Her tempo increased, her movements becoming sharper and less fluid, but her strikes more deadly.
Doum’wielle couldn’t figure out exactly what the sword was trying to do. The sentient weapon was guiding her, telepathically prodding her-thrust, riposte, feint, parry.
Step back! she heard in her thoughts. She had not moved quickly enough for Khazid’hea’s liking. Then she sensed the great regret of the sword, as if she, as if they, had failed. Before she could inquire, though, the sword was prodding her once more, the same routine, but now slowly again, and adding in the step. Over and over, building muscle memory. Doum’wielle still did not question. She came to believe that this sentient weapon was preparing her for a fight with Tiago-or more to the point, she admitted to herself, she desperately wanted to believe that was Khazid’hea’s plan.
The Baenre fiend had taken her again the night before, in the forest by the road now beyond the Silver Marches, the violation all the more wretched because she knew it was not wrought out of any honest emotions he held for her-that would still be bad enough! — but simply to remind her that he could take her whenever he wanted, for whatever reason he wanted.
She would love to feel her sword violating his body. .
A jolt shocked Doum’wielle, startling her and jerking her upright, the weapon lowering as all strength seemed drawn from her arm.
You think in pedestrian terms, the sword scolded.
Doum’wielle took a deep breath and tried to steady herself.
Would you like to kill him?
Yes.
Do you think that would hurt him?
I would make it hurt.
She could feel the sword’s amusement, silent laughter mocking her.
Tiago Baenre does not fear death, the sword explained. But there is something else that he does fear.
Doum’wielle spurned the obvious question, and instead she considered all that she was doing here, and Khazid’hea’s grand plan. “Humiliation,” she said aloud, and she felt the sword’s agreement.
And she felt the call to get back to her work. Khazid’hea guided her again, thrust and parry, sharp and fast. She moved ahead, but only briefly, then quick-stepped back, holding balance, sword going out left-low and right-high in rapid succession. Though she was alone on the field, she could feel the parries as surely as if her weapon had actually struck steel.
Left and right.
And that clue, left and right, showed her the truth of this exercise. She understood clearly then that her sword wasn’t preparing her for any fight with Tiago, who fought with one sword. Khazid’hea was training her to battle a two-handed opponent: Drizzt Do’Urden.
And Khazid’hea knew that drow ranger well, and knew Drizzt’s companion Catti-brie even more intimately. She had wielded the sword, which she called Cutter, for a short time, long ago.
And Cutter had dominated her.
A question formed in Doum’wielle’s mind, but she blurted it, not wanting to give the sword the satisfaction of reading it from her thoughts.
“Why not return to Catti-brie?” she asked. “You can control her and easily strike Drizzt down.”
She felt the sword’s seething response.
Doum’wielle dared a little laugh at her pompous weapon’s expense.
“She is a Chosen of Mielikki now,” she taunted. “She has progressed, grown stronger. Too strong for you, for you are the same. You know this.”
Are you enjoying this? the sword asked. Do you believe that you, too, will grow beyond me? Do you believe that I will let you?
Doum’wielle swallowed hard. That was as direct a threat as Khazid’hea had ever given her.
Do you believe that you can grow beyond me, that you can succeed without me? the sword went on. Will you seek your friends, your mother, perhaps? Not your father, surely, for he is a rotting corpse.
To go along with the telepathic words, Khazid’hea imparted an image of Tos’un lying in the bloody snow, under the glaze of dragon’s breath. At first Doum’wielle thought it her own memory-and in a way, it surely was-but then her father began to rot, skin sliding away, maggots writhing. Wicked Khazid’hea had taken her memory and had perverted it.
One day. Doum’wielle reacted to Khazid’hea’s questions before she could think the better of it.
Khazid’hea quieted her thoughts, and she felt as if the sword was leaving her alone then, to reason her way through it all. She truly did not believe that she could survive now without executing the plan, and she could not hope to do that without Khazid’hea.
Perhaps the sword was subtly within her thoughts, but Doum’wielle didn’t believe so. She came to see her relationship with the powerful sentient weapon in a different light then, not as a matter of dominance and servitude, but each serving as a tool to help the other attain its desires.
Doum’wielle brought the sword up in front of her eyes, marveling at its workmanship and the sheer beauty of the fine-edged blade. The large flared crosspiece had been worked intricately and beautifully, set with a red gem in the center, like a wary eye.
Doum’wielle’s own eyes widened as the pommel became a unicorn’s head, then turned dark, the shape of a panther-Guenhwyvar!
Or was it transforming? Was it really, or was it making her see those images?
But it remained a panther. She ran her trembling hands over it and could feel the contours exactly as she saw them.
Her father had told her that when he had found the blade in a rocky valley, its pommel had been exactly this, a replica of Guenhwyvar’s feline face. She had thought it an exaggeration, but indeed, the resemblance was striking.
Before her eyes, under the touch of her fingers, the pommel changed again, in shape and in hue, and became white.
“Sunrise,” Doum’wielle breathed, and swayed, for now the sword’s pommel looked like a pegasus, snowy white save a hint of pink in her flowing manes, with feathery wings tucked in tight and head bowed as if in sleep. Doum’wielle had loved that creature dearly. When Sunrise had grown too old to take flight, Doum’wielle had tended her, and when Sunrise had died, peacefully, a dozen years before, young Doum’wielle had cried for many days.
“She is with Sunset now,” her mother had told her, referring to Sunrise’s mate, who had been slain in the war with Obould, shot from the sky by the orcs.
A twinge of anger shot through Doum’wielle. How could she have ever sided with the ugly orcs in the war?
The thought flew from her mind-she was too taken with the image to realize that Khazid’hea had forced it away-and she focused again on the image of the pommel.
“As if in death,” Doum’wielle whispered.
Peaceful sleep, Khazid’hea quietly whispered in her mind.
She felt contented as she continued to stare at the beautiful pommel- and truly no elf craftsman could have made a better likeness of the beloved pegasus. It was as if the image of Sunrise in her mind had itself formed the artwork now in front of her.
“As if,” she said with a self-deprecating snicker. She realized then that that was exactly what had happened. Khazid’hea had found that precious memory and had “seen” it as clearly as Doum’wielle could.
And now Khazid’hea replicated the beautiful pegasus on its malleable pommel.
On the pommel of Doum’wielle’s sword.
Her sword. Her partner.
She gave a little laugh as she considered her relationship with Tiago, who thought himself her lover, her master even.
But no. Her intimacy with Khazid’hea was a far greater thing, and one of mutual consent.
She knew that now. The sword would lead her to that which she desired. The sword would keep her alive. The sword would bring her to great glory.