed into the seat, took up the reins. Made the traditional clucking sound, put pressure on the team’s bits, requested that they back up, trusting Del to shout a warning before I could squash her and Sula against the wall of tumbled rocks.

She did. Now there was room to begin the wide turn. The snow was heavy on the ground. Falling harder, to boot. And a wind came up, blowing stinging flakes into my hood. I squinted, concentrating on guiding the horses. Desert-bred, they had no more grasp of snow navigation than I did. “Trust me,” I murmured, hoping such trust wouldn’t be misplaced.
 
We managed a very careful turn. I knew the edge of the bluff was anywhere from inches to feet away; couldn’t see anything.
 
“Tiger?”
 
We faced back the way we’d come. But the road down to the flat was invisible.
 
I swore, then called, “Stay there, Del! I want to get the wagon down from here first, then I’ll walk back to you. I’ve got rope . . . I’ll tie it to the wagon and myself as a safety line, so we can find our way back in this mess!”
 
I slapped the reins on the snow-coated backs of the horses. The wagon inched forward.
 
Thunder. Thunder—in a snow storm?
 
It cracked again, this time right overhead. The horses spooked. We went off the edge of the bluff.
 
We being horses, wagon, and me.