The Steel of Raithskar (29 page)

I had been with Illia at the time of the robbery. But I couldn’t remember that, and no one had thought to ask her. If they had asked her, without telling her why, she would probably have fudged the time and circumstances so that, if her folks found out, they wouldn’t be too angry.

The men in Thanasset’s back yard had said: “The Chief says he’s got it on him.” I had thought that meant Zaddorn suspected me of carrying the Ra’ira. But no—one of Worfit’s informants must have told him I was back in town.

What I “had on me” was enough money to pay my debt to him.

And one more piece of information was pertinent.

“There’s something I haven’t told you,” I said. “When I woke up out in the desert, there was a dead man nearby. I’ve been concerned, ever since we found out that Gharlas took the Ra’ira, that it was his body, and that his vlek was wandering around loose somewhere, carrying the stone. But I know now, definitely, that it wasn’t Gharlas.”

“Who was it?” Zaddorn asked.

“One of the other men on the caravan,” I said. “I never knew his name.”

“What happened to Gharlas?” Ferrathyn asked me.

“I wish I knew. It’s a blank between the last of Markasset and the beginning of Rikardon.”

“How did the man die?” Thanasset asked softly.

“I can’t be sure—but I think Keeshah killed him.”

Thanasset nodded. “I’d have thought so. That man must have been my son’s murderer. Why don’t you ask Keeshah where Gharlas is.”

I did, rousing him from a deep sleep. He didn’t quite understand until I stopped using the name and tried to picture the man and his vlek, walking away.

*
He left,
* Keeshah said.

*
You didn’t want to kill him, too?
*

*
Why? I kill the one who hurt Markasset. Then you came.
*

“He doesn’t know,” I told the others. “He revenged Markasset, then grieved for him until I surprised him by standing up.”

“Well, we know where he’s heading,” Zaddorn said. “I’ll alert every peace officer between here and Eddarta. We’ll get the Ra’ira back.”

“I certainly hope so,” said Thanasset fervently, then he smiled at me. “Meanwhile, I have the pleasant task ahead of me of getting reacquainted with my son.” His face clouded. “Are you uncomfortable being called Markasset?”

“A little,” I admitted. “I am not Markasset. His memories are accessible to me now—not yet assimilated in the sense that they are truly a part of my personality, but available on demand.”
And I’m no longer Ricardo
, I admitted to myself.
I am too completely a part of Gandalara now. I’m someone new.

“It is an ancient custom to give a boy a new name when he first carries a sword,” Thanasset was saying. “I don’t think anyone will be too surprised if I invoke the old custom on the occasion of awarding Serkajon’s steel sword to my son. It will take a little while for word to get around everywhere, but it will eventually. Will that suit you, Rikardon?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Thanasset looked around at the others. “Of course, I don’t need to say that no one here will reveal your secret. Now,” he said, grimacing at me, “I think it’s high time you had a bath. You, too, Zaddorn.”

That night I lay in my own bed for the first time since I had awakened in Gandalara. In spite of being dead tired, my mind kept buzzing. I’d long since given up recriminating over not having asked Illia or Keeshah a long time ago to help fill in the gaps of my memory. They hadn’t had all the answers in any case, and, until I touched that sword, I couldn’t have asked the right questions to draw out the few they had.

The sword lay beside me, unsheathed. I reached out and touched the cool metal of the blade. The sword of Serkajon. I wouldn’t even make a guess as to why it was the catalyst that unified Ricardo and Markasset. But the sword had felt just right in my hand. It seemed in its proper place, lying beside my sleeping pallet.

Gandalara—a strange world only a few weeks ago. Now it was my home, and I wanted no other. I belonged here. I thought of the people, now dispersed, who had been in this house today. My family: Thanasset, with his straight back and tiny scar and his infinite understanding even through his own pain; Milda, dear and kind and fragile, and stronger sometimes than the steel beside me. And my friends: Illia, special and exciting, trusting and loyal; Zaddorn, stubborn and proud and devoted to his job; and Ferrathyn, full of quiet, supportive strength. What I knew of them would change as they got to know me; we would forge new relationships, and I hoped I could heal some of the wounds Markasset had caused.

I thought, too, of Worfit. Thanasset had insisted that I use the stolen gold pieces to repay Markasset’s debt. I would meet Worfit at last tomorrow because, as Markasset—that half of me which had been Markasset—had understood, that kind of debt must be paid in person.

Ricardo owed Worfit something, too. In fear and ignorance and error, Ricardo had killed one of Worfit’s men. By law the death was self-defense, and unpunishable. But Worfit deserved an explanation, an apology.

Rikardon would honor both debts to Worfit, then end the association.

Last—deliberately so—I thought of Keeshah.

In the moment I had taken Serkajon’s sword into my hand, one of the flashing memories had been particularly strong. I had been a young Markasset, just turned twelve, already tall and strong for my age, eager for the test of crossing the Khumber Pass into the Valley of the Sha’um. Eager at first, then weary, and finally moving along in an odd past echo of my desert awakening.

I dragged my trembling limbs a few feet at a time through the thin air at the top of the pass. My chest was on fire, my body felt almost useless, my eyes couldn’t focus, my head was reeling. Purpose forgotten, I kept going out of sheer stubborn inertia.

I discovered gradually that I could breathe again, and the burning pain in my chest was abating. I had made it past the crest. There was no path on the other side of the mountain, only the hard-baked rock and a few scrubby bushes, and an occasional treacherous patch of loose shale. My coordination was gone. I had lost my pack of food and was shamefully weak. I stumbled and rolled down the steep hillside, finally crashing into a bed of vines tangled around a fallen tree. The sweet, cloying smell of the disturbed earth was my last memory for a long while.

I woke to a sharp pain in my left foot. It took a moment to remember where I was, then the pain increased as the foot was pulled against the weight of my body, dragging it a few inches through the vines. I yelled, thrashed my arms, sat up.

A sha’um, a yearling cub the size of a grown tiger, jumped away, crouched down and considered me. His ears lay back against his head; his mouth was ready to snarl.

He thought I was dead, Markasset was thinking. He thought I was food. He still thinks so.

As if to prove it, the cub chose that moment to spring forward, knocking me backward again, reaching for my throat with his jaws. I slammed my forearm against his head, diverting the deadly teeth and calling forth a high-pitched roar. He swung his head back toward my neck and I grabbed handfulls of fur and skin behind his cheeks and strained to keep his teeth away from my skin. We weren’t badly matched for strength, and I began to feel some hope of winning. He was furious now, roaring and lunging down, then back, trying to break my hold. When he began to press down steadily again, his jaws snapping, I shifted my position and let his own weight and strength push him off to my side. I let go my stranglehold on the sides of his neck, sat up and straddled his back, pressing him to the ground with my weight. I caught the hold again, this time from behind him. He couldn’t move now, and I felt a glow of triumph, even though I knew I could not keep the hold for long. Already my arms were trembling from the strain and my hands were cramping.

*
Hurt me.
*

The message came from the cat beneath me, and it brought a flash of joy. So that’s what it’s like! My hands loosened, and I felt the muscles in the cat’s sides ripple in anticipation. I grabbed again, more tightly, and tried to speak to the cat.

*
I am Markasset,* I told it. *l want to stay in the Valley with you for a season. I will not hurt you again, and you will not let the other cats hurt me. Agreed?
*

There was no message; I tightened my fingers in the fur, and the cat made a whimpering sound that made me want to let go. But I held on until I felt the cat’s mind struggling to speak to me again.

*
Yes.
*

I let go then, and stood up. The cat leaped up and out of reach, then turned to look at me. I walked toward him and put out my hand. His ears went back and his head jerked away, but he held his ground and I stayed still, waiting. Then I moved my hand again, slowly bringing it closer to his head. He eyed it with a sidelong glance, growling nervously, but he didn’t move away this time. I touched the place on his neck where I had pinched him so badly. I rubbed it lightly, then brought my hand forward to stroke the soft fur under his chin. His eyes closed and his ears twitched.

*
I’m sorry I had to hurt you,* I said, savoring the special kind of speech.

*
Fair,* he said, and reached down to lick the blood from my foot.

The memory had cleared up one more puzzle for me. The forest in which Markasset had wrestled with the sha’um cub had been full of straight, tall trees. It was the only place, I had learned, where such trees grew, and they were effectively guarded from potential lumber barons by the presence of the sha’um.

Now I understood, too, Keeshah’s puzzlement from time to time since Ricardo’s arrival in his world. There were subtle differences between his relationships with Markasset and Ricardo. His meeting with Markasset had set the tone for their relationship; although there was an unbreakable bond of affection between them, Markasset was always the master, demanding of Keeshah everything he was willing to give.

So the small things I had done out of simple consideration—sharing the last of my water, letting him rest simply for his own comfort and not because he could go no further—these things had been new to him. And we had communicated in a different way.

That had been Ricardo. Would Keeshah need to adjust again to the new combined form? I knew, this time, that he would accept the change—even as he had accepted a confused wretch in the middle of a salty desert.

Suddenly I needed Keeshah. He had slept through the afternoon and was still sleeping lightly. I reached out for him, and his mind roused to my touch.

*
Thank you for helping me, Keeshah. Before anybody else, you knew I was changed, but you trusted me. I appreciate it—more than I can say….
*

As it had happened before in times of stress, it happened now in the name of friendship. Keeshah and I merged. I could feel the comforting solidity of the stone ledge, smell the fresh grass. And this time the understanding flowed both ways. With conflicting pride and humility, I felt Keeshah’s commitment to me, whole-hearted and without reservations. He was not surprised by the change in me, only mildly curious. Though he didn’t care about other people, he sensed that I was unique among the people of this world, and there was pride—no, not pride;
smugness
—that he was associated with me.

We couldn’t hold the meld for long, and as it faded, I sensed Keeshah falling back into sleep.

*
Good night, Keeshah,
* I said softly, not expecting him to hear me. But he roused again and answered me sleepily.

*
Good night … Rikardon.
*

—
Enough, you are tiring. We will withdraw together from the All-Mind….

The Recording is complete for now. I will detach my mind from yours….

How do you feel?

—
I
am exhausted.

—
As it should be for the work you have done.

—
There is more.

—
When you have rested, we will Record again. For now, sleep….

THE GANDALARA CYCLE
(with Vicki Ann Heydron)

The Steel of Rathskar

The Glass of Dyskornis

The Bronze of Eddarta

The Well of Darkness

The Search for Kä

Return to Eddarta

The River Wall

THE LORD DARCY SERIES

Murder and Magic

Too Many Magicians

Lord Darcy Investigates

all available as Jabberwocky ebooks

V
ICKI
A
NN
H
EYDRON
met R
ANDALL
G
ARRETT
in 1975. In 1978, they were married, and also began planning the Gandalara Cycle. A broad outline for the entire Cycle had been completed, and a draft of
The Steel of Raithskar
nearly finished, when Randall suffered serious and permanent injury. Working from their outline, Vicki completed the Cycle. Of all seven books, Vicki feels that
The River Wall
is most uniquely hers. The other titles in the Cycle are
The Glass of Dyskornis, The Bronze of Eddarta, The Well of Darkness, The Search for Kä
, and
Return to Eddarta.

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