Sword-Maker(4)

It has happened to me before. But never quite like this.

I smelled blood, musk, extremity, as well as morbid fear. Felt nerves twinge in my belly as the half-healed wound contracted. I wondered, swiftly and uneasily, what the sword was doing. But as I heard the stud’s screaming, fear bled away.

Slowly, oh so slowly, the cat looked up from the stud. There was blood in his mouth, blood in his claws, as well as gobbets of horsehair.

In my head, I heard a song. A small, private song, hinting at powerful things.

Beneath the cat, the stud was thrashing, legs flailing. I heard his grunts of extremity.

And the sword sang me a promise: the stud would be released if I gave it the power it needed.

Except I ought to be able to take the cat without using any magic. The sword was, after all, a sword, and effective enough on its own.

But the stud squealed and thrashed, and in my head I heard the song. A soft, subtle song. Yet too powerful to ignore.

I didn’t exactly give in to it. I just ignored it. I was too worried about the stud to waste any more time on the noise rolling around in my head. And so, impatiently, I let go of it altogether.

Not for long. Just long enough to think about something else. To stop suppressing it. To rescue my poor horse.

And so, all unwittingly, I let it have its moment. I let it have its lifetime in the shadow of an instant.

Noise rushed in even as I rushed the cat. No, not noise: music. Something far more eloquent than anything so commonplace as noise. More powerful than sound. And abruptly I recalled what I had heard on the overlook by the lakeshore, kneeling with the sword. When the music of the Cantéada had crowded into my skull.

How they could sing, the Cantéada. A race born of dreams, given substance by belief. Who had, Del told me once, given music to the world.

Just as they’d given me some for the moment of the Naming.

For the stud, I thought, it’s worth it. The risk is worth the taking for all the times he’s saved my skin.

Only the thought, for a moment. And a moment was all that was needed.

The cat flowed aside. The stud lurched up, staggered, ran.

The mouth curled back and opened to display impressive fangs. But slowly, oh so slowly; didn’t he know I sang his death?

White cat with gray-irised eyes, and dappled, silver-splotched coat. The pelt would be worth a fortune; I’d take it once he was dead.

—the sword was alive in my hands—

“What’s mine is mine,” I told him, so he would understand.

The sword was alive.

The cat peeled back lips and screamed.

The sword invited him in. Come closer, it said. Come closer.

It made it all so easy.

The leap was effortlessly smooth. Smiling, I watched it, admiring his grace. Watched the hind legs coil up to rake; saw the front paws reach out, claws unsheathed; saw the mouth stretch open, the gleam of ivory fangs. Laughing aloud in anticipation, I let him think he’d win.

Then took him in the back of his throat and drove the blade through the base of his skull.

Elation. Elation. And a powerful satisfaction.

Not mine. Not mine; someone else’s. Something else’s—wasn’t it? It wasn’t me, was it?

Something inside me laughed. Something inside me stirred, like awareness awakening.

Oh, hoolies, what is it?

I smelled burning flesh. Thought it was the cat’s. Realized it was my own.

I shouted something. Something appropriate. Something explicit. To release shock and rage and pain.

Wrenched my hands from the hilt as the metal burned white-hot.

Oh, hoolies, Del, you never warned me about this.

I staggered back, hands crossed at the wrists, mouthing obscenities. Tripped, fell, rolled, sprawled flat on my back, afraid to block with my hands. Hoolies, but they hurt!

I smelled burning flesh. Not my own, the cat’s.

Well, that’s something, at least. Except he’s too dead to feel it.

I lay on my back, still swearing, letting the stream of obscenities take precedence over pain. Anything was welcome, so long as it blocked the fire.

Finally I ran out of breath, if not out of pain, and opened my eyes to look at my hands. It was easy to see them; they were stuck up in the air on the end of painfully rigid arms, elbows planted in the ground.

Hands. Not charred remains. Hands. With a thumb and four fingers on each.

Sweat dried on my body. Pain sloughed away. I breathed again normally and decided to stop swearing; there seemed no point in it, now.

Still on my back, I wiggled fingers carefully. Gritted teeth, squinting—and was immensely relieved to discover the flesh remained whole and the bones decently clad. No blisters. No weeping underskin, only normal, everyday hands, though the scars and enlarged knuckles remained. My hands, then, not some magical replacements.

I felt better. Sat up slowly, wincing at the protest in my abdomen, and wiggled fingers and thumbs yet again, just to be sure. No pain. No stiffness. Normal flexibility, as if nothing had ever happened.