by A Van Wyck
The priest’s eyes softened. Brief pain pulled at one corner of the keeper’s mouth and he ducked his head to hide it.
“I heard you were doing better.”
Heard?
“How?” he frowned.
“I’ve had your instructor keep me abreast of your progress, of course.”
Master Crysopher?!? His eyes narrowed on the priest.
“Why?” he demanded.
The priest looked up, eyes widening in surprise.
“So I’d know when you were ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“Why, when you were ready to resume your studies, of course.”
Resume– what? There was a strange buzzing in his ears.
“Unless you’d rather not,” the priest added hastily, taking in his expression.
Shock. And then… traitorous excitement, bubbling in his gut.
“And my training here?” He couldn’t leave yet. He hadn’t beaten Djenja. And someone needed to look after Lokus. And he’d probably fallen years behind his academic peers in the last few months anyway.
“You’ll continue them, naturally,” the keeper assured. “Master Crysopher was quite adamant. But we can’t neglect your education, so I’ve arranged to take you for a few bells in the evenings. We’ll need to limit your curriculum of course, having so little time. But, by my reckoning, if we concentrate only on your strong points, namely history and language and their peripheries, we can cover a lot of ground and still afford to give you an evening or so off every week.”
The priest regarded him nervously, no doubt making more sense of what he was feeling than he himself was.
“If you want…?” the keeper offered finally.
He stood motionless, trying to make sense of the emotional quagmire in his head. The anger and betrayal he felt were fraying in their effort to attach to the Keeper Justin who stood before him. In the face of the rising tide of relief, disbelief and (excitement was the wrong word but he didn’t know the right one) he felt himself shaking. A great hand was squeezing the air from his lungs.
Sensing his shift in mood, the priest smiled, robed shoulders relaxing. He felt himself echoing that smile.
“It’s settled then,” Keeper Justin declared.
CHAPTER 5 – SPRING
The Colonel was in his war room, painting his soldiers. Actually, he was holding the soldier upside down by the head and painting the man’s horse. An Imperial black. He was quite pleased with it. It had taken to the mold perfectly, with no blemishes or bubbles. He dipped the tiny brush again, peering through the mounted magnifying lens. He’d paid extra for the Temple work but you couldn’t scratch the lens with a knife. With a delicate hand, he traced the border between horse and saddle, careful not to smudge the brown paint. Satisfied, he sat back and blew lightly on the little figurine.
Heaving himself out of his chair, he crossed to the massive map table. He glanced fondly at the green felt landscape, an accurate rendition of Maller’s Field, three leagues to the west. Or at least, an accurate rendition of what Maller’s Field had looked like at the Battle of Maller’s Field, fifteen years ago. He’d spent a lot of time pouring over the historic accounts to get it just right. Stretching up onto his toes, leaning precariously on the table’s edge, he placed the newly painted cavalryman among his galloping compatriots. The wedge of horse was moments from leading the charge that had broken the Renali force’s right flank. The Imperial banner fluttered triumphantly from the newly added soldier’s harness.
The colonel studiously righted the company of skirmishers his gut had flattened before wandering back to his desk. He picked up the next little plaster figure, dipping his brush.
A hurried knock sounded on the heavy double doors.
“Come!”
“Colonel, sir!” his major burst into the room, face flushed in what the colonel considered a color unbecoming of an officer. The man was even breathing heavily.
“What is it, Major?”
“Renali elements, sir!” the man wheezed.
Oh.
Nothing serious then. Returning his attention to his work, he put the first stroke of paint on the little figure between his fingers.
Small parties were sighted from time to time. About the only action the fort’s complement saw these days was chasing the Renali soldiers back across the border their Kingdom refused to recognize.
“Scouts?” he enquired distractedly.
Really. Why the man felt it necessary to run up here every time a bird flew across the sky, he didn’t know.
Keeps him fit, I suppose.
There was little enough to do here. It was the front line only in name anymore. The war had cooled some time ago, with most of the Empire’s resources shipped off to fuel the Skordian campaign. The last pitched battle between the Kingdom and the Empire was more than ten years gone. Minor skirmishes were the best the Renali got up to these days.
“No, sir!”
The colonel raised his eyebrows, which was as close as he came to surprise these days. War parties were rare but not unheard of. They’d become even rarer in recent years and, when spotted, seemed to favor running instead of closing.
“Then,” he amended, “I trust we gave chase?”
“No, sir. They came to meet us.”
Now that was more like it. The colonel grunted satisfactorily.
“Gave them a good what for, did you?” he enquired, some of the old military bluster creeping back into his voice.
“No, sir, you don’t understand,” the major struggled, immediately regretting his choice of words as a slow frown spread across his commander’s face. “They came to meet us. Rode in under a flag of truce, sir.”
The colonel straightened with a startled jerk.
The major was a career man and he’d seen the expression that graced the colonel’s face on other superior officers before now. He hurried to explain.
“Minimal military presence, sir, headed by some kind of diplomat. Says he’s carrying a message from their king to the Emperor. Showed me the scroll, sir. It’s all sealed and official. He’s insisting we provide him with an escort to the capital.”
Powdery pieces of plaster horse pattered onto the colonel’s desk.
“Sir?”
* * *
“Your sword,” the master said, walking among them, “is a tool.”
Kneeling, his hands open and relaxed atop his thighs, Marco felt the master breathe past. Like his classmates, he sat with his eyes closed, concentrating on the master’s voice. They were fewer in number now. The past two years had reduced them from two dozen to just sixteen.
“Your enemy,” the man continued, light footsteps padding away, “is not the man across from you trying to kill you. Your enemy is your mind.”
He tracked the master’s voice as it moved between the orderly rows of student.
“It is the mind that panics. It is the mind that doubts. It is the mind that will tell you you’re too tired to fight on and it is the mind that will tell you you’ve already lost.”
The master padded silently between the mute students.
“I have done my best to train your bodies into doing your thinking for you. But that is not enough. As you are, you are all dangerous. Even if, as in some cases, only to yourselves.”
Marco’s lip twitched. The master never let them forget how wide the divide was between themselves and the exalted ranks of the masha’na.
“To be truly lethal, you must learn to divorce your thoughts from your actions. Mute your mind. You must let your body do what it must without interference. This, we call your fighting focus. When it is kill or be killed, it is often the less skilled but more focused who leaves the battle alive.”
A familiar uncertainty came over him. He’d been thinking about this a lot recently. Would he be able to do it? Take a life? Murder was against Helia’s teachings and Helia’s teachings were the foundation of all that he was. And yet, hadn’t the disciples of Yorimund thrown him from the sea
cliff where he’d turned away from the goddess? Hadn’t Prelion strangled the traitor Nalifas in his bed and been rewarded for it by instant ascension into Grace? The sacred texts were clear on both counts, which were but two of a host of examples of some very holy men doing some very violent things.
He and his classmates were in training to become holy warriors, sanctioned by Helia and her Temple to protect the faith and the faithful from the evil of men and their hosts of false gods. That was not murder. It was Helia’s will being done, as it had been since the founding of the Empire.
Even knowing that, it would still be his hands around the sword hilt. He would have to look into the eyes of his vict– his enemies. It gnawed at him. He’d wanted to discuss this with Keeper Justin but had found himself tiptoeing around the issue.
He knew what bubbled inside his secret heart. He’d seen it and been afraid the keeper would see it too.
A face, indistinct yet familiar, seamed in old scars and laughing in a rough voice, swam before his eyes. His back tensed and his nostrils flared at the remembered stench of sour ale and old sweat, of the feel of blunt fingers.
His skin crawled. His jaws bunched.
He very much feared he could kill.
“You must learn to act without thinking,” the master continued. “For some of you, I suspect, this will come quite naturally.”
The master’s voice continued to weave among the motionless students.
“So let’s see what you are capable of.” A few footsteps went by without a word. “Listen to the sound of my voice,” he instructed. “Breathe deeply. In through your nose, out through your mouth. In,” he took a deep breath, echoed by every student, “and out.”
There was a flurry of exhaled air. “In,” he continued, “and out.” They breathed slowly, the master’s voice, the focus of everyone’s attention, acquiring a hypnotic quality. “In… out. In and out. Good. Keep breathing. In. And out. In. Out.”
The footsteps passed close on their random circuit.
“Feel your lungs,” the master said into the silences between in- and exhalations.
“Feel their strength.”
In. Out.
“Fueling your heart.”
In. Out.
“Feeding it with life.”
In. Out.
“Hear your heartbeat.”
In. Out.
“Hear its power.”
In. Out.
“Feel that energy…”
In. Out.
“…pumping through you...”
In. Out.
“…feeding your muscles.”
In. Out.
“Making you strong.”
In. Out.
“Feel it in your legs.”
In. Out.
“Now get up.”
He rose, only distantly aware of the rustle of others doing the same. His legs were powerful beneath him.
“Breathe.”
He did.
“Now… The first dance.”
He raised his seirin.
“One…” the master counted.
He shifted into the first pose he’d ever learned. Feet spread, seirin reversed.
“Two.”
He stepped forward, seirin sweeping in a slow arc.
“Three.”
He moved his hind foot, pivoting on his front to bring his seirin around in a new strike, aware of the others doing the same.
“Four.”
No one bumped into anyone else. Not a seirin touched anyone besides its owner. He lost himself in the comfort of the dance, letting his body take over.
“Thirteen,” the master finished.
He retracted his lead foot, returning to a guard stance.
“Now,” the master said, maintaining the hypnotic voice, “anyone who feels they can extend this exercise into some sparring, raise your hands.”
He didn’t have to think twice about raising his hand. He wasn’t the worst student in class anymore.
“Everyone with their hands in the air, remain as you are, with your eyes closed. Remember to breathe. Keep your focus. The rest, open your eyes and move quietly toward the racks.”
There was the sound of bare feet padding off to one side.
“I will come around to you one by one and lead you to your sparring circles. Keep your eyes closed until I say otherwise.”
There was the sound of padding feet, moving back and forth singly and in pairs across the court boards. He let the hand that settled on his shoulder steer him to the third sparring ring and turn him to face his invisible opponent.
“Alright,” said the master’s voice. “Open.”
There were no official ranks in the court. Everyone was assigned random rooms. Tasks and chores were divided equally. But that didn’t mean everyone didn’t know where they stood in relation to everyone else. Of the sixteen students, Marco was in the middle at eight. Lokus was ten. The twins, Snicker and Giggle, would have been numbers four and four but were four and five instead. Djenja was number one.
And the boy across from him, with his pronounced Imperial features, icy blue eyes and kinked hair, all the product of generations of carefully arranged marriages between the High Houses, was number three.
Jeral of House Stalia’s mouth seemed to be permanently set in an amused sneer. Lokus said it was because they’d left the silver spoon in too long. Whatever the case, the boy’s every shift of weight echoed confidence. Eager light danced in his icy eyes. As third and youngest son of House Stalia, Jeral’s father had enrolled him in the Temple until such time as he’d be drawn back into the political machinations of the Imperial court.
Other than that, he didn’t know much about Jeral. Except that the position at number three was deserved.
He resisted the urge to see if the other pairings were similarly unequal. His focus wobbled and he breathed deeply.
In. Out.
He reached down for the faceguard someone had placed next to his starting line. Across from him, the noble’s son did the same, smiling eyes holding on him until the guard obscured them.
He raised his seirin before him.
Calm down, he told himself. In. Out.
His opponent had the longer reach. He’d have to try and close fast to get under that guard.
“Begin!” the master’s voice rang out.
He charged from his line.
He’d caught Jeral off guard, unmoving and unprepared to meet the charge.
He lunged.
Jeral was lightning, skipping out from under the attack, wisps of escaped golden hair trailing like an afterimage.
Thwack! Thwack!
He felt the bite of his opponent’s seirin on his elbow and high on his upper arm. The numbing pain was only a beat behind. Clenching his teeth, he whirled, transferring his seirin to a one handed grip and dropping down into a crouch. But his opponent didn’t press the advantage.
Jeral had retreated, standing relaxed and unconcerned once more but on Marco’s starting line.
Confused by this odd behavior, he tried to find the glint of those smiling eyes within the shadow of the brow guard… and found in them something he’d never thought existed within the court.
Abruptly, he understood the calculated insult. His opponent’s lackluster defense was a jibe at his inferior skills. The lightning attack, its paralyzing fire even now enveloping his left arm, had been punctuation to that effect. And taking his starting line – like candy from a baby – was a bald taunt. It might all have been coincidental… if not for the disdain those eyes heaped on him.
Taken aback, his eyes darted to find Master Crysopher, wondering why the master didn’t call Jeral to task for– And that was perhaps the bitterest realization. For what? Technically, Jeral wasn’t doing anything wrong, fighting as best he was able and moving freely around the circle. It was the intention that colored the insult. And the intention was beyond proving.
Whipping his head back, he saw the gleam of teeth behind Jeral’s face guard. The noble h
ad read his fleeting glance in the master’s direction and had guessed his thoughts. Now those eyes sneered at him.
Baby gonna cry?
Sudden heat in his spine drew him upright and he rolled his shoulder to gauge its remaining range of motion. If Master Crysopher couldn’t do anything – the next thought popped into his head naturally – what would Keeper Justin do?
What did the keeper always say to him when he was stuck with a difficult problem?
“Use what you’ve got.”
What did he have?
He let the seirin droop to his side, aware of his opponent’s sneer hitching higher. He breathed gently, letting the guiding words rise from his memory. He might be new to this fighting focus. But he’d spent months and months getting good at the streaming trance. The comforting lullaby of the keeper’s words flowed, quelling all his wayward thoughts. Despite lack of practice, the calm of the trance embraced him like an old friend.
He stepped forward.
The sneering boy met him head-on this time, seirin flicking out to punch past his guard and into his stomach. He caught the blow on his own seirin, turning it aside with a deafening clack! A beat of dead silence hung between them, slowly filling with the sudden outrage that streamed from Jeral.
And then blows were coming down like hail. He weathered the furious assault, pushing himself to turn each one. The sound of the two seirin slapping at each other devolved into a rapid staccato, as fast as a man could clap his hands.
A frustrated hiss rolled from behind the noble’s face guard.
His answering bloom of pleasure threatened the trance and he fumbled his next parry. He leapt away hurriedly but not before his opponent had snuck past his guard. He grunted as the seirin’s blunted tip punched into his side, driving him back another step. The trance wobbled like a spinning top. He saw the next swing coming, saw that he wouldn’t block it in time and dove away, rolling. He felt the leather tipped wood tug at his robes.
He came up in a sprinter’s crouch, facing away from his enemy. The trance steadied. Through the bare soles of his feet, he felt the boards jump at his opponent’s pursuit. He threw himself forward, his feet flying to keep up with him. Blindly, he whipped his seirin behind him. Feet thudded as Jeral narrowly avoided the unexpected attack.