Light in the Darkness

by CJ Brightley

  He stuck out his attempt and I smiled. “It’s a start. Tighten your hand. Straighten your wrist to make a straight line from elbow to the ends of these bones, in the knuckles here. You hit with the first two knuckles.”

  He nodded.

  “Pull back your hand, so your fist is on your ribs, the inside of your wrist upward. Lower.” Again, a common mistake, but easy to correct.

  “Put your left hand out.”

  He straightened his legs for a moment, wincing in pain.

  “Back in your stance. It hurts now, but it will get easier. Punch like this. The front hand moves back and twists so that the inside of your wrist is upward. The punching hand moves toward the center of your body, twisting at the very last instant.” I demonstrated several times. “See? Twist at the end. It gives greater power. Always keep your wrists straight unless you want to break them. You try it.”

  He moved his hands slowly back and forth, frowning in concentration. It made me smile a little to see him trying so hard.

  “Good. Keep your shoulders square and don’t lean forward. Power comes from your hips, not your shoulders. We’ll work on that later.” It was nearly dark. “Keep your weight low in the stance. You should feel strong, the tension arcing across the outside of each leg to support you.”

  He nodded. “There’s plenty of tension. Now what do I do?”

  “Practice. Those two stances and the punches are enough for tonight.”

  He nodded and punched several more times. I stood in front of him and placed his outstretched fist on my stomach. If I’d been his height, it would have been on the soft spot just below where the ribs join together with the breastbone, since his stance was nice and deep. It was a good height for him to practice.

  “Punch.”

  He punched halfheartedly, his fist scarcely touching my skin. He glanced up at me, a split second of bright blue before he swallowed and looked away. I wondered if he felt uncomfortable touching my dark skin, whether he thought I was dirty because I was a Dari. I was sweaty no doubt, but no worse than any man after a hard practice.

  “Again.” As I had thought, he was punching off to the side, his right hand veering right, left hand veering left. “Punch to your centerline. Imagine a line down the center of your body and punch to that, not off to the side. A punch from your left hand or your right should land in the same place.” The next punch was better, though he was still scarcely touching me. “Now, punch like you mean it.”

  He glanced up at me again.

  “Go on.”

  He punched harder, but he didn’t drive through his target, his knuckles barely grazing my skin.

  “Do I disgust you?” I stepped back.

  He looked up at me, looking very pale in the growing darkness. “What?”

  “Does my dark skin offend you? Do you not punch me because you don’t want to touch my skin, or because you aren’t used to the idea of striking anyone?”

  He drew himself up in righteous indignation. “Have I ever said anything unkind about the color of your skin? I have many flaws, but this is new! I think you are being unfair this time.” His voice rang out clear and high with anger.

  I smiled. “I was only asking. Forgive me if I’ve offended you. You wouldn’t be the first to be disgusted.” Far from it.

  He spat, a most unbecoming act for a future king, but I didn’t bother to hide my smile.

  “I’ve never met a Dari before you, but I’ve never considered Dari less than Tuyets, or Senga, or any other race. I am not in the habit of punching people. Is that so strange?”

  “No, it isn’t. But it’s a habit you may have to develop. Consider it a gesture of friendship then, as we punch each other in practice.”

  He laughed for nearly the first time since we had begun our training. “I hope you’ll take into account that I’m not used to being hit, either.”

  I bowed with a smile. “Of course.”

  “I’d like to practice a little more tonight.”

  I nodded and took up my position in front of him again. “Don’t be afraid to punch me. Here is your target.” I made a circle with my hands and put it in front of my stomach.

  “Punch.”

  He did, a little harder but not much.

  I shifted a few inches closer. “Again.”

  Again he scarcely touched me.

  “Punch through me, not at me. Your target is three inches into my belly. Again.” That was better. “Again.” Better still. “Keep going. I’m too close for you to shorten your punches and maintain good form. Punch through me.”

  He looked up at me, then concentrated. The next few were better still, though hardly powerful; he was learning.

  I stepped away. “Keep punching like that, through your target. I’m going to practice again.” I moved to the center of the clearing and assumed the balance position from earlier. Up and down, arced into the leap and the flip. Good. Then again. And again. Then the sequence of kicks. My foot had been out of place on the same kick the last two times I’d done the whole sequence. Sloppy.

  5

  “I’m out in four months. I’ve done my time. I want to see my children. Every day, not just for a week twice a year.” Mikoto speaks to me quietly.

  “That’s understandable.” I try to push down my envy. A wife. Children. I would give almost anything for those joys.

  Yuudai is the first to realize we have a problem. He shouts to warn us. The scouts must have been killed already. There are Tarvil everywhere. They are among us before we can organize. Our formation is ragged, but we are well trained, and we pincer the Tarvil among us as we close ranks.

  They have archers. They outnumber us. Badly.

  We make them pay dearly for their victory, but we are lost.

  Blood spatters across my chest, Yuudai’s blood. His throat is open, but even fallen to his knees, he brings up his sword with his last strength to block a blow meant for me.

  Sword brothers.

  We will die together.

  My chest blooms into brilliant pain, searing. I am staring along the length of a javelin at the sun-streaked sky.

  I woke with a jerk. My chest hurt, a heavy ache, and I sat up, hunching forward to rub the scar with my left hand. The pain was in my mind more than my chest. I tried to calm my breathing.

  “Are you well?” Hakan was up on one elbow looking at me.

  “Fine.” I closed my eyes again. Phraa. It still felt like the shaft of the javelin was grinding against my ribs with each breath.

  “Do you want a drink or something?” He sounded a little frightened.

  “I’m fine.” I lay back down and stared up at the stars. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him stare at me a minute longer before settling down again. It took a long time for my shoulders to relax and to sleep again.

  “Do you dream of battle often?”

  “Sometimes.” I didn’t want to talk about my dreams.

  I could hear him breathing hard behind me as we hiked up a steep hill. We’d moved on northeast that morning from the clearing where we’d camped for weeks.

  He didn’t question me much that day. I set a quick pace, and I suppose I looked rather grim, because when we stopped for lunch he glanced at me a few times and ate in silence. Dinner was the same.

  The next day we started early but stopped while there was still good light left so I could practice. I hadn’t been training much while I concentrated on Hakan’s training, and I didn’t intend to let myself get too far out of practice. He threw himself on the ground and watched tiredly as I began.

  Deep breath. Relax. The sequence I had done before, the hardest one I knew. Three times, then again. Then the strengthening exercises. The balancing move, again, over and over, and yet again. Jumping into the flip, legs extended in proper form. Always proper form. Often people forget how important it is; they get sloppy and lazy. But the form was designed to be the most efficient, the most effective, the best possible way to move for the given goal. The flip, again and again.

&nbs
p; I wonder sometimes how much of my success as a warrior is because of my great size and strength, for which I can take little credit, and how much is attributable to my need for perfection, the insatiable desire to do it better, the willingness to sweat and bleed in training, to train longer and harder and not to rest until I have done it right.

  Afterwards I was spent, and I lay in the growing darkness with the calls of insects and birds surrounding me in a trilling roar. The exhaustion was soothing, comforting. It took my mind off the dreams, the loneliness, the sorrow. The sense of failure. It would have been impossible to know about the ambush, but that didn’t stop the memories from returning. Just as it was impossible for me to earn my place in Erdemen society.

  Finally I stood, almost shaking with fatigue. Hakan had gathered some wood, and I fixed our dinner in the vibrating air of a spring evening, when everything with a hard exterior rubs its legs against its body, calling for its mate. Or two or three mates, as the case may be.

  I heard the flap of a night hunting bird above us and the soft rustle of small rodents in the leaves well back from the fire. We ate in silence, and I rolled myself in my cloak for the night. Hakan too rolled up in his cloak, but after some time I heard him sit up and move closer to the fire. It was quite dark, the embers glowing faintly under a layer of ash. He sat near me, behind my back but within reach. I could feel his eyes on me, though I did not open mine.

  I half-expected a knife blade between my ribs, the knife I’d chosen for him. I had not been especially kind to him that day; I’d been irritated by his grumbling. His complaints had diminished in the past weeks, and he’d helped me with the simple work of provisioning ourselves. Though he was no great hunter, he would gather firewood, roots and kiberries, and I’d showed him how to make a simple stew from dried or fresh meat and whatever could be gathered in the wood. I’d taught him how to shoot the crossbow and how far to lead his target when shooting something small like a dove or purflin. He did not have the gift of good marksmanship, but he showed more patience than I’d expected. I’d taught him to aim for the lungs when shooting deer with the larger arrows, and how to clean his kill afterwards. How to roast meat, and how to wrap it so it would stay fresh for several days.

  Yet that day he’d complained about the food, the walking, the heat of the sun and the cold of the water when we waded through a small stream. Then it was his wet boots. He was a boy yet, but would perhaps someday be a king. He tried my patience. At eighteen, I was an officer in the king’s suvari, commanding men twice my age. Complaints about wet boots would not have been tolerated.

  I waited, my breathing even and very calm.

  Finally I asked, “What do you want?”

  He spoke very quietly. “You don’t like me, do you?”

  “What?”

  “You don’t like me very much, do you?”

  I answered with my eyes closed. “Does it matter?”

  He was very quiet, poking a stick into the embers. Finally I rolled over and looked at him. He turned his face away and brushed angrily at his cheeks, though not quickly enough to hide the shiny streaks of tears. I sat up, feeling guilty and awkward.

  “I like you well enough.” I could see his jaw clench in the dim light. “What do you want me to say?”

  He shook his head wordlessly, stabbing the stick into the ashes. I waited, my eyes drifting closed though I still heard him clearly.

  “If you don’t like me, if you don’t believe in me, then who else will? And who’s to say you should? Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m not good enough, and it would be better if I left. Better for everyone.”

  I put one hand on his shoulder, feeling more guilty when I realized how thin he was. Maybe he wasn’t eating enough. “You’re not ready yet, but when the time comes, you will be.” I cursed my lack of words, my inability to speak more kindly.

  “Do you think I’m a coward?” His words were very quiet as he stared into the feebly glowing embers.

  “I think you’ll need to exercise your courage more now than you have in the past.”

  He choked out a short bitter laugh. “You mean, ‘Yes, Hakan, you are a coward.’”

  “Nay, I think not. I think you haven’t been pushed until now. Being pushed isn’t a comfortable thing, Hakan. I wouldn’t expect you to be happy with it.” I squeezed his shoulder a little, hoping it was a comforting gesture. The bones shifted beneath my fingers. I fed a small branch into the embers. It blackened and then a tiny puff of flame started its burning. “What did you study, in your education as a prince?”

  “Trade. History. Diplomacy. Military strategy. Mathematics. How to manage the various ministries. Languages. Common, Kumar, Modern High Tongue, archaic High Tongue, Rikutan, Ophrani. A little agriculture. Riding. Swordplay, though you’ve seen how badly I failed at that.”

  “All those things are necessary for a king. Swordplay is not, though it may be necessary as you regain your throne. But it is a good way to exercise your courage. Later you’ll have the entire army to do your fighting for you, and it won’t matter if you’re a bit slow in your strikes. It’s earning your throne that counts now, Hakan, not your skill with a sword.”

  He looked at me, eyes glowing oddly in the orange light of the fire. “Why do you push me, Kemen? I don’t even think you like me, but you make it sound as though you would make me king. Why? If you don’t think I would be a good king, why do you bother?”

  I must have been harsher than I’d realized, for in truth I was warming to him, despite my frustration that day. “It’s your right. You’ve been trained for it. I believe you’ll be a good king.” I phrased it as a certainty that he would become king, though we both knew it was still a question.

  “I think only a few things are lacking in your education, and they aren’t things I’d expect you to receive in the palace. Courage. You have it in you, but courage grows by exercise. A willingness to work hard without complaint. The job of a king is often a thankless one, open for much criticism but little gratitude. As a prince, you were pampered and spoiled; it isn’t your fault you haven’t worked hard until now. But as king, that will not continue. Best to learn to work hard now, rather than when your nation depends on you. An awareness of the problems that those outside the palace face. This you will learn as we near the border. I imagine it will help you form your policies as king, and perhaps even show you how to regain your throne.” I clapped my hand on his shoulder again.

  “I don’t think it matters much whether I like you or not. But if you care, I do. We need a king as we haven’t had since before the Famine began, and I see the promise of that great king in you. I’m doing my part to help you grow into that role, for it is a large one and challenging. If I didn’t believe you could do it, I wouldn’t push you so.”

  I don’t know how encouraging my words were, but that was all I could think to say. “Now get some sleep.”

  He poked the fire for another moment, looking very thoughtful. Finally, he turned away and rolled up in his cloak, and I did the same.

  Did I believe he’d be a good king? I’m not sure what I believed, but the words had come to me. I am not given to untruths, so I suppose deep inside I must have believed it.

  6

  The rustle of the breeze in the leaves above us the next morning sounded like a rushing stream, cool and fresh in the crisp spring air. Hakan’s voice followed me. “What would you change about the army if you could?”

  I thought for several moments before I answered. “The army bases that used to guard the borders have been weakened by lack of men. Too many good, experienced soldiers are retiring, or have been killed in stupid campaigns like the one to the southwest against the Ophrani and the one to the northeast against the Tarvil. Men aren’t an inexhaustible resource, even for a king. Soldiers must have faith that their sacrifices are worthwhile. We’re not afraid to die, but no man wants to throw his life away needlessly.”

  “What else? Anything in the training? In the pay?” Every question was followed by a
nother.

  “The training is very good, but it suffers as the best men retire. That’s what has given Erdem such strength. We have the numbers, the rigorous training, and the intelligent leadership to use our men well. Every soldier will say they would prefer to be paid more, but in truth the pay is fair enough. If you wanted to attract more volunteers, it would have to be raised.”

  “The army is supposed to reward merit rather than birth. Is that true?”

  “For the most part, yes.” They were good questions, and I was glad to hear him ask them.

  “Good. That is good to know. What’s it like, being a Dari in Erdem? What is different for you than for a Tuyet?”

  That one was harder, and I hesitated. “I’ve never been a Tuyet, so my perspective is limited.”

  “Of course. And I know what the books say. But what have you seen?”

  We had reached a small stream and I took off my boots and rolled up my breeches to wade across.

  “In the army, I didn’t stand out as much. Soldiers have traveled around the country and most have seen Dari in the southeast and Senga in the south, so they aren’t as put off by my appearance. Civilians often fear me. Some of that is because I’m a soldier and there aren’t as many about the country now as there were in the past. Some of it is because of my dark skin and my size.” Some because of my green eyes, but not all Dari have that affliction. The stream came nearly to my knees, and I rolled my breeches up further before continuing on.

  “What else? I know the Dari used to have a hard time of it in Erdem. How is it now?”

  The Dari were never slaves, not as a race anyway, though slavery has existed in Erdem sporadically throughout history. Dari were prized as warriors, especially in the dawn of the Third Age and the Steeling, when their fighting prowess helped the tribes jostling for resources. The tribes were defined more by location than by race, and the Dari played a role larger perhaps than their numbers would justify.

  But they were always viewed with a bit of suspicion by the Tuyets, and never fully assimilated into Tuyet culture. Most still live in Joris, in the southeastern mountains, where they don’t trouble Tuyets and Tuyets don’t trouble them. There has always been tension, perhaps a bit of disgust, on the part of Tuyets toward Dari. Our dark skin does not wash white.