SABRA'S RETURN
by
Samuel Z Jones
Copyright Samuel Z Jones 2001
North of the ruins of the old city of Silveneir, where only now years after the wars had people started to return and rebuild, the forest stretched impenetrable from the highlands of Utryce to the black wall of the Psarrion mountains. Long ago the forest had been the pride and wealth of Silveneir, the source of the ships that had made the Silvan people a great nation. During the wars, the forest had been refuge to the outlaws and rebels who had fought so grimly against the founding of the Empire of Kaesa Saban, the witchqueen who had forged a pact with the enemies of the whole world.
Deep in that forest, built by magic and long lost to memory, stood the Savistri Mansion, home of the wizard and former adventurer Montesinos DeSilva. He was the son of the greatest swordsman their world had ever known, and had himself fought and earned renown in the decades of war that had been the one constant in his life. He lived now in the house built by his great ancestor, the sorcerer Noth Morden, father of a line of wizards and warriors.
With DeSilva dwelt his concubine Sorcha Kavnor, sister to another great hero of the wars, the legendary Sabra Daishen, the woman who had united the rebel factions with the remnants of the knights of Kellia, and so defeated the armies of the Empress Kaesa in the final battle at the citadel of Akharudrak.
But all that had been years ago, and the wars had not ended then; Sabra had gone north, to the distant lands of the enemy with a promise of vengeance. No one, least of all DeSilva and Sorcha, ever thought to see Sabra again; she had sworn never to return, but to follow her quest until the end.
Sorcha mourned for her sister, wishing that the rift between them could have been healed long ago, grieving for her guilt in the events that had turned Sabra from an innocent young woman into the grim paladin sworn to live and die by the sword.
Around the Savistri Mansion, an orchard grew. The walls around it had been long ago swallowed by the forest, and few now living knew the path that led to the wizard DeSilva's door. Here, in the terraced gardens of the Mansion and the orchard filling its grounds, Sorcha and Desilva lived, thinking that the world would forever pass them by. They had few servants; an old Darian warrior who had been DeSilva's guardian when the wizard was a boy, and remained his faithful retainer even now; an aged couple who had been charcoal-burners until they stumbled by chance upon the Mansion and accepted its master's offer to stay; a one-eyed horse that DeSilva had raised from the dead when its mortal span had passed, and a collection of ghosts and spirits most of whom were DeSilva's relatives. The revenants of his grandfather and great-grandfather, and a spirit that claimed to be the ghost of his father's childhood, the shades of his mother and his aunt, all of whom had perished in the wars, haunted the Mansion's grounds.
Among the trees of the orchard stood a stone monolith, the grave of a knight who had died in single combat and been buried, according to Kellion tradition, on the spot where he fell. This warrior had been the Old Daishen, Sabra's predecessor, the First Knight of Kellia and champion of knighthood.
It was here that Sorcha came when she missed her sister, to lay flowers on the grave and think of all the things she had never told Sabra, all the apologies and confessions unmade.
DeSilva, who kept his own sorrows in his own way, said nothing of how Sorcha chose to process her grief, and none of the servants disturbed her when she visited the grave.
She was surprised, therefore, and frightened, to find one day the blood-red helm and armour of the Daishen, piled neatly at the foot of the grave. A chill went through her, though the summer air was warm. Drawing back from the grave, she looked about and saw, at the edge of the trees, someone watching her. At first, Sorcha did not know who it was; a woman taller and more muscular than most men, dressed in boots, dark breeches and an off-white shirt. Her red hair was cut roughly as if with a knife and her green eyes shone even across the width of the lawn.
“Sabra!” Sorcha ran towards her, laughing and crying, but pulled up short a few feet from her sister.
Though they shared the red hair and green eyes of their Silvan ancestry, two more different women could not be linked by blood. Sabra had worn armour day and night for many years, developing her body into a powerhouse of muscle. She had also been blessed, in the hidden sacred valley of Avellar, with beauty and stature beyond mortal birth. Meanwhile, Sorcha had earned no honour in the wars; captured by the enemy, she had been enslaved and taught obedience that she might be used in the evil magic of the Naril, a sect of warlocks now extirpated from the world. They had tattooed Sorcha from head to foot, marking her with the sigils that permitted them to summon up their dark powers without harm to themselves. Sorcha had escaped, and eventually made her way home, but she had been forever changed.
She stood before her sister now, staring up into the shining emerald eyes that had seen things beyond mortal comprehension. At last, bereft of any other speech, Sorcha said, “Your armour...?”
“I took it off,” Sabra smiled. “Months ago. I have only worn it a few times since.”
This alone was a stunning change; Sabra had lived in her armour as if it were her own skin, not even removing it to bathe. The stench of blood and battlefields that had clung to her for years was gone now; she smelt of woods and wilderness, a sweet, clean smell compared to the dark aroma that had followed her so long. There was a change in her face too, the stern lines around her mouth and eyes softened as if she had at last found whatever inner peace she had so long sought.
“Where have you been?” Sorcha asked, still staring up at her sister.
“Everywhere.” Sabra laughed happily and took her sister by the arm. “Come, let us go inside.”
“What about your armour?”
Sabra glanced back at the gravestone. “It is not unattended.”
“But you've not put it off forever?” Sorcha could not keep the slight lift of hope out of her voice, but Sabra shook her head; briefly, a shadow of the old intensity flickered across her face.
“No. I will have need of it again. But I have been granted a holiday.”
Sorcha looked again at the armour, shivering at the eyeless stare of the blood-red helm. The corselet was, she knew, haunted by an ancient spirit, the Old Daishen, the gestalt consciousness of every warrior to have ever worn the armour. Last time Sorcha had seen Sabra, there had been no telling where the woman ended and the armour began, as if she had already become one with her predecessors.
It was only as they walked back towards the Mansion that Sorcha noticed her sister's sword, wrapped in a bundle and slung over one shoulder. Besides the blade, Sabra carried no baggage.
“How did you get here?” Sorcha asked. “Don't you have a horse?”
“I walked.” Sabra glanced down at Sorcha, still smiling. “I spent a few months in a little village south of here. At first no one knew who I was; I just worked in the fields.”
“But then...?”
Again the darkness shadowed Sabra's gaze. “The Old Daishen informed me that it was time to leave.” Then she smiled again. “I would have come here eventually.”
For the first time, Sorcha's happiness at seeing her sister again faltered. “Was it the Old Daishen who told you to come here?”
Sabra was unperturbed by her sister's change in tone. “No. I wanted to come. I am very glad to see you again, Sorcha.”
They had reached the threshold of the Mansion; here Sorcha paused.
“Monte will be pleased to see you.”
“And I him.” Sabra agreed. “I am happy for you both.”
“Are you?”
“There was a time when I dreamed of killing you both,” Sabra confessed lightly, as if it were a normal thing to say. “But that was years ago. I told you I forgave you last time I was here.”
“I didn't believe you.”
Sabra laughed as they stepped into the Mansion. “There are very few who enjoy the privilege of thinking the Daishen to be a liar.”
Sorcha chuckled, knowing it to be true, and at that moment the master of the house appeared in the hall; Montesinos DeSilva, black-haired and still as handsome as in his youth, dressed in a blue cloak over dark Kellion clothes, a book open in one hand and his eyes upon the page.
“Monte!” Sorcha yelped. “Look who it is!”
DeSilva almost dropped the book in surprise. “Bloody hell! Sabra!”
He turned quickly, passing the book back to some unseen other still within the room behind him. A moment later he had his arms around Sabra and Sorcha, grinning hugely.
“Yes, I know,” Sabra said, before he could speak. “You never thought to see me again, nor I you; I swore a vow and so on and so forth. It was a foolish oath; I thought myself the perfected knight, even as I rode here in arrogance to show off what I had become.”
“You said some harsh things,” DeSsilva reminded her, and she nodded.
“Yes, I did. But I said kind things too, and some things that were wise.”
“True. Come on; into the study. Tell us all your adventures.”
Sabra and DeSilva took up armchairs beside the fireplace while Sorcha went to the drinks cabinet beside the wizard's desk. The whole room was lined in bookshelves, countless ancient tomes gathering dust in the warmly lit, lived-in room. The book DeSilva had been reading when he stepped into the hall was now open on the desk.
“To whom did you pass the book?” Sabra asked, accepting a glass of sherry from her sister.
“Hm?” DeSilva feigned incomprehension, but Sabra repeated her question and the wizard was left with no option but to respond; “Oh, just, one of my retainers; what we call in magical circles 'an agency of despatch'.”