and still another. Of ancient design and still retaining hints of superb workmanship, they lay scattered wherever he looked. Blades broken and whole poked out of the turned ground from among pockets of gravel or between split stones. At first they appeared to have nothing in common. On closer inspection, he saw that regardless of size or shape, design or composition, all pointed toward the center of the barrow.
That made it easier for him to find it.
So did the dozen or so rotting, disarticulating skeletons of those who had come before him.
Choosing a level platform among the rocks, he drew Furcleave. Holding it vertically before him with its point aimed straight at the ground, he murmured a soft incantation. Though the handle twisted violently in his clenched hands, he held it firmly. On the hilt, the two cat-faces ceased arguing. After a pause of consideration, they realigned themselves so that both were facing in the same direction.
Opening his eyes, Bijendra started in the direction they were staring and searched carefully until he found what he was looking for. By the light of the full moon it was easy enough to locate: a slot between two slabs of stone where he could carefully insert the blade, point first. Once that was done, he stepped back, stretched out both hands, and backward clawed the night air as he recited the words he had been told to say.
“I, Ruhan Bijendra, call upon the savants of the swords in the name of my brother Layak Bijendra, gravely wounded in battle at Giriraj Keep! Remove the sliver of metal that lies deep in his side and that the chirurgeons cannot touch for fear of cutting his heart. The metal splinter has been thrice bellicose-blessed, and if it kills him, he will not be able to reincarnate. Do this and I will promise my own blood for the quenching of a sacred blade to be dedicated to the brotherhood of swords everywhere!” Dropping to his knees, he brought his knuckles together. One tear escaped the corner of a reluctant eye to moisten the fur of his left cheek.
When he opened his eyes again, something was stirring.
Under the light of the moon, the ancient, buried weapons that encircled the barrow were in motion. Twitching, jerking, heaving, one by one they pulled or yanked or drew themselves from the stones and gravel in which they were entombed. Each imbued with a pale blue glow, they rose softly and silently into the air. While the awed yet alert noble looked on, they sloughed off the rust of ages like so many snakes shedding their skins. As he rose to his feet, the circle they formed began to close in around him. Before his eyes, Furcleave was likewise glowing. It had partaken unbidden of the magic of the place.
Then She appeared.
The Steel Princess. Mistress of the Old Blades. Her legs were longswords melded together, her face all angles and sharpness. Spikes protruded from the helmeted metal hills of breasts and her fingers were tapered stilettos. In place of wrists and ankles were sword hilts. As she came toward him, her intricately arabesqued metal limbs made faint scraping sounds, and the moonlight made of her a walking armory. Light glinted off her polished body from the swords and sabers, daggers and dirks of which she was composed. The long, silvery hair that fell swaying to her waist was fashioned of hundreds of strangler’s cables.
Truly, Bijendra thought as he stayed close to Furcleave but made no attempt to draw it forth from the rocks, a hard-edged woman.
She halted barely an arm’s length away. Around them the storm of swords circled closer, their intense blue phosphorescence brighter than before. Her right hand rose and the index finger extended toward him. As sharp as a poet’s tongue, the tip was aimed directly at his heart. When she spoke, the moonlight shining from her eyes like a blacksmith’s fever dream, even her words were cutting.
“Whoever comes to this place with hope or supplication leaves fallow. Whoever comes on the night of the full moon when I assemble myself and perform my rounds, must die. So say I, Jiriyel, Wardress of the Weapons.”
Back ramrod straight, Bijendra met her metallic gaze without flinching. “Beautiful dreamer, I come on behalf of my brother, who is already dying. You who command the ancient blades, who know their ways and moods, could draw the broken metal from his body as a chirurgeon would draw a poison. You can save his life.” For the second time that night he spread his arms wide, the fingers of the backward-facing palms opening outward as he lowered his head. “I offer mine in exchange. Pierce me as you will. Cut me quick or slow, as is your pleasure. But do that which is necessary to spare him.” He lowered his head and waited for whatever might come.
Faultless metal in the moonlight, the lethal finger moved forward-to stop a thumb’s length from the noble’s chest.
“You could fight me, Ruhan Bijendra.” From her throat sounded a grinding as of gears. “Your longsword is near. Yet you forgo your own weapon.”
He raised his eyes to meet hers anew. “I would not insult the Steel Princess by presuming to assault her with one of her own. I come to you as a supplicant, not as a challenger.”
“Even if it is to mean your life?” she queried him.
“Even if so,” he replied, resigned.
Around them, the halo of drifting swords-short and long, single-edged and double, slim and broad-rotated like a pulsing blue ring around a distant planet. The deep turquoise light that shone forth from them was bright enough to outshine the moon. Occasionally one blade would make contact with another. At such moments a swift zinging sound would sting the otherwise silent night air. It reminded Bijendra of the sound of blades being drawn from metal scabbards.
The swords were whispering among themselves.
Her index finger continued to hover a hand’s breadth from his heart, but the fatal thrust continued to be withheld.
“You are unlike any of the many who have come this way and dared to confront me. You are without fear, yet you are prepared to spend your courage and life on behalf of another.” Fluttering steel eyelids made the faintest of cymbal sounds. “Were I not cursed to forever serve as wardress to these blades, I would do for you what I might wish. But I am as you see me, and can do naught but continue to fulfill my sorrowful destiny.”
His tone turned curious. “What were you before you were cursed, woman of sharp edges?”
“I was once a princess of the eladrin. Unknowing, I gravely offended the greatest witch of the hill folk who lived in these Downs. As you know, eladrin do not sleep but must enter trance for several hours each day. Catching me helpless in such a state, she cursed me to watch over the orphaned swords of this place until I should rust away to nothing, as will they all eventually. She made me of them, and so I am as you see me.” The finger pointed at his chest trembled. “Nothing can break this curse or return me to flesh. And as Wardress of the Weapons, when I make my rounds beneath the light of the full moon, I am compelled to slay any who trespass here.”
He could have run, but Bijendra did not flee. Not even from death. He held his ground. “I am rakshasa. You are eladrin. As rakshasa I can do nothing for you. As eladrin you can do nothing for yourself. But I have traveled wide and spoken to many outstandingly knowledgeable representatives of many races. More important than talking, I have listened. Among the humans there is one thing, one gesture, one magic that can sometimes break the strongest curse. It is uncommon-nay, largely unknown-among my kind. But I have learned it.”
She was beyond doubtful. Her tone was spiteful. “There is no spell that can release me. Symbols do not touch my feet. Potions make me rust. You are wasting your time, rakshasa.”
Black-blotched white ears flicked in the moonlight. “Then if I am to die anyway…”
Thrusting himself forward, he planted his mouth directly over hers. Eyes like polished silver pieces widened. Her left arm was flung backward while the right continued to hover in the vicinity of his heart. Sharpened small steel shutters closed halfway over her eyes. He held the kiss as long as he could before the pain made him draw back. Blood trickled from his mouth to stain the white fur of his chin. He had cut himself on her scalpel of a tongue.
She stared at him, for the first time wordless, her right hand still extended in his direction. Around them, the risen sword blades whirled so fast that the two figures appeared to be encircled by a solid ring of blue luminance. The princess staggered backward another step, recovered her balance, and started toward him anew. Then she looked down at herself.
Dull steel gray was fading to a pale pinkish white. Edges formerly cutting softened and flowed. From the tips of her fingers, life surged backward to replace steel. Her ears remained pointed but were no longer deadly sharp. From metal eyes, a bright, pupilless eladrin green spread forth as though they had been stained with the dye of life.
Around them, the singing of the sword circle had risen to an overpowering metallic hum.
She stood before him, unclothed but no longer shining, her pale flesh glistening rather than reflective in the moonlight. Shining-and shivering. Removing his gleaming argent cape, he placed it around her shoulders. She drew the fine soft fabric close around her, not to hide her nakedness but to ward off the chill.
