***
The next day was quiet. His mother and sister were occupied with their packing, though she didn’t plan to leave for another two days. Matthew was still busy with his preparations, so much so that Gram couldn’t even find him to tell him that stealing the sword hilt would be easy…assuming that his mother didn’t take it with her.
He spent a couple of hours riding, simply to ease his boredom. He didn’t look forward to his training that afternoon, since the only thing he ever got to do was sit still and learn to enjoy being bitten by insects.
Cyhan led him to the same place after lunch. He gestured to the same spot with a long slender rod. No explanation was necessary. Gram sat and grew still.
This was his third day of sitting. He had learned from his first experience to make sure he took a comfortable position in the beginning, since he wouldn’t be permitted to shift about or adjust his seating. Cross-legged seemed to work best, but his ass would still go numb. He knew that when he was allowed to stand later, his legs would throb, and his knees would scream. The ache his lower back would acquire wasn’t anything to sneer at either. They were unfamiliar sensations for someone of his age.
There’s some trick to this, he thought as the first hour drew to a close. Maybe he’s waiting for me to protest, to refuse to sit any longer. He can’t seriously want to spend four or five hours watching me sit here silently. He couldn’t see his teacher, but he knew Cyhan was there, standing behind him, somewhere beyond the edge of his peripheral vision.
Maybe I’m failing by sitting here. Maybe I’m supposed to refuse, to show my determination.
He tried to stand, feeling his legs falter from lack of blood flow, then he fell reeling, a sharp pain blossoming across his lower back. Rolling over he saw his mentor standing there, rod in hand.
He hit me!
Adrenaline surged through him, and despite the numbness and tingling, he surged to his feet. The energy that Matthew had given him had faded over the past two days, but he still felt uncommonly fast. “Stop,” he ordered his teacher.
The older man watched him with dead eyes and then moved to the right. Gram flinched, preparing to dodge the next strike, but he only succeeded in putting himself in the path of the next blow, which came from his right. This one was to the side of his head.
“Sit,” commanded Cyhan.
“What is wrong with…” began Gram, but a new blow caught him on the back of the neck and the pain stole the words from his lips. He lost his temper then, feeling his blood begin to rage. He leapt up again and moved to one side, hoping to gain enough ground to escape his tormentor’s strikes until he could gather his wits.
Two more blows sent him to the ground, and he felt blood trickling down from his scalp. Before he could recover, he felt the tip of the rod against his throat. “Stay down, boy. Don’t even think of baring your teeth at me.”
Gram swallowed, looking up at the warrior from the corner of his eye. He was face down on the ground, and he could taste dirt and blood in his mouth. He opened his mouth to speak but paused when he felt the pressure on his throat increase.
“I haven’t given you permission to speak.”
Gram froze, closing his mouth. Something in his teacher’s voice told him he would regret it if he chose to rebel any further. He wouldn’t kill me, said his rational mind, but his gut was telling him something entirely different.
“Take your position; sit and be silent.”
He did as he was told, not even daring to wipe the blood from his face as it dripped into one eye.
“Today was your first mistake, so I will give you some advice. Stop thinking. This isn’t a game or a riddle. I’m not waiting for you to figure out some hidden meaning. I’m not here to teach you to think.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon repeating the same lesson from the two previous days. The blood on Gram’s face dried and cracked, making his face itch even more than before. At some point close to the end of their usual period, his teacher spoke again.
“You may ask me questions now.”
“Why do you want me to be still?” asked Gram.
The wooden rod in Cyhan’s hand twitched, rising. “Have you forgotten your first instruction?”
The younger man felt a cold chill. “Zaihair!” he blurted out.
The other man nodded, “Repeat your question.”
“Why do you want me to be still, Zaihair?”
“Because you needed to learn,” said the old knight. “Find a better question.”
He had spent most of the afternoon doing nothing else. Sorting through them quickly, Gram picked another, “I’ve seen you training knights in the castle yard, Zaihair, but I have never seen you make them do this. Why are you making me sit when they don’t?”
“Better,” said Cyhan. “I am teaching you more than how to wield a sword, or wear armor. I owe a debt to your father, and I have no son of my own, so I intend to teach you Zan-zei. The first step is learning stillness.”
“What is ‘zan-z-eye’?” asked Gram, pronouncing the word as carefully as he could.
“It means, ‘the unnamed path’,” explained Cyhan. “One more question, and then we are done for today.”
I have a hundred questions! Gram thought furiously before settling on one, “How will sitting still make me a better fighter, Zaihair?”
“Stillness alone will not do anything for you, but you must learn it before you can understand movement,” began his teacher. “Silence, of the body and mind, will make you aware of the world. When you become completely still, your body will vanish, only then can you observe your opponent, become your opponent. To do that, you must defeat yourself first.”
What is that supposed to mean?!
“Rise. It is time to return.”
Chapter 8
A large hand gripped his shoulder, forcing him to pause before he got too close to the horse. “Wait Gram, go slowly. Give them a second to know you’re there,” said his father.
He looked up at his dad, uncertain. He just wanted to get closer, to touch them. Surely that couldn’t be wrong?
Dorian smiled, teeth showing beneath his thick mustache. “You’re still small; if you go scurrying in at your normal speed, you’ll startle them. They don’t want to hurt you, but if you scare them, you could get stepped on or worse.” His eyes flicked to the large stallion in one of the stalls at the end. “Stay away from that one, though. He’s not too friendly.”
Gram eased forward, going slowly now. Reaching out with one hand, he lightly stroked the horse’s brown coat. “There… there,” he chanted, repeating the words he had heard his father say many times before, “there’s a sweet girl.”
“Do you like that one?” asked his father.
He nodded, looking up again. The smell of leather and sweat passed by his nose, along with the acrid tang of metal. They were smells he had long ago come to associate with his father.
“She’s younger than you,” revealed Dorian.
Gram looked at him in surprise. The mare was enormous to his young eyes. She didn’t look like a child; her size was close to that of the other horses. “Really?”
“She’s just a yearling.”
“How old is that?”
Dorian laughed, “She’s a little over a year old.”
“Can I ride her?” asked Gram hopefully.
His father shook his head, “I’m afraid not, Son. Though she looks big, she’s not ready yet. She has to grow some more, and her bones have to harden. She’s still too soft. You can ride her mother, though.” He pointed at a larger mare, one that was looking in on them, her head passing over the gate that separated the stable from the outer corral.
“What’s her name?”
“The mother is called ‘Star’, she used to belong to the Queen’s father, but the Count bought her years ago,” explained Dorian.
“No, her name,” repeated Gram, petting the yearling to make his question clearer.
Dorian smiled, “Well, that’s what
I brought you here for—it seems no one has given her a name she likes yet.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, but I think it might be because we’re all too old. She might like a name better if it came from someone young.” Dorian brought out a strangely formed brush with large teeth and began to move it in wide circular, sweeping motions. “This is a curry comb,” he explained. “You have to be careful with it, just use it to loosen up the dirt in her coat.” Putting the brush in his son’s hand, he demonstrated by moving Gram’s hand over the yearling’s side.
“Do you think I’m young enough to name her?” asked the five year old.
“Maybe,” said Dorian as he let go of his son’s hand, watching carefully to make sure that the boy kept his movements smooth and gentle. “There’s only one way to find out.”
Gram stopped, glancing at his father and then back at the young filly. “Pebble,” he told her confidently. “Do you like that?” He spoke to her seriously, with all the gravity that only a child can feel when addressing such a creature.
The horse looked at him from one large brown eye, her ears pricked forward at the sound of his voice. Bending her neck, she blew suddenly, her warm breath tickling his ear and neck, and then she nudged his head with her muzzle.
“She likes it!” said Gram excitedly, looking upward for his father’s approval.
“Oh no!” exclaimed Dorian in mock chagrin. “I was afraid that would happen.”
Gram frowned, “Why?”
“Well, that means you’ll have to take care of her from now on. She’s chosen you. It’s a heavy burden for a boy of your age.”
“I don’t mind,” declared Gram. “I can do it!”
Dorian studied him carefully for a while, as if thinking deeply. “Very well,” he said at last, “I guess there’s no help for it. Let me show you the other brushes then. This one is called a ‘dandy’ brush…”
“Wait,” said Gram, suddenly unsure.
“What, Son?” asked his father.
Looking down at his hands Gram realized he wasn’t five, not anymore. He was bigger, far too large, he was fifteen. Clarity washed over him, and sadness replaced his former wonder. Looking at his father, he felt tears start in his eyes, “You’re dead.”
As soon as he said the words, he knew it was a mistake. He shouldn’t have said them, he had violated the rules. The dream was over. Dorian looked at him sadly.
“How is your mother?” asked his father. “And little Carissa? Are they well?” His body was changing, growing harder, crystalline.
“They’re fine,” said Gram hurriedly. “But we miss you.”
“I know, Son.” Dorian’s arms and legs were different now, alien, composed of what seemed to be pure diamond. Even his eyes were changing now.
“I love you, Dad. Please don’t go,” whispered Gram desperately.
“I love you too,” said his father. Long blades were growing from his arms. He backed away to leave more space between them, his body was sharp and dangerous. “Give you mother and sister my love.” A mist rose from the ground, and the world grew hazy.
Gram woke from his slumber and clenched his stomach, fighting to suppress the involuntary sobs that his dream had evoked. Drawing deep breaths he relaxed, though in his mind he struggled to hold onto the last wisps of his vision. Awake he felt again the loss, but even worse, he could no longer see his father. The face in his mind wasn’t truly from his memory, it was the face in a portrait. A painting his mother had had done of the two of them, before his death.
He was no longer sure he could remember his father’s real face anymore, except in the dream—maybe.
Gram Thornbear sat up in his bed. In the next room he could hear his mother moving already, preparing for her trip. He stood and crossed to the small bookcase on the other side of his room. Drawing out a dusty book on geography, he opened it, cautious to avoid letting its contents spill. Years ago he had hollowed the interior of the book, once he was certain that his tutors would no longer expect him to refer to its contents. He had created a round space, just large enough to hold the fist-sized ruby that was all that remained of Dorian Thornbear.
In the dim early dawn light the stone seemed to almost glow from within, though he was sure it was his imagination. He held it in his hand, trying to recall his father’s face again. A faint warmth against his palm eased the ache he felt in his heart.
Putting the stone away, he closed the book and replaced it on the shelf. He had never shown the stone to anyone, though he couldn’t say why. His mother and sister deserved to see it as much as he did, but he never considered telling them about it. It was his. His mother had her memories, her children, and the broken sword. Carissa couldn’t remember their father at all.
But this was his birthright. The image of his father’s face might fade from his waking mind, but the red stone was physical, it was real. No matter how his memories faded, the ruby heart would always stand as proof that his father truly had existed.
Gram left the room feeling calmer. He would help his mother finish her packing and loading, and later the three of them would make their sad goodbye’s.
***
Two days later Matthew was standing beside him in Rose Thornbear’s bedroom. They were looking at the broken sword on the wall.
It was big. Thorn, before it had been broken, had been six feet in length, from the pommel to the tip of the blade. The piece on the wall was the hilt, quillons, and a foot and a half of the blade itself. Most of the actual blade that remained was the ricasso, an unsharpened region just beyond the quillons that could be gripped when necessary for certain maneuvers, such as when the fighting was too close to effectively swing the sword in the usual manner. The ricasso ended with two triangular flukes that served as a type of smaller hand guard; beyond that the blade was double edged.
All in all, the piece on the wall was almost half the original length. Matthew looked at Gram, “Well?”
“What?”
“Are you going to take it down?”
“You’re the one who wants to remake it,” reminded Gram.
“But it belongs to you,” Matthew pointed out.
“It belongs to my mother,” Gram remarked.
“You’re the heir,” said Matthew.
“So?”
“It wouldn’t be right for me to take it down,” said his friend. “It would be like…”
“…stealing?” finished Gram.
“Yeah, sort of,” agreed Matthew. “It’s symbolic. He was your father, so you should take it down, and then hand it to me.”
Gram snorted, “If I didn’t know better, Matt, I’d say that you were superstitious.”
The young wizard gave him an exasperated look. “My father slew most of the gods, I don’t think it’s possible for me to be superstitious.”
“Sentimental then, like my Nana,” said Gram. Nana was his name for Elise Thornbear, his grandmother.
Matthew grinned briefly, “Alright, I’ll accept that. We have been looking up at this sword for years after all.”
Since his friend had given up the argument, Gram decided there was nothing left to do but take the sword down. Carefully, he gripped Thorn by the ricasso and lifted it away from the hooks that supported it on the wall. Shifting his grip, he put both hands on the hilt and held it reverently, close to his chest, with the blade pointing downward. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the feel of its weight settle in both his hands and his mind.
Matthew waited patiently, not wanting to interrupt his friend’s reverie. When Gram opened his eyes again, Matthew held out his hands for the weapon.
Gram started to hand it over, but then paused. “You said you’d make a duplicate, but when you finish, what will Thorn itself look like? We can’t hang the mended sword back on the wall.”
“We could just leave the duplicate there,” observed Matthew.
“That wouldn’t be right.”
Matthew smiled then, “I knew you would say that. Don’t w
orry. It will look exactly the same as it did before.”
“I thought you were going to fix it?”
“I am.”
“But…”
Matthew grew serious. “This was once one of the finest enchanted weapons Dad ever crafted, but it will be even better when I’m done. It will be like nothing done before. Trust me.”
Gram handed him the sword. “The rest is down here.”
“The rest?”
“Yeah, they went back and collected the other pieces after everything calmed down,” said Gram. “She keeps the rest in this case.” He pulled out a slender wooden box and opened it. Inside were four pieces of the shattered blade.
Matthew pursed his lips pensively. “I suppose I can make copies of those too. I never knew they recovered the rest of it.”
“If you don’t want to use them that’s fine,” replied Gram.
“No, I’d rather use it all, since it’s here.”
“Does it make any difference?” asked Gram. “I mean, does using the already magicked steel make it better or easier?”
The young wizard shook his head. “No, there’s really no magic left in it. When it shattered, the enchantment was ruined. This is just steel now.”
“Then why do you want to use it?”
Matthew’s blue eyes stared into his, “You know why.”
Gram nodded, “Yeah.”
Matthew unfolded a leather sack that he had brought with him, opening the top to slide the pieces of the sword into it. When he had finished, he folded it back up and put it into a pocket in his coat.
“Was that one of those magical pouches your father makes?”
Matthew grinned again, “Nope. Something new.”
“Like how?”
“Dad’s are a variation on a magical portal. They open into a storage container the he has hidden somewhere else. Mine doesn’t have a container hidden anywhere. It actually opens into a small pocket dimension…”
“Stop,” said Gram.
His friend’s face fell. “But it’s really important, because I’m going to use the same principles in part of the enchantment…”
Thornbear (Book 1) Page 7