Bridge of Swords
Authors: Duncan Lay
To Gabriella and Shaun
I am writing this so you may learn the truth after I have been murdered by my people, by those I once loved and some I still love. My name will be forgotten, wiped clear from history. I have lost everything I hold dear and tomorrow I shall lose my life as well. But I shall write my own history and, perhaps, the truth will be known. It is an ugly truth. Even my own clan hates me because it is easier to believe a lie than face the fact we are not elves, we are humans — there is no difference. But they would rather kill me than admit they are not the only ones with magic, not creatures of legend but flesh and blood men.
Magic — it has been the saviour and the bane of us.
Once we were a race of men known as Elfarans, called to serve the dragons. My ancestor and his friends left the dragons’ service, took a gift of long life and passed down to their children a legacy of magic. We thought it wondrous but it is a double-edged sword.
No land wants to welcome a people who can all use magic, ruled by a group of immortals. At first they are happy enough but then the fears grow. No wonder, when some of my kin think themselves above all other humans, call themselves elves, not Elfarans. They even pretend they are creatures of song and saga. Perhaps it was harmless at the start — but it is deadly serious now.
My ancestor and his fellow forefathers were worried enough to make us seal ourselves away from the other human lands,
where we can do no harm. But, before they could finish, they disappeared, crumbled to dust, as though the weight of history caught up with them.
While some of us mourned them, others planned to take control. It is they who will kill me tomorrow, along with every human they can find who has magic, or knows about us. I shall hide this book, hope one day it shall be found and history can right itself.
My name is Sendatsu. It means a guide or pioneer in our old language. I had hoped to lead my people to a life of peace but instead I have been led to my own doom. I can only pray one of my children, or even their children’s children, can be a better Sendatsu for my people than I.
Sendatsu burst out of the tree as if running for his life. One moment the old oak stood alone atop the hill, as it had for a hundred years. Next moment an oaken staff appeared out of the mossy heart of the tree, making a strange shadow dance across the surface of the rough trunk, the image of a perfect garden. A heartbeat later, Sendatsu rushed through, falling to the ground in his haste.
By the time he had rolled over, the staff had retracted into the trunk, the shadow of the garden faded and there was no sign anything had ever happened — except for the sight and sound of Sendatsu as he lay, panting, on the ground. He ran his hands across himself, to reassure he was not just alive but whole, then sprang to his feet and pressed desperately against the rough bark of the oak — but it was once again solid, once again ordinary. There was no way back.
‘But I never got the chance to say goodbye,’ he whispered, holding the tree.
The tears came then, sobs ripping their way out of his chest, and he slumped down to the ground, against the tree that had saved him and yet cursed him at the same time. His body was safe but his heart was torn and bleeding. It could never be whole until he returned home — and he might never be able to return home.
What would happen tonight? What would they tell his children?
Mai. She could not get to sleep unless he brushed her hair and sang her the special goodnight song. Nobody else knew it but the two of them.
Cheijun. His mother had died giving birth to him. Sendatsu had put him to bed every night of his young life and, even then, he often crept beside Sendatsu in the early hours of the morning, saying he had been dreaming of gaijin monsters.
They were safe enough, at least for now, for they had been visiting their grandparents. But for how long? What would his father tell them? Would they think him dead? Would his enemies come for them? The thought terrified him and he beat his hands against the trunk.
‘Let me come back! I am sorry — I swear I shall forget all I know, never speak of it again, just let me hold them one more time!’ he screamed the words into the wood, knowing as he did so that nobody could hear and nobody could help. His only choice was to go on, to find the answers — and hope that might somehow get him home.
He fumbled in the pouch on his belt. They were in there, they were both in there. His father refused to have such things in his house, thought it made the children soft. He despised Sendatsu for letting his children have them. No matter that Mai was just five, Cheijun barely three. Sendatsu had never been allowed such things, for his father believed they made one weak. Mai’s little doll, Cheijun’s small bear. Together they fitted inside his hand.
He wrapped his fingers around them, prayed with all his heart, sending everything he had out to them.
Keep them safe. Let them know they are loved.
One day he would return and they would be together again. He opened eyes blurred with tears and tucked the toys safely back into the pouch. They were crude, woollen things but they smelled of home, of love. He would give them back as soon as he returned.
If you return
, a tiny voice in the back of his head said.
He wiped his face clean and took a deep breath. How had it come to this? Just a few days ago he had been, if not entirely happy, then certainly content. Now he was an exile, hunted by
his own kind — worse, the first elf to travel to the human lands for centuries. All because of an old scroll …
The day had begun like many others. As the son of a clan leader — one of the twelve who made up the Elven Council and ruled Dokuzen — work was for other people. The lower classes had to take fishing boats to sea, work in the huge rice paddies, dig for coal and iron or labour in one of the trades. But not the nobility. Sendatsu had served in the Border Patrol — elves dedicated to protecting Dokuzen — for a couple of years, because it was expected of the upper classes. They could then settle into a life of leisure, parties and pleasure, content in the knowledge they had done their part for elven society.
Even that token effort had come to a halt when Sendatsu’s marriage had been arranged. While life as the son of a clan leader brought with it many privileges, it also had a price. For as long as he could remember, Sendatsu had been in love with Asami, the daughter of one of his father’s most loyal supporters. But such a match would bring no benefit to clan Tadayoshi. Instead Sendatsu was forced to marry Kayiko, a daughter of the leader of clan Chenjaku. Such a union brought clan Chenjaku firmly under the sway of clan Tadayoshi, and enhanced both his father Jaken’s power and Jaken’s position on the Council.
That neither Kayiko nor Sendatsu wanted such a match was immaterial. Worse, he had been forced to watch Asami marry Gaibun, a friend but also the son of Jaken’s only rival for leadership of clan Tadayoshi. Another union that was more for Jaken than for the young couple.
This was the last straw for Sendatsu. His father often used him to further his own ambitions. He had driven Sendatsu mercilessly to excel with the bow and the sword, for the son of Jaken had to be the best. Failure brought a furious tirade at best — more usually a beating. At first Sendatsu had done everything his father demanded. But then he had begun to question why he had to devote himself to his father’s ambition. As he grew older he chafed at what he was forced to do, although he dared not rebel
completely, for his father’s rage was terrifying and all the extra training in the world did not allow him to match Jaken.
Sendatsu had never loved Kayiko but moving into his own home had at least removed him from the baleful influence of his father. Better yet, he had been instantly smitten when Mai was born. Love at last entered their home. He thought nothing could be as perfect — until Cheijun also arrived in his life.
The price was high — it cost Kayiko her life — and although Sendatsu had not loved her, he still mourned. With nothing else, he threw himself into his children, living his life through theirs.
Everything he had not received, he wanted to give them. He tried to fill their childhood with all his had lacked. He had only seen his father when he had done something wrong, or when he was being ‘taught a lesson’. Painful as those were, strangely he had found himself looking forward to another session with practice blades, even though it left him bloodied and bruised. It was still time with his father.
He was determined his children would have more of him than that.
Better yet, his children gave him the strength to defy Jaken. Usually he arrived at his father’s house full of defiance and strong words, only to have them vanish like the morning mist under the blaze of his father’s anger. Yet when Jaken ordered him to leave the children and spend his days working to advance clan Tadayoshi, he refused to back down, vowing he would look after Mai and Cheijun at least until they were ready to begin their schooling.
Even more surprisingly, his father had eventually agreed, when it became obvious that no amount of shouting would change Sendatsu’s mind. He had walked away with Jaken’s words, that he would ‘regret’ his actions, ringing in his ears.
They had seemed like nonsense. He could never regret time with his children. And yet it had led him here …
It had begun simply enough. Mai had been asking questions about elven history. Unlike his father, he did not shout at her, or
ignore her. Instead he took them both out to the tombs of the forefathers, the twelve elves who had brought them to this land, created the clans and founded Dokuzen. Of course Cheijun was too young to understand but he enjoyed looking at the strange armour and weapons.
Few elves travelled out to the tombs of the forefathers, a dark, gloomy building on the outskirts of Dokuzen, once an oasis of peace, surrounded by space and gardens, now overgrown and returning to the woods. They had been the only ones there that day.
‘Why doesn’t anybody come here?’ Mai asked as they wandered around the tombs, looking at the carved stone figures.
Sendatsu did not answer straight away, as he was busy chasing a giggling Cheijun around one of the stone slabs.
‘I don’t know,’ he finally admitted. ‘It is not forbidden but neither is it encouraged. It is like an unwritten law.’
‘Will we get in trouble for being here?’
Sendatsu smiled. ‘Of course not. Your grandfather is a clan leader. That means we can do almost anything we want.’
‘So I can stay up late and eat as many plums as I can?’
He laughed. ‘Nice try, little one. But that is not what I meant.’
‘Why don’t the forefathers look like us? Their ears are the same but their faces are different.’ She changed the subject swiftly, as she always did.
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted again. ‘Perhaps the sculptor wasn’t very good,’ he offered.
‘And what is this?’ She pointed to a carved stone list beside each tomb.
‘Well, this is a list of the wives and children they had,’ Sendatsu said, pleased to have an answer for her this time.
‘Why so many?’
‘Well, if one of them died, then they married again,’ he replied, then cursed himself.
‘Like Mother?’ Mai asked softly. ‘Will you marry again?’
Sendatsu opened his arms and she hugged him. ‘I could not love anyone else as much as you.’
‘Good.’
But they could only stay like that for a few moments before Cheijun was tugging on Sendatsu’s arm.
‘Swords!’
Mai gave her father a smile and wandered off around the tombs, while Sendatsu held up Cheijun so he could look inside a cabinet of strange armour and weapons. Despite his age, he was already fascinated with such things and loved to watch Sendatsu train each day with sword and bow.
‘Look, those are straight. Not like my sword.’ Sendatsu pointed out the difference between the gently curved blade he had at his hip and the straight piece of metal in the wooden cabinet. And next to it some sort of strange crossbow, nothing like the longbows Sendatsu had spent the past twenty years learning to use.
‘Mai! Mai!’ Cheijun’s shouts brought Mai wandering over, but she had little interest in the weapons.
That would change soon — it had to. When she was seven she would have to begin to learn how to use a bow, at ten she would begin sword-training as well. Every elf had to be ready, in case the gaijin, the humans, ever came.
‘These are boring,’ she announced. ‘Papa, there are books over there. Can you show me?’
As always he was happy to, although Cheijun was less than impressed to be taken away from the weapons.
‘Back! Swords!’ he insisted, but Sendatsu tucked him under an arm and tickled him until he forgot about them.
‘What are in the books?’ Mai wanted to know. ‘Why are they here?’
Books were both valuable and rare in Dokuzen — and treated with the greatest of respect. Anything in them was regarded with the same reverence as a sermon from the High Priest of Aroaril. If you were going to make the effort to write something down, it had to be information of the highest value. Only the very rich could have books. Sendatsu had a dozen, while his father’s shelves groaned under them.
‘The forefathers must have brought them here, like the swords and armour.’ Sendatsu was fascinated by the books as well. He had been here as a boy, along with Asami and Gaibun — but he could not remember the books from that visit.
‘Can we see one? Can we?’
The cabinet was locked but they were the only people there. Besides, he would put them back afterwards. Nobody would be the wiser. Sendatsu was not very good at magic — he had barely scraped through his Test of magic — but impressing his children was a powerful motivator. He reached into the magic and warmed the metal inside the lock until it sprang open.
‘Magic!’ Cheijun cheered. ‘More!’
‘Hush, Cheijun, Papa will get into trouble,’ Mai told him loftily.
Sendatsu felt the tiredness that always came after using magic, even for something as trivial as opening the lock. But he did not show it, instead reaching in and pulling out a book at random, sniffing a little at the smell of must and dust.
‘We have to be very careful,’ he told them and opened it reverently.
Together, the three of them stared at the writing.
‘I can’t understand any of it. It’s just swirls,’ Mai complained.
Sendatsu said nothing — for he could not read it either.
‘It must be in another language,’ he muttered, replaced it and selected another.
But this one was also unreadable, although in a different script again.
‘What does it say?’ Mai insisted.
He searched through the books rapidly, no longer handling them as carefully but desperate to find something he understood.
‘Can we go now?’ Mai asked.
Cheijun had wandered off again, and was trying to look in the weapons cabinet.
Sendatsu grabbed one final book — and stopped. Inside were more unintelligible words but also, nestled into a space cut into the pages, a scroll. He unrolled it and read it easily, even though
it was faded with age. This alone he could understand. It was a letter written to him. Well, not exactly him, for while this Sendatsu had the same clan name, Tadayoshi, he did not have the same family name of Moratsune.
Stranger still, it had been signed by all the clan leaders. And not just any clan leaders — the original forefathers of Dokuzen, the elves who had left the dragons’ service. Although his children had long since lost interest and were wandering around, Sendatsu felt this was too important a find to leave there. He had a cloth bag over his shoulder and, on impulse, he slipped the scroll in before returning the book and hurriedly locking the cabinet again. If anyone said something, well, his father was a clan leader. Besides, it was not as if people came here all the time.
Only later did he realise what he had done.
The children had been put to bed, the night song sung, and he had stalked around Cheijun’s room warning any gaijin or monsters they would die a thousand deaths if they dared invade his son’s dreams. It never really worked but there was always the hope this night would be undisturbed. The servants had been dismissed after cooking the evening meal and he was alone. Beside a pair of lamps, Sendatsu brought out the scroll and started to read — and his world changed.