Everyone Who Wields Me

Carola Cox remix of photos by Anthro, Srki66, and Aleksandr Proshkin

Everyone Who Wields Me

by Jake Stein

That summer evening in the garden of her ancestors when Pamoda Nostrei Dontárnio slid the ancient sword from its sheath, she heard a voice:

Don’t be an idiot, Pamo.

Only a rustle of the breeze, she assumed. A trick of the ears. Whispers followed Pamoda everywhere these days—such was her loneliness. But never before had the wind referred to her by name.

Because this isn’t the wind!

Startled, she nearly dropped the sword. The voice had been real that time, she was sure of it. Pamo regarded this weapon in her hands, this hundred-year-old length of steel, still sharp, bearing a forgotten smith’s insignia above an intricately wrought basket-hilt…

“One thousand pardons, Mesira Dontárnio,” said Pamo’s cloaked visitor, the stranger who’d knocked at her gate, “but the night grows old, and I’m tired.” He sounded genuine, though his hood shadowed his face from the moonlight. “Shall we negotiate the sale?”

It would be rude, of course, to ignore this man, who’d contacted her a few days prior to inquire about her interest in a supposedly rare and precious item. He’d mentioned nothing in his letter about arriving in the middle of the night, but Pamo hardly got much sleep anyway. Nonetheless she was distracted by that disembodied voice:

Listen carefully. Whatever this man asks for, no matter the cost, you must pay it. Our fates are linked. If we don’t work together—

The voice cut off when Pamo returned the blade to its sheath. How curious. Slowly she drew the sword again.

Hey! Don’t mess—

Sheathing it once more, she heard only the birds, the wind, the rumbling city beyond the garden’s walls. Pamo was in awe. In all her years as a collector of weapons, she’d never had one speak to her so… literally.

“Mesira Dontárnio,” said her visitor, this man who offered a sword but not a name. “Might we, uh, get on with it?”

“Apologies.” Pamo waved an inviting hand toward a bench along the stone path where countless generations of Dontárnios had walked. Nearby, a burbling creek flowed into a pool covered in lilies and leaves. “Care for wine? Food? Drugs?”

The hooded stranger remained standing, as still as one of the garden’s many statues. “I only want your answer.”

“In that case, I must ask you to repeat your question, my friend.” Pamo used that last word lightly; she had no friends, nor any family. Aside from herself, everyone who’d once occupied this villa now lay in the ground beneath it.

“Are you interested in the sword?” the visitor pressed, becoming rather exasperated.

Pamo almost laughed. Of course she was interested. The mysterious voice only confirmed what her collector’s eyes gleaned: this blade was immeasurably valuable, a thought which set her heart galloping. It occurred to her, while admiring the sheath’s embroidery, that perhaps this man didn’t know what he was selling. He seemed altogether too eager. And why hadn’t he brought guards? Perhaps the magical weapon (yes, it must be magical) hadn’t deigned to talk to him, only to her.

Mesira Dontárnio’s daily despair peeled away. A sword like this didn’t come around even once in a lifetime. A sword to complete her collection. And complete her.

“Not interested,” she said, relaxing onto the bench and setting the sword beside her.

“Not…” The visitor’s cowl slipped off, and Pamo glimpsed his scarred face. “I heard about you, Dontárnio. Surely a curator of your tastes would love to own—”

“A rare treasure such as this, yes.” Pamo picked a leaf from a branch and played with it absently. “But I’m an honest woman, and as such, I must inform you, this blade is too expensive for me. I could try talking you down, but a fair price would be five hundred gold, and I’m just not ready to cough up that kind of money. So, I’ll pass.” She let the leaf float away on the breeze.

The stranger wrung his hands hungrily. “This sword is worth as much as five hundred gold, you say?”

“Maybe even six hundred,” Pamo replied, whereas the real answer was probably closer to tens of thousands. “Seven hundred, if you cut a sharp bargain.” She turned away, watching clouds rolling over red clay rooftops. She would ruminate on the sky until her guest made the next move. If haggling was like fencing, Pamo had committed a daring forward thrust. All that remained was to see if her opponent was capable of parrying.

The nameless man could have simply taken the sword and walked away. Instead: “Three hundred, Mesira Dontárnio. I will go as low as three hundred gold.”

One might as well have traded a priceless gemstone for dirt. With a shrug, Pamo rose to her feet and picked up the sword. “I suppose if you’re willing to make that charitable offer, it would be impolite if I didn’t take another moment to consider.”

No sooner had she drawn the blade than the voice returned:

Stop dallying and buy me! You know I’m worth more than your entire villa!

But Pamo sliced the air, listening to the sword’s other voice: that quiet, razor-sharp song of ageless Vuñalian steel. Of all the swords she’d ever wielded—probably more than any other person alive—never had one felt so… good. Even the old leather-wrapped hilt seemed perfectly molded to fit her hand. Most of all, the weapon was incredibly light.

She stopped swinging the sword and gave a disappointed sigh. “It’s far too heavy, for one thing.”

Heavy? Do you have the strength of a toddler?

The cloaked visitor shuffled anxiously. “Mesira Dontárnio, surely a collector such as yourself can see how magnificent—”

“Worse, the crossguard and pommel feel loose. And do you see the alignment of the blade? It’s more than a hair off-axis.”

Alignment of the… are you serious?

“But I’ll admit, I’m not entirely disinterested. While this is far from the finest piece of steel ever forged—”

Actually, I am, damn you!

“—I have found that I’m rather partial to this sword after all.”

The quiet grew as thick as the rising heat of the night. The day was thoroughly dead; the canopy had long faded from leaves to shadows, the birdsong replaced by buzzing insects and the occasional squeak of a lemon bat flapping overhead. In such periods of darkness Pamo often heard the spirits of her ancestors, dreaming that she was not alone. But for once, the silence of her garden was less bitter than sweet.

The visitor seemed afraid to ask, like he might be pushing his luck. “Do you mean to say… you’ll buy it?”

“On one condition.” Despite her elation, Pamo couldn’t dismiss a nagging feeling that this sword was too good to be true. So, she had to ask, “Have you ever heard a voice while holding this weapon?”

“A voice?” The visitor looked baffled. “What do you mean?”

Pamo searched that rough and scarred visage for the truth. He had the face of a man who didn’t lie, but those who lied the best often did.

You haven’t gone mad, the sword supplied, floating gently through her mind. My voice is real. But that doesn’t mean I speak to everyone who wields me. This man is nothing, a mere stepping stone for me. It’s you I’ve been searching for. So long as you don’t return me to my sheath, you will hear my voice for as long as you live.

A delightful warmth blossomed in Pamo’s chest. She found herself gripping the sword so hard that her hand hurt; she willed herself to calm down. But what a discovery? This sword! It was obviously intelligent. And it wanted, even needed, her? Over the years, one way or another, Pamoda’s family had left her. As for friends, well, she seemed impervious to those. But here was someone—or something, at least—which was promising to stick around forever.

“I haven’t heard any voices,” insisted the stranger. “Do we have a deal?”

Hands were shaken, and Pamo, who employed no servants or guards, went briefly to her vault, and returned to the garden with three hundred gold coins in three heavy sacks. She presented the gold to the man; in return, he handed over the magical blade.

“You still haven’t told me your name,” Pamo said.

But the stranger hurried off without answer, disappearing through the same gate where he’d knocked only a short while ago, showing no sign of realizing he’d been cheated. Pamo wondered if he would ever realize it. She tried to tame her guilty conscience; perhaps she should have given the man more. Should have just handed over her entire collection. All of it was meaningless compared to this new addition, her new lifelong companion.

Pamo smiled down at the antique Vuñalian blade. “So, you said our fates are linked. Tell me your story, then. Are you a spirit trapped inside a sword, or the spirit of the sword itself? And how does all of this work, exactly? I mean, do I have to be touching you to be able to hear you? Can you see through my eyes, or read my thoughts, or anything like that? What is the extent of this magic?”

But the talking sword said nothing in response. The bats and bugs grew quiet, warning of dawn.

Pamo practiced patience as she headed along the stone path back to her house. The sword was probably just shy or taking some time to settle into its new home. “What were you saying about being worth more than my Villa?” she asked goadingly. But her smile was slipping.

Still the sword made no reply.

Beginning to get worried, Pamo resorted to threats. “I’ll put you back in your sheath if you don’t say something.”

Only silence. Even the wind had died down.

“I know I didn’t imagine that voice! You hear me?”

But the sword said nothing. And still nothing.

Pamo turned around, back to the bench. She didn’t want to go inside. Somehow her loneliness was worse indoors, especially at night. She sat down and cried, but only a little. No more than she usually did.

That’s when the sword began to change. Something magical was certainly happening, but not in a good way. The blade corroded before her eyes, the metal acquiring a speckled coat of rust. It seemed to deteriorate for a century in a matter of seconds. The old leather-wrapped hilt warped, becoming awkward to hold. Most of all, the weapon was suddenly incredibly heavy.

Pamo cursed. This was no Vuñalian steel after all, and it definitely wasn’t worth three hundred gold. The perfection of the blade had been an illusion! The magic of the sword, its voice, its wonderful balance—all a trick. Pamo’s blood drummed angrily in her ears. She felt like such a fool. She’d actually believed herself to have made a friend, not to mention an unimaginable financial gain!

She wanted vengeance. But how could she find that man again? She didn’t know his name, nor could she describe him, aside from a scarred face. And a scarred face wasn’t uncommon for those who dealt in weapons.

She wiped her eyes, refusing to let herself sit here and weep the night away. Besides, it was basically morning by now. A new day. Perhaps she’d been tricked, yes. But that thin blue light which seeped into the sky belonged to a new sun. So Pamo sighed and conceded to whatever force was gently pulling her inside. She would find a place for this rusty old sword in her vault, she supposed. Let it serve as a reminder. Hang it with the others, until it was inevitably forgotten, just another piece in her massive collection.

Another item which didn’t speak to her.

It was many days later—days which felt like years—before her gate rang again.

The man wore a thick black coat, carried a tall iron halberd, and introduced himself as a lieutenant of the City Watch. “You’re Mesira Pamoda Dontárnio, I presume? Collector of rare weapons?”

“That’s correct,” Pamo told the lieutenant, and yawned. The morning was late, but she’d just woken up. These days she found herself spending more time in bed and less in her garden. Ugly bouquets of weeds had begun to curl up through the untended flowerbeds, and the ivy, which had once scrawled like distinguished green signatures across old statues, had grown into wild run-on sentences. But Pamo only noticed these things distantly, as if this person who walked the grounds of her ancestors was not her, but merely a shade of herself. A character she inhabited in a dream, and a bad dream at that.

“Apologies for calling without notice, Mesira,” the watchman said, “but there’s a matter I must discuss with you, on behalf of this great city and its High Justice, supposing you have a moment.”

Pamoda looked down the street and saw a large covered wagon with a caged window and two guards. A prisoner transport, she suspected. She wondered if she should be worried. Had this soldier come to arrest her? She said nothing, simply stood in her open gateway, waiting for the dream to play out how it would.

“We have a criminal in custody who’s been accused of selling false goods,” the lieutenant explained. “Perchance, did you recently buy a sword from a traveling merchant?”

“To call it a sword would be generous.” But suddenly Pamo understood where this was going. “Have you apprehended a fellow for casting illusions on ancient items to make them appear magical and priceless? A ventriloquist, of sorts, with a scarred face?”

The watchman nodded firmly. “May I fetch the prisoner so that you could help us identify him, Honorable Mesira?”

Honorable. For some reason, the word made Pamo smile. A smile without mirth.

Apparently, the lieutenant took her expression as a “yes,” for he hurried off, leaving Pamo with the vague understanding that she should wait here. She spent a quiet moment on the familiar bench in her garden, watching the lily pads roam the pool. Was she really about to get revenge on the scoundrel who’d cheated her? She cared about the money, yes, but the one thing Pamoda Nostrei Dontárnio had more of than swords, was gold. Ultimately it was the principle of the thing. The mending of her honor.

Then again, hadn’t she cheated him too?

Soon enough the lieutenant returned with the other guards, holding between them the man with the scarred face. The nameless man Pamo recognized.

“That’s him,” she said at once.

The watchmen seemed satisfied; they shoved the criminal in the back, dropping him to his knees. “What do you have to say in your defense?” the lieutenant demanded.

The scarred man sneered. “I say I’ve never seen this woman before.”

Pamo snorted. “He tricked me into paying three hundred gold for a worthless relic. I’m sure it was him.”

“I’m sure you’re a liar.” The criminal turned to beseech the lieutenant. “Why take her word over mine? Simply because she’s rich? Having a nice garden doesn’t make you incapable of cheating someone.”

“You sold me a fake item,” Pamo responded sharply. She despised the insinuation that she was capable of trickery, regardless of whether it was true. “You swindled me.”

“And you stole this whole villa, or your family did.” He spat at her feet. “Nobody gets anything in this world without stealing it. Rich folks know that better than anyone. All of this”—he gestured around at the flowers, the pool, the statues—“was stolen.”

The lieutenant ignored him. “Mesira, would you be willing to give us a written statement? If your testimony corroborates with those of his other victims, it probably won’t be necessary for you to appear before the High Justice in court.”

“Of course,” Pamo replied. “Whatever it takes to lock him up.” But would it actually make her feel better?

The lieutenant switched his halberd awkwardly from one hand to the other. He seemed suddenly very hesitant. “Unfortunately, I cannot guarantee that this man will see jail time. It’s more likely, given his unique ability, that he’ll be sentenced to serve the City Watch, where we’ll put his magic to good use. For this reason, it’s very important that you include in your statement everything you can remember about his ventriloquism, as you put it. Obviously, we can’t trust what a criminal tells us about his own illusions. But we trust good, law-abiding citizens, such as yourself.”

Pamo’s heart sank. Now that she knew the scarred man wouldn’t get locked up, his just desserts didn’t taste quite as sweet as she’d been hoping. But it was the mention of trust that really swung her mood, making her feel as alone as ever, despite having more guests than she’d had in longer than she cared to remember. For she couldn’t help asking herself if the lieutenant’s trust was just another thing she’d stolen. One more ultimately meaningless possession.

The criminal struggled against the guards as they hoisted him roughly back onto his feet. Perhaps he wasn’t going to get thrown in jail, but he appeared none too thrilled about becoming indentured to the City Watch. He cried desperately, “I invoke my right to trial by combat!”

The Watchmen exchanged a series of eyerolls, indicating that this happened far too often for their liking. The lieutenant said, “We must get going. Drag him back to the wagon and—”

“I am entitled to prove my innocence!” The man was practically screaming now. “If you ignore my rights, you’re only validating the points I brought up earlier! That the real thieves are the upper class, and the City Watch are only their blindly obedient servants!”

“Then you’re challenging Mesira Dontárnio to a duel?” the lieutenant asked tiredly.

The prisoner nodded. “If someone could only lend me a blade, I will show the fine mesira how I respond to her accusations.”

“Officially,” the lieutenant said, “a trial by combat is only permissible if both parties are willing.” And all four men looked to the mesira, waiting for her answer.

A bitter laugh escaped Pamo’s lips. The dream had certainly taken a strange turn, hadn’t it? She had no interest in fighting; she only wished to put this episode of her life behind her. But a familiar voice crept into her head—a voice not her own—and this time, she didn’t confuse it for the wind:

Come now, Mesira Dontárnio. Are you so afraid of a man with scars?

Pamo glared at the prisoner. She could see it in the grim set of his jaw, the twitching of his sweaty brow. He was summoning this voice. She had no doubt of his guilt now.

Don’t stare at me like I’m a freak, he told her. We’re much the same, you and I. Two thieves in a harsh world. The only difference is that you got a head start.

Pamo took a deep breath. She knew he was trying to bait her. She also knew it was working. She tried to focus on the chirping of birds, the pleasant rustle of the breeze, but…

You’re all alone here, aren’t you? Wasting away. Bloated with apathy. What do you have to lose? If you joined your ancestors would that really be so bad? Or have you grown so lazy off of their riches that you refuse to give a poor man a chance to exonerate—

“Enough!” Pamo clenched her fists tightly. “Get out of my head!”

The watchmen were staring at her, confused, and perhaps even embarrassed, by her outburst. The lieutenant prodded gently, “Was he using the voice again, Mesira? Say the word, and we’ll take him away at once. No need to risk your life. But if you accept the challenge, I am required to stand witness on behalf of the High Justice, and the result will be respected as verdict of this man’s innocence or guilt.” And he added softly, “Keep in mind, the City Watch wouldn’t want to let this crook slip through our fingers.”

But Pamo had already made her decision. “I’ll fetch some swords.”

With that, the guards let go of the prisoner, though they remained blocking his exit. While he stretched his arms, Pamo briefly vanished inside her house, and reappeared carrying two items from her collection. The first was the sorry excuse for a blade she’d purchased from this man, easily one of her worst. But the other sword was perhaps her best.

This sword, her best, she gave to her opponent, telling him, “Now you cannot claim I’ve stolen your justice in this fight.”

The man took the sword warily, swung it a few times, and grinned. “Three feet of flawless Vuñalian steel? Your kindness betrays you, Mesira.” He trailed off, a war of emotions playing across his ruined face when he saw what she’d brought out for herself. “You’re using that rusty thing? Well, I’m starting to feel quite innocent indeed!”

Pamo brandished the ancient blade, getting used to its lost balance. It certainly didn’t sing as it cut through the air; it remained silent, as silent as it always should have been—dead as anything so old. But that was perfectly fine with Pamo.

For someone of her skill, any old hunk of rusty metal would do.

“Did you think I was only a collector?” she asked, leveling her weapon at the man’s head. They moved to a flat patch of grass, where they circled each other, and Pamo casually revealed what else she’d brought from inside: a half-dozen ribbons bearing gold and silver medals. Medals she’d won half a lifetime ago, under a different name, so that nobody could trace her championships back to her. Why? Because, being the heir to a fortune, people often underestimated her, and she preferred to keep it that way. Better for haggling and negotiating. A reputation as one of the finest duelists this city had ever known would only complicate her dealings with prospective sellers of rare goods. So, she’d worn a disguise to every tournament she’d ever entered, and she usually kept her medals hidden. Just one more lie she’d always told.

But at a time like this, one might say she was happy to… boast of her accomplishments.

Her medals flashed in the sunlight, flashed almost as brightly as the fear in her enemy’s eyes. By now, surely, he recognized that it didn’t matter how nice of a sword she’d given him. “Those,” The man pointed at her trophy pendants. “Those are from past duels—?”

She lunged.

By the time he submitted—approximately nine seconds later—he was on his knees, bleeding, with Pamoda Dontárnio’s sword resting at his neck. The fine Vuñalian blade she’d let him use was lying in the creek bed, and the birds were still singing. Pamo hadn’t even broken a sweat.

“The criminal has been found guilty,” announced the lieutenant of the City Watch. “Many thanks for your help, Mesira Dontárnio. I didn’t expect it to go this far, but you’ve been very…” He seemed to search for a word in the hard face of the criminal, who was not only defeated, but rather wounded. “…accommodating.”

“Suppose that sword I sold you was real, not an illusion,” the man growled at Pamo. “That’s what you thought, and you still didn’t pay me what it was worth.”

Pamo waited to put down her sword until the guards had him firmly in their custody again. “I’m not like you.”

“You’re right. Because if it were the other way around—if you had succeeded in ripping me off—nobody would be arresting you.” The black-coated guards began dragging him away, but the bloody criminal didn’t take his eyes off Pamo. You know it’s true, Mesira, his voice rattled between her ears. You’re no better than me. You’re just better off. That’s why you’re alone here, with only ancestral ghosts for company. Because you’re not a good person! Soon they’d hauled him through the gate, but still he shouted at her, within her, hollering obscenities and curses that rung her brain like a bell, until finally he was stuffed back into the wagon and carted off, at which point, thankfully, Pamo never heard him again.

The lieutenant straggled behind for a moment, shifting his halberd, shifting his feet. Clearly something was bothering him, something uncomfortable, preventing him from leaving.

Pamo posited the question politely: “Anything more I can help you with, lieutenant?” She reflected that she was eager to get him out of her garden—but why? Was she so addicted to being alone?

The lieutenant finally came out with it: “Mesira Dontárnio, it is my official duty, as a member of the City Watch, to ask what the criminal meant when he mentioned that you ripped him off?”

“I couldn’t tell you what he meant by that,” Pamo responded too quickly.

“Well,” The lieutenant shrugged. “Did you rip him off?”

“Of course not. I’m an honorable and trustworthy person.” Liar! Now the voice in Pamo’s head was only her own; and she hated that voice, that terrible, familiar voice, because she knew, deep down, it spoke the truth. You’ve always cheated everyone. Including yourself! Don’t you see? You’ve cheated yourself out of happiness!

The lieutenant turned to depart, though suspicion still hardened his features. “The Watch will attempt to recover your gold after the prisoner is convicted, but don’t expect—”

“I don’t care about the gold,” Pamo said, and she was trembling, because suddenly she knew exactly what she must do, and it was really going to hurt. “I care only that justice is done. In fact, I’d like to donate one of my own swords to every victim of that illusionist.”

“The thief swindled a fair amount of folks,” the lieutenant warned. “We don’t have a full confession from him yet, but a great number of citizens have come forward claiming to have been robbed by a man fitting his description.”

“Good thing I have more than a great number of swords, then. Bring another wagon by today. I’ll pile it high with priceless collector’s items. If nothing else, it should prove that I’m not the type who rips people off.”

The lieutenant swallowed thickly. “One thousand pardons, Mesira. I shouldn’t have questioned your integrity. The City Watch will gladly accept and facilitate your donation.”

Eventually Pamo found herself once more alone in her quiet, unaccusing garden. She tried not to consider how much of her collection she’d just promised to liquidate. Nobody gets anything in this world without stealing it, the scarred man had told her. Obviously the thief had been wrong about that, because a lot of people were about to get new swords. Her swords. But the scarred man had been right about the rest of it, even if Pamo wouldn’t admit it; they were basically the same, she and him. The same types of players in the same type of race, just with different starting lines and different rules.

The day was getting bright and hot as she wiped the criminal’s blood off the imperfect blade he’d sold her. She twirled the sword a few more times, missing its voice, before she cast it aside and listened to the birds for a while. Nobody could steal this garden from her, at least.

But regardless of what anyone said about ancestral ghosts, now the garden’s only voices were the burbling creek and the wind, neither of which told Pamoda Nostrei Dontárnio what she needed to hear.

It wasn’t a week later that another stranger rang the bell at Mesira Dontárnio’s gate. The woman wore a lovely sword at her belt which Pamo recognized, for it had hung on Pamo’s wall until very recently. The woman introduced herself as Mesira Kava Yolenda. She was there to say thank you, and also to return the sword, saying the mesira was too generous. But Pamo would not permit her charity to be thrown back at her. Instead, Pamo promptly waved the stranger inside and offered her a tour of her collection—for surely, if this woman had also been targeted by the illusionist, she must be somewhat of a collector herself. At first Kava made the appropriate noises of polite refusal, but soon enough she happily acquiesced. Thus, while perusing the contents of Pamo’s vault, the two shared not only their interest in rare weapons, but their disgust for the man with the scarred face who’d sold both of them ordinary, if not worse than ordinary, swords. “This piece, however, is a true beauty,” Kava said, patting the blade at her hip—Mesira Dontárnio’s gift, part of her mass donation to the magical thief’s victims at large.

“It’s not Vuñalian steel or anything,” Pamo said, trying to sound humble.

“After our recent shared experience, I believe I’m no longer fond of that ‘perfect’ crap.” Kava admired a pair of axes crossed on the wall. “If it doesn’t rust, it isn’t worth my trust.”

“You’re a collector too, I take it?”

“Not like this.” Kava looked around in amazement at all the weapons. “This is impressive.”

Pamo felt color burning in her cheeks. And why was her heart galloping? “I used to have a lot more, obviously.” Until I gave most of it away over a guilty conscience…

“The city would be a better place if everyone had your generosity, Mesira Dontárnio.”

Pamo smiled at the woman. She waited for a voice to speak up inside her, to berate her, call her a cheat, a thief, a liar. But no such voice arrived. Her head was, for once, perfectly quiet. Yet she asked, “Are you an illusion, Kava?”

Kava blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Nevermind. Take a look over here.” Pamo indicated a handful of ancient scimitars arranged on a table. “As for old and rusty things, you might be interested in these. The bone handles are probably carved from animals that lived before any tree in my garden. And here, see this serrated blade? It might look imposing, but actually it’s a converted farm tool. During the Last War, blacksmiths used whatever they could find…”

Pamoda Nostrei Dontárnio continued showing off her collection to her new friend, speaking only the truth about every single sword.