House of Veils

Nineteen: The Sword-Swallower

I blinked and the whining mosquitoes flitting around my face were loud in the ensuing silence. For several moments, I wasn't sure what to say. Then, I glanced at Devin and the others for support, but none of them said anything. The curse of the fakir was fearful, and could take many forms, all of which were the most unpleasant and powerful of all. He could transform me into a snake and charm me with his music. He could cause a deadly horror, a plague on my skin. But there was no point in reminding myself of all the horrors he could inflict on me.

I laughed and said, "I told you, sir, I can't. You must be joking."

"I have heard about you, Sarafi, the great magi-warrior who bested a hundred men in battle single-handedly," he insisted, "Your brutality, your strength and your ferocity is rare for your age. Now, show me your skill. As such an advanced magi-warrior, you must be powerful enough for such a trick."

I shook my head, eying his blade, and for the first time noticing how long and big it was. And so sharp that the tip was blinding.

"I have never accomplished such a trick," she said.

He insisted, "You are being modest, I am sure. Your sword is a part of your soul, is it not. So it comes to logic that it would not hurt you. That is how magi-warriors swallow swords. They blend it with their bodies."

"Perhaps they do, but I cannot," she said. Devin shook his head, ever so slightly at me. A warning. Do not turn away fakirs. Respect their wisdom, only this fakir did not know who I was. And if I pushed a sword down my throat, it would kill me.

"You must. Unless," he added, "You are not who you say you are." I stared into his withered eyes, rented apart with lines enough to fill a map. For a moment, I wasn't sure if he said it or if I, in my paranoia, imagined it. But then, he cracked a smile which turned into a laugh. The others joined in, their shock turning to laughter.

He said, his smile no longer reaching his tired, aged eyes, "Are you not Sarafi un-Nissa?"

I searched his eyes and finally said, "I am. I am Sarafi un-Nissa."

He said, "Then, swallow the sword, Sarafi. Do it." He reached out with withered fingers, drew my talwar and placed it in my hands.

"Swallow it," Fariya urged, "Don't be shy." I should have listened to the House's orders. I might not have ended up here.

I held my talwar in front of me, running my mind through my sword-swallowing lesson. I pressed my forehead to the blade. Magi-warriors worshipped blade and blood, and Sarafi would have been no less. A hundred warriors in one night, though. That was shocking.

I raised my talwar in an arc, remembering – don't push it in from the sides. Take it directly above your mouth and drop it in. I raised it above me the tip bare centimeters from my chapped lips. My very, very soft lips.

First, hold the blade right.

I gripped the blade with my fingers and thumb out, and for several minutes moved it around till I was sure it was directly above my mouth and would slide easily into my throat. I wished I could shut my eyes but that would surely get me cut. My mind filled with other horrific images – the blade renting out my throat, or slipping from my grasp and stabbing my stomach, or...

I pulled myself back. Now was not the time to be considering this. I believed I could do it, or I was lost.

I parted my lips and opened my mouth wide like a guppy. My tongue pressed into the base of my mouth. I did this one time, and torn my mouth open. This time, if I did that, I would end up in the Crypt.

Sweat beaded backwards, soaking through my hairline and running down my ears. I blinked up at the burning Sun as it climbed the sky. My fingers trembled and I stopped.