“Saicere,” Vashet said.
Magwyn gave a laugh that was almost a cackle. She got down off her chair. “I can’t say I’m surprised,” she said, and disappeared through a door that led back into the cliff.
Vashet let herself out, and I stood there feeling awkward, like one of those terrible dreams when you’re on stage and can’t remember what to say, or even what part you were meaning to play.
Magwyn returned, carrying a thick book bound in brown leather. At a gesture from her, we took seats in chairs facing each other. Hers was a deeply cushioned leather chair. Mine was not. I sat with Caesura across my knees. Partly because it seemed appropriate, and partly because I was fond of the feel of it beneath my hand.
She opened the book, the binding crackling as she spread it open on her lap. She flipped pages for a moment until she found the place she was looking for. “First came Chael,” she read. “Who shaped me in fire for an unknown purpose. He carried me then cast me aside.”
Magwyn looked up, unable to gesture as her hands were both occupied by the large book. “Well?” she demanded.
“What would you like me to do?” I asked politely. I couldn’t gesture due to my bandages. We made a fine pair of half-mutes.
“Repeat it back,” she said, irritated. “You need to learn them all.”
“First came Chael,” I said. “Who shaped me in fire for an unknown purpose. He carried me then cast me aside.”
She nodded and continued. “Next came Etaine . . .”
I repeated it. We continued this way for perhaps a half hour. Owner after owner. Name after name. Loyalties declaimed and enemies killed.
At first the names and places were tantalizing. Then, as it continued, the list began to depress me, as nearly each piece ended with the death of the owner. They were not peaceful deaths either. Some died in wars, some in duels. Many were merely “killed by” or “slain by,” giving no clue as to the circumstances. After thirty of these, I had heard nothing resembling, “Passed from this world peacefully in his sleep, surrounded by fat grandchildren.”
Then the list stopped being depressing and became simply boring instead.
“Next came Finol of the clear and shining eye,” I repeated attentively. “Much beloved of Dulcen. She herself slew two daruna, then was killed by gremmen at the Drossen Tor.”
I cleared my throat before Magwyn could recite another passage. “If I may ask,” I said. “How many have carried Caesura over the years?”
“Saicere,” she corrected me sharply. “Do not presume to meddle with her name. It means to break, to catch, and to fly.”
I looked down at the sheathed sword across my lap. I felt the weight of it, the chill of the metal under my fingers. A small sliver of the smooth grey blade was visible above the top of the sheath.
How can I say this so you can understand? Saicere was a fine name. It was thin and bright and dangerous. It fit the sword like a glove fits a hand.
But it wasn’t the perfect name. This sword’s name was Caesura. This sword was the jarring break in a line of perfect verse. It was the broken breath. It was smooth and swift and sharp and deadly. The name didn’t fit like a glove. It fit like skin. More than that. It was bone and muscle and movement. Those things are the hand. And Caesura was the sword. It was the both the name and the thing itself.
I can’t tell you how I knew this. But I knew it.
Besides, if I was to be a namer, I decided I could damn well choose the name of my own sword.
I looked up at Magwyn. “It is a good name,” I agreed politely, deciding to keep my opinion to myself until I was well gone from Ademre. “I am only wondering how many owners there have been entirely. That is something I should know as well.”
Magwyn gave me a sour look that said she knew I was patronizing her. But she flipped ahead several pages in her book. Then a few more.
Then a few more.
“Two hundred and thirty-six,” she said. “You will be the two hundred thirty-seventh.” She flipped back to the beginning of the list. “Let us begin again.” She drew a breath and said. “First came Chael, who shaped me in fire for an unknown purpose. He carried me then cast me aside.”
I fought down the urge to sigh. Even with my trouper’s knack for learning lines it would take long, weary days setting them all to memory.
Then I realized what this truly meant. If each owner had kept Caesura for ten years, and it had never sat idle for longer than a day or two, that meant Caesura was, at a very conservative estimate, more than two thousand years old.
I received my next surprise three hours later when I tried to excuse myself for supper. As I stood to leave Magwyn explained I was to remain with her until I learned all of Caesura’s story by heart. Someone would bring us our meals, and there was a room nearby where I could sleep.
First came Chael . . .
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-SIX
The First Stone
I spent the next three days with Magwyn. It wasn’t bad, especially considering my left hand was still healing, so my ability to talk and fight was rather limited.
I like to think I did rather well. It would have been easier for me to memorize an entire play than this. A play fits together like a jigsaw. Dialogue moves back and forth. There is a shape to a story.
But what I learned from Magwyn was merely a long string of unfamiliar names and unconnected events. It was a laundry list masquerading as a story.
Still, I learned it all by heart. It was late in the evening of the third day when I recited it back flawlessly to Magwyn. The hardest part was not singing it as I recited. Music carries words over miles and into hearts and memories. Committing Caesura’s history to memory had been much easier when I’d started fitting it to the tune of an old Vintish ballad in my head.
The next morning Magwyn demanded I recite it again. After I made it through a second time, she scribbled a note to Shehyn, sealed it in wax, and shooed me out of her cave.
“We had not expected Magwyn to be finished with you for several days yet,” Shehyn said, reading the note. “Vashet took a trip to Feant and will not be back for at least two days.”
That meant I had memorized the Atas twice as quickly as their best estimate. I felt more than a little pride in that.
Shehyn glanced at my left hand and gave the barest frown. “When did you have your dressings removed?” she asked.
“I could not find you at first,” I said. “So I went to visit Daeln. He said it has healed quite nicely.” I flexed my newly unbandaged left hand and gestured joyful relief. “There is hardly any stiffness in the skin, and he reassures me even that will fade soon with proper care.”
I looked at Shehyn, expecting to see some gesture of approval or satisfaction. Instead I saw exasperated irritation.
“Have I done something wrong?” I asked. Confused regret. Apology.
Shehyn motioned to my hand. “It could have been a convenient excuse to postpone your stone trial,” she said. Irritated resignation. “Now we must go ahead with it today, Vashet or no.”
I felt a familiar anxiety settle back onto me, like a dark bird clenching its claws deep into the muscles of my neck and shoulders. I’d thought the tedium of memorization had been the last of it, but apparently the final shoe was yet to drop. I didn’t like the sound of the term “stone trial,” either.
“Return here after midday meal.” Shehyn said. Dismissal. “Go. I have much to prepare before then.”
I went looking for Penthe. With Vashet gone, she was the only one I knew well enough to ask about the upcoming trial.
But she wasn’t in her house, the school, or the baths. Eventually I gave up, stretched, and rehearsed my Ketan, first with Caesura, then without. Then I made my way to the baths and scrubbed away three days of sitting and doing nothing.