Sword Bearer (Return of the Dragons) (2 page)

He let his arm down from his forehead and blood flowed again
down his face.

“I’m a right mess,” he said, moving his arm up again. “I
better get this blood cleaned up and have Ana stitch me up. She has a witch’s
gift for healing, and knows a few spells, although her parents could never
afford to get her tutored.”

He picked up the rest of the swords and put them in the bag,
slung the bag across his shoulder and started to walk off.

“What about this sword?” I called out after him, holding up
the blade, missing him already. I had a strange feeling about what would happen
in the days that followed.

“Happy birthday, Anders,” Giancarlo called back, stopping
for a moment. “The sword is yours now.”

I felt a surge of joy that overpowered everything else.

My own sword.

What could be a better birthday gift?

I buckled on the scabbard, sheathed the sword. When I looked
up, Giancarlo was still standing there, looking like he was trying to remember
something as he staunched his blood in the early light.

Suddenly his face brightened.

“Oh, and by the way, your father wants to see you.”

I groaned.

Chapter II

For a while now my father and I had avoided each other. That
way, he didn’t have to make excuses about why he never found time to do anything
with me, to take me anywhere or teach me anything, and I didn’t have to hear
about what a disappointment I was in my studies.

So, when my father asked to see me, my first reaction was
curiosity. I mean, it was my birthday, but had he asked to see me on my
fifteenth birthday? On my fourteenth?

There was a mirror framed by two small oil lamps in the hall
just outside my father’s room. I stared at it for a moment before I walked in.
My dark hair was all over the place. I ran my hand through it idly, trying to
put it in order, push it back away from my forehead. I doubted my father would
even look at me, but I didn’t want to be sent to the castle barber.

My green eyes stared back at me. I tried to smile but
couldn’t help looking for all the new pimples that I could feel forming under
my bumpy skin. Just thinking about it made it worse. But my father was waiting
— I could almost feel his impatience floating in the air outside the room.

I walked in.

He was already at work. The light of the candles reflected
off his bald head. Not that his skin was unusually shiny, or anything. He had
nice, clean normal skin. Whoever’s skin I had, it wasn’t my father’s. His hair
was blond, too, what was left of it. So I didn’t have my father’s hair either.
Sometimes I thought the only thing I had from my father was his impatience.

There were papers and maps spread out all over his desk.
Ever since we had moved to a new castle after my grandfather’s death — leaving
King Lowen in the far North so my father could be a diplomatic liaison in Tuscany — my father had been pushing paper around. As liaison he was always busy, but never
seemed to be
doing
anything, at least nothing like what I read about in
books. Instead he was writing letters or talking to people on some diplomatic
“mission” most of the time. When I was younger, a little after we had moved
South, I had imagined he was a spy. Now I had no more illusions.

“What’s all this?” I asked.

My father looked up. “I take it things went well this
morning?”

I fingered the sword pommel, self-consciously. “I didn’t
mean to, father, but somehow I cut him.”

My father looked me straight in the eyes. “Sometimes people
have to get cut. You’re alright, though?”

I nodded slowly.

“Use it well, and be careful,” he said softly, his eyes flitting
down to the blade at my side.

“Father,” I said. “Why didn’t you take the sword?”

“That’s a long story.” He paused. He looked down at his
desk, then. I got the feeling he wanted to tell me more, but if so, he never
got a chance.

When he looked back at me, his face looked stressed. “I’m
sorry, son. We’re going to have to lock you in. I’m going to be very busy
tonight. We won’t return until late.”

“A lock down?” I asked, feeling angry for not the first time
today. “I’m
sixteen.
”

My father shrugged. “Tomorrow you will have a banquet, if
your work is done tonight.”

“I don’t even
want
a banquet,” I said. I was tired of
all this mystery about where he went and why, but mostly I was tired of being
locked in. I turned to leave the room but my father spoke softly, just a single
word:
Warte
.

How could he freeze me there, just by saying a word? I’d
always thought my father was weak in magic, a powerless diplomat, someone who’d
chosen to live his life through reason instead of actions. But he stopped me
without raising a finger, without even raising his voice. I tried to move but
the word held me. Waiting. Staring at the door I had been about to walk through
and slam.

“Your mother wants you to have clear skin, tomorrow,” my
father said, from behind me. “You can visit the herbalist, or we can cover you
with make-up.”

“I’m not a girl,” I said, feeling silly talking to the door,
but relieved that at least the magic had not frozen my tongue. “I won’t wear
make-up. Can’t you just put a  glamour on me?”

I felt his magic loosen as I turned around.

My father frowned. “That’s a subtle spell, if it’s to last,
and we have no time. If you don’t want to cover those bumps with makeup, go
find some witch to hide them for you. Or see the herbalist and see what she can
do.”

My father looked back at his papers. Our conversation was
over.

“Father?” I said.

Instead of answering, he held up his hand. There was power
again, there. Somehow he stopped me, with just a gesture, without even saying a
word.

“Your tutor is waiting for you,” he said, without looking
up.

“Have a nice trip,” I said, finally, when he released me —
holding it all in, my fingers forming into fists. It was pointless to even ask
where he was going. He never told me anything.

“Thanks, son,” my father said, standing up now. “Happy
birthday.”

For a moment I thought he was going to hug me. He took a
step towards me, even reached out his arms. His face changed — he looked
loving, warm, like he had when I was little, before the magic, before the big
move.

Was I still angry or just surprised?

It had been so long since my father had touched me.

I turned away, and he let his arms drop.

“Sorry, Anders,” he said, then. “I’ll make it up to you, I
promise.”

I found Ana, Giancarlo’s wife, down in the lower depths of
the castle. She knew what I needed as soon as she saw my face.

She wrapped me up in her arms, and squeezed me. I felt all
the anger melt then, all the frustration, and blubbered like a baby. Talk about
embarrassing, but Ana is like family to me. She took care of me when I was a
little boy, even before we moved here, way before I knew her husband the
blademaster.

When I finally pulled myself together, Ana pressed a jar of
green clay into my hands. She gave me careful instructions, making me repeat
them until I understood everything.

“It won’t get rid of your problems,” she said, “But it will
help.”

She looked me in the eyes then, and kissed my forehead. I’ll
always remember that kiss, and her smell: patchouli and orange.

“I am not sure if you will really need this clay,” she said.
“But I’ll tell you one thing. Be careful what you wish for.”

I wanted to ask her what she meant. Ana could see things
that other people couldn’t. She knew about things sometimes too, even before
they happened. But when I opened my lips to ask her, she only pressed my hand
down over the jar and shook her head.

“I’ve said too much already,” she said. “Your tutor is
waiting. I can feel his impatience.”

I could smell Ana’s scent on my clothes as I sat through
eight hours of ancient tongues, geography of the low-lands and high-lands,
military strategy, mathematics and astrology. Only the ancient tongues and
military strategy were interesting.

The rest was a bunch of nonsense. The books said there was
once a kingdom of people who lived under the sea. I didn’t believe it, but it
was in the books. There were battles in there, too, great struggles for power,
people flying around on dragon back and swinging magical swords. It was all a
pack of lies. I knew what real life was. Real life was my father. He had to
leave from time to time to meet people, and talk to them. He had lots of papers
to read and lots of letters to send. He was tired a lot of the time. There was
nothing else. When I was older, I wouldn’t be a guard in an underwater city; I
wouldn’t even be a wizard in King Lowen’s glass castle. I would be a
paper-pusher like my father, a poor excuse for a sword fighter, and an even
sorrier excuse for a wizard.

My lessons were the same as always, just longer than usual.
If I had expected anything different now that I was sixteen, I was
disappointed. My tutor waved at me finally from the door. He had left me a huge
stack of homework.

“Happy Birthday, Anders,” he said, and locked me in.

After studying for a few more hours, and snacking on some
dried fruit, I figured I might as well try the jar. My face hurt and I just
wanted to scratch and squeeze. I showed some self-control instead and slathered
the green paste all over my face.

The mask was unbearably itchy but Ana had given me clear
instructions: no touching my face, if I wanted my skin to relax, release and
smoothen.

Don’t expect miracles, she’d said. Just put it on in the
evening, and leave it on until it was time for bed.

So I kept my hands off my face and sighed.

My parents should have been back hours ago. They had never
left me locked in overnight. Someone had always come to check on me. I was
tired of being a prisoner. Where were my parents? I fingered the sword at my
waist.

At this rate my face would be covered with green gunk until
the early morning. My supper would soon be cold and tasteless. My stomach
grumbled.

If only I had learned the art of sending. Even though I was
mad at my father, I wanted to send a message to him. I had this strange feeling
something was terribly wrong, but it was hard to pin down. What could be wrong?
I must have been reading too many books. Really, why was I worried?

Usually the cold didn’t bother me, but that night was colder
than usual. Or maybe I felt a chill from whatever was going on. In any case I
shivered. I tried to concentrate on my father, his bald head and big green
eyes.
Father. Where are you?

Nothing. Or maybe just a little something. I concentrated
once again.
Father?

A blood red flash made my head reel.

Whoa. I knew from my studies that headaches could be a sign
that something was wrong. But this was worse than a headache — it was like a
red hot poker to my eyes, and the redness still burned in my vision as the pain
faded. What had that all meant?

Maybe nothing. Maybe I just shouldn’t fool with unfamiliar
magic.

Or was my father in danger?

Everything about magic was so complicated.

There were so many types of magic that I’d read about, but
never practiced. It was dangerous to attempt things, when you didn’t know what
to do, exactly. But I didn’t have a choice, most of the time. My tutor had
shown me so little practical magic, I wouldn’t have known anything if I hadn’t
experimented myself.

But blood red? What could that mean?

I tried to stop worrying. I needed to calm down and finish
my homework.

But as soon as I stopped thinking about my dad, I felt the
horrible itch of the drying green gunk on my face.

I opened my desk drawer and pulled out a stick of long brown
incense.

A few weeks ago Ana had told me burning spice freed the mind
from distractions and fear. That was why witches and wizards burned so much
incense, she had said. I’d just figured they burnt it to make them smell
magical.

Ana had recommended a specific kind of incense, and I’d gone
straight out to buy it. I probably would have done anything that promised to
help me finish my homework faster.

The place had smelled so good. Cinnamon, nutmeg, and other
spices burned on sticks. Everything was covered with a warm red light. The
shopkeeper, Gerard, was larger than life, almost crackling with magical energy.
He scared me more than a little. I could tell he did more than sell spices. But
most of all, the smells struck me. I could almost taste them.

Now I sipped tea from a tiny cup. The tea, too, was spiced.
Ana had told me that tea cleared the mind. If it helped me think clearly and
get out of this room any faster, I was all for it.

The homework stared at me, unfinished. Even though it was
late, I still wasn’t done. I wondered if that was my birthday present from my
tutor: extra homework.

But what did it matter, anyhow? Even if I finished my work,
I was locked in until my mom showed up to check it. And I had this horrible
feeling she wouldn’t be showing up anytime soon.

What if something had happened to them? Would I have to stay
locked in the room until someone called a lockbreaker?

And if my parents were in danger? No, that was ridiculous,
wasn’t it? My father had never experienced any danger, had he?

I hated being locked in. It made me feel so powerless and
insecure, even with the sword at my side.

It had not always been this way. I was born sixteen years
ago, on the winter solstice, in the far North not far from King Lowen’s castle.
My great grandfather whispered magical words in my ear just after I was born.
All I can remember is a great burning flash. Then they had let me grow. They
had let me learn to use my hands and feet and mouth, learn to toddle along,
learn to use my first non-magical words.

I’d played in the streets with other kids from the castle
and the village. I dimly remember running around like a wild animal until my
parents snatched me up.

Things started to change when I turned eight. The second
imprinting. That one I remembered all too well: the sting of the words
whispered in my ear; the burning energy that made me want to cry out to my
mother, as she stood there watching and waiting.

Then, two years later, my grandfather had died. I still
remembered the pain as he passed away. It’s one of my few clear memories of the
time spent in King Lowen’s glass castle. And then, suddenly, we had moved south
to Tuscany, taking Giancarlo and Ana with us.

I lit the incense now, took another sip of the tea, and sat
up in my chair.

If my head was going to get any clearer, I would feel it
now. I tried to empty my mind. I took several deep breaths, looked around.
Nothing. I felt nothing at all.

Maybe it
was
all just flim flam, just an excuse to
burn expensive spice and drink brown tea.

I let the cardamon, nutmeg and cinnamon linger on my tongue.
My tutor had given me tea tasting lessons once — we’d met in the kitchen, and
worked until I could identify not only the spices but the type of tea.