The Seekers of Fire (24 page)

Light was not supposed to have a sound—but what behaved like it was supposed to here? The light was gathering around her hand, permeating her skin. It was heavy.

"
Nobles carry heavy burdens,
" Mister Podd had once said. "
They are not like the rest of us.
"

"So, what are they? What am I now?"

The sound of her own voice, shaky as it were, gave her strength. She suddenly threw her wounded hand high above her head, her hair and dress rippling around her as she twirled towards the pulsing Aetarx. "Give me an answer, you phantom of afflicting thoughts!" She lashed her hand back down, throwing the light away from her. "Give me an answer!"

The discharged light hit the Aetarx and was reflected with a glare. Then it hit the ceiling and was reflected back to the Aetarx, while the artifact discharged new light of its own. The room vibrated with illumination that was bright and almost corporeal, rattling the windows and gathering at the walls, pressing at her body. It looked like light, but it was something else, crackling with the potential of ... of what?

Not of something pleasant. Linden twirled again, instinctively grabbing at the light with both her hand and mind. She had not been right in letting go; the light was dangerous and had to stay with her, had to be controlled, lest it move and act upon its own will. She pulled at the light, hard, issuing a silent scream as some of it was thrust back inside her left wrist. Then her whole body was yanked to the side and she almost fell over her face as another force pulled back.

What looked like a rope of yellow light was issuing from her wrist now, tugging, the glare of it hurting her eyes. She blinked them clear, then raised them to find the High Lord standing a few meters away from her, watching her, the other end of the rope of light held securely in his left hand. He moved his little finger, slightly, and more light floated from the ceiling towards him, dissipating into little pieces that swirled and blended with his end of the rope. The rope tugged at her wrist again, harder. There was almost no other light left in the room except for the rope and the Aetarx itself.

She twisted her hand, ignoring the pain (which had somewhat lessened), and entwined her fingers with the rope. There, she could pull the rope herself now. It would not do, her being tied, while he had control on his end. Even though the High Lord would have more control here, for this was his place ...

And there can only be one of you.

Her end of the rope turned into a sword.

Later, Linden knew that what happened next had occupied no more than a moment. But sometimes a moment could take forever.

He held a sword, too, and held it almost menacingly—as if he had not yet decided whether he wanted to thrust it into her body, or if he was going to wait for her to attack first. The sword fit him. It was long and elegant, its edge clean and sharp. He held it as if he knew how to use it.

She did not know how to use hers. She had only ever seen swords in pictures. Hers was smaller, but still she stumbled under its weight. Why did she have a sword, anyway?

Would you prefer not to? Would you prefer to obey the will of his?

Images flashed in her mind again. This time, she was not only a woman. Oh, she was a woman, all right. She did see multiple versions of herself, each at the mercy of a High Lord. A lady, a forest witch, a servant ... women who could be either imaginary or real, but she felt the apprehension and excitement of each.

Of course, it must all be her own apprehension and excitement. She had a theory for this. She watched the eyes narrow on the face of her lord. Did he know? Did he see what she saw? Some of the things she had just imagined ... She trembled as his gaze explored her, his eyes sharper and harder than the sword.

Oh, really? Sharper and harder? She must be quite acquainted with the degrees of sharpness and hardness of swords, then, the lady expert-on-swords-she-had-only-seen-in-pictures. Or had she taken this ingenious comparison from the books Calia liked to read?

She was a woman again, but that did not matter, and neither did it matter that the sharp eyes meeting hers belonged to a man. It was the sharpness of his sword that mattered as he thrust it in her chest. She had been a High Lady.

But there could only be one.

Then she was another woman; after that she was a man. She was a lady, but then she herself was a High Lord, and then another one, and then someone else. She always had a sword, and she often knew how to use it, metal clanging as she met the blades of both women and men. Sometimes she was victim, other times she was victor. The fight went on.

The sword in Linden's hand wriggled, pulling her forward. She fought.

But she did not fight Rianor—she fought the sword.

The night had left her body exhausted and her mind confused, but somewhere inside her a part had awakened that thought and felt with crystal clarity. It was not a part she controlled easily. Often it was just beyond the reach of the rest of her, shrouded with what she sometimes thought of as "
mental mist.
" It was the part that solved puzzles and built mechanisms that other parts of her thought she could never solve or build.

Right now, it knew who the real enemy was.

The sword had somehow become lighter. She could swing it easily, and it would obey her, its smooth handle just a right fit for her palm, its touch on her skin almost sensual. Swing it, a part of her said, feel the movement. Feel the wind it creates—the wind you create.

But here it is where you are wrong, stupid thing. The wind it creates would never be
mine.

It should have all stopped at that moment. Images should go away after she had made realizations. She did not want this happening—it was all in her mind, wasn't it? Shouldn't it? A sword should not be able to change its weight just because it wanted Linden to attack a man. It should not be able to want anything. Linden trembled, then stumbled under the weight of a weapon that was once again too heavy and was trying to haul her forward. It was not herself who wanted to harm Rianor and take his place, was it?

No!

"I don't want to fight you!" she cried out to him, just as her sword twisted her arm with a jerking motion, the blade meeting his with a clang. He twisted his own blade, shoving hers sideways, her shoulder convulsing with the impact.

He could kill her with just another blow. He did not. Her sword tried to lurch again, and it took all her strength to hold it. She did not know how long she could hold.

Good, he almost believes you. He might even let you close. Use it, otherwise he would be too strong an opponent. Go ahead. There can only be one.

"Shut up! Shut up! Damn you, just shut up!"

"Linde." For the first time since the light had started gathering, she could hear Rianor's voice. His voice was hard and at the same time almost gentle. "A weapon, even one such as these, cannot work on its own."

She tried to drop the sword, but her fingers would not unclench from the handle.

Foolish girl. Weakling. Do you trust him?

He had come too close, and no, she did not trust him completely. His face was too unreadable, and despite his words, the hand that held his sword seemed to have too much will of its own.

He reached out with the blade and caressed her throat, almost tenderly. "What is it, my lady, that you
do
want?"

There it was again, another moment of crystal clarity. Thoughts and feelings suddenly clicked together inside her in a seemingly randomized fashion, producing what to her was known as truth.

"First, I want you to take this blade away before you have cut me," she said, "for I am not certain what it is that
you
want."

"And then—" She dared take a breath, managing to not injure herself on his sword. "I want to be myself. I want to continue making my own choices. Perhaps to share some with you, because for the short time I have known you, I have seen you understand." She watched a hint of an emotion flash in his eyes as he moved his blade a centimeter away, where it could still threaten without touching. She inhaled again, deeper, and then again.

"I want to never again step into a witless, power-hungry mindset where I would feel compelled to kill the man who has done so much for me just to take his place. And I want to never forget my sword and its will. I want to always remember how it feels to use power you cannot fully control. So that I never again wish for it."

"Many people would try to grab any power that came in their way. Why not you?"

"Because I am not many people. I am me." She shook her head. "It told me that there could only be one, but it showed me many. Men and women scrabbling to wield swords not all of them knew how to wield, so that they would grab power—and for what? To wield the swords again, and to wield better swords than their old ones. Why? To achieve consequences they could not possibly predict, let alone plan? Are they thinking of consequences, are they planning at all? Are these people evil or stupid, what do you think? Power conquered for no other sake but power itself is corrupt. There could only be one, your Aetarx said, but I have seen many—and I refuse to be one of them."

There can only be one. It needs not be you.

Her sword, which had so far been pulling forward, towards Rianor, suddenly jerked back, with both its own force and the force Linden had been applying to hold it. Her hand still clutching the hilt, she somehow managed to make the lower part of her body leap aside. The blade barely missed her leg.

Linden almost fell as she jumped to again protect herself from the sword in her own hand. Her fingers just would not let go. So she grabbed the sword with both hands, trying to control it by force, but when she pushed it away from herself, it tried to once again go after Rianor, then back at her. Linden almost whimpered. It was too heavy for her to hold still without knowing whom it would try to attack next. How could you fight an enemy whose moves did not form a pattern, did not make sense?

The sword might have cut her very seriously, had Rianor suddenly not thrust his own sword away and gripped her blade.

The sword froze still, but Linden did not react immediately. Then she cried out.

"Your hand! Oh, Rianor, how could you do this!"

His eyes were clouded and his face was pale, but he almost smiled teasingly at her. "I would think that the how is obvious, Linde." He stepped closer, his other hand covering hers on the hilt. "The why is not too difficult to infer, either. I have more experience in dealing with this kind of power, while you, my lady, need help. Fascinating as your attitude might be."

"I can take care of myself."

"Perhaps you can. But I am not letting you test it any further tonight."

"Who do you think you are to let me or not let me do anything?"

He leaned and planted a light kiss on the bridge of her nose. "I believe I have already introduced myself to you. Now, for once, do what I tell you to do."

"You ..." Her voice trailed away as the tangle that was her thoughts extended to tie her tongue, too. The shock and strain of fighting the sword by herself had slightly lessened, but so had her focused, concentrated strength. She wanted to sit, to lie down, to not think of anything. And she was again angry with the man before her. For not seeming to realize or not caring about how he had violated her with the wristwatch earlier. For kissing her after all that, and then not kissing her properly, but as if she were his sister. She was also furious with herself for thinking in that direction. She ...

She realized that one of his hands was still holding the blade.

"Rianor." Her voice had come back. "Don't ... Don't hurt yourself for me. Please." She was crying again. This was not her day. "I want this sword to go away. It came from nothing, it should be able to go to nothing. How?"

His eyes softened. "Not from nothing. But all will be fine. Do you want to give it to me?"

She hesitated, then nodded. His hand slipped between hers and gripped the hilt. She shivered. Then, for a hazy amount of time he stood with the sword raised in what might have been a threatening manner. Then he slowly lowered his hand, and the sword turned into light, which faded away, leaving the room almost dark. The other sword was gone, too. She could still see the Aetarx, but its light was soft now, just enough to illuminate the plants beside it. The air was colder.

Silently, Linden tore a piece of her flowing skirts and started tying it around Rianor's hand. She had to try several times; her hands were trembling too much. Then, at some point she remembered that she had a nice, clean handkerchief—why had she not thought to bandage him with that? She tried to blink her increasing dizziness away. Where was the handkerchief? In her purse. Where was her purse? She tried to steady herself, for her knees had started shaking beneath her. She remembered bringing the purse with her, for the dress had no pockets at all, but now it was gone ...

When she could not fix the bandage for the fifth time, Rianor put his other hand around her. "Let us go, Linde. Lean on me. You did well."

"Did well? Was this all a test on your part?"

"Not on my part. But you still did well. Let us go."

Don't go. Please don't go away!

She leaned on him for a moment, then shook her head and slowly and very deliberately tied the ends of the silk cloth around his hand. It should work until she could find Nan.

She wept again outside, in the wide and well-lit corridor.

"Did you hear it in the end, Rianor? What is this thing? In the end, it—It cried—It cried to us for
help.
"