The Outstretched Shadow

by Mercedes Lackey

  He’s enjoying this! Kellen thought, caught halfway between his own anticipation at another lesson and a flash of exasperation at Jermayan’s high spirits. Of course, he isn’t the one who’s going to get hit.

  But despite the fact that he was tired from the long day’s ride, and the fact that he suspected there was a bruise under the armor where Jermayan had managed to land a blow on him that morning, Kellen found his spirits rising to match Jermayan’s. There was an indescribable rightness that he felt when holding the sword in his hands. And the longer he thought about it, the more sure he was that he had finally found the work he was supposed to be doing.

  Was this how Idalia felt when she called on the Wild Magic? If so, it was no wonder that she seemed so contented, and so willing to use it whenever she was called upon, even if the cost to her was high. And happy—or at least happy when she wasn’t thinking about Jermayan. Kellen only wished there was some way he could tell her that he understood at last.

  On the dry sand of the riverbed, Jermayan used his scabbard to scratch out a circle about twelve feet across.

  “Here is our dancing floor,” the Elven Knight said. “You must try to push me out over the boundary. I will do the same to you. If I succeed, you have lost. If you succeed, I have lost. In battle, it is important never to give ground except by your own choice, so that an enemy cannot move you into danger. Come now, and we will begin.”

  Kellen quickly discovered that this was harder work than simply blocking Jermayan’s blows had been. Over and over, Kellen found that he had blocked every blow … and still been forced to give ground exactly as Jermayan wished him to.

  “How are you doing that?” Kellen demanded as Jermayan stepped back once again and raised his blade in salute, looking down to see his foot once again over the edge of the circle.

  “Most warriors step back to block,” Jermayan explained, taking pity on Kellen at last. “It is a common instinct, because it helps to absorb the force of a blow. You, knowing this, will use it against your foes. It will help you force your enemy where you wish him to go. Step sideways when you attack, and you can turn him as well, for he will always turn to face you without thinking about it. Now, let us try again, and this time, step forward as you block.”

  They went on, and Kellen discovered that Jermayan was right. This time Kellen forced himself to push forward instead of stepping back each time Jermayan attacked, and this time Jermayan was unable to force him out of the circle.

  But that only meant that the sparring match continued without the breaks that had come each time he’d stepped out of the circle, and Kellen’s muscles were not yet hardened to the burdens of sword and armor. If Jermayan was a patient instructor, his kindness did not extend to their physical combat, and if he pulled his blows at the last moment, he showed Kellen no other mercy. As the blows came faster and faster, Kellen’s sword seemed to drag at his arms, until at last Kellen saw a blow coming but was unable to get his tired arms up to move his sword quickly enough to block it.

  Jermayan pulled back at the last minute, the flat of the sword landing with a gentle click against Kellen’s armored thigh.

  “A good beginning,” he said warmly, stepping back. “Stamina will come with practice, young Knight.”

  Kellen took a couple of staggering steps backward, his head swimming with exhaustion and his body beneath the Elven armor—how in the name of all that was holy had he ever thought it was light?—soaked with sweat. With shaking muscles, he sheathed his own sword and staggered out of the teaching circle, feeling as if he were barely able to move. He was sure his armor suddenly weighed a thousand pounds.

  He twisted his gauntlets to the side and pulled them off, but was barely able to force his cramped fingers to undo the clasps of his helmet. Gritting his teeth, he set the helmet and gauntlets carefully on the ground, pulled off the leather gloves beneath, then moved to unbuckle his swordbelt.

  “Not easy, is it?” Shalkan asked, looking on. The unicorn had been an interested spectator at Kellen’s first real lesson, but, Kellen had been relieved to find, had not offered any helpful advice—or distractions.

  “No,” Kellen said, discovering at just that moment that although he could unbuckle the swordbelt, he couldn’t reach up to pull it off over his head while wearing the armor. “But I guess nothing worth having ever is,” he added, trying to sound as grateful as he knew he would be when he wasn’t as hot, sweaty, and just plain tired as he was at this particular moment. Until he could get the baldric off, he couldn’t get the surcoat off, which meant he couldn’t get any of the armor beneath it off.

  “Good answer,” Shalkan said. “Reach up under the surcoat and pull out the shoulder-pins on the gorget—that’s the big neck piece. The sleeves will slip free, then. With the sleeves off, you can reach up to loosen the gorget and lift the whole thing off in one piece.”

  It was difficult to reach across himself in full armor, but possible. Kellen drew the locking-pins free and slid the armored sleeves down his arms, then unpinned the gorget, and, with a burst of inspiration, bent and wriggled out of the whole mass—armored collar, surcoat, unbuckled baldric, and all, off over his head. He set them down quickly and lifted off the back and breastplate, suddenly impatient to be free of the armor. The quilted padding beneath was soaked through with sweat, and clung to him clammily.

  He felt strangely light and unfinished without the weight of the armor, though, as if it had somehow become an extension of him today, and almost regretted removing the last pieces, though certainly not enough to leave them on. He untangled the elements of the armor carefully, folding the surcoat neatly, replacing the locking-pins in their places, and setting everything where he could find it easily in the morning, then went to find a change of clothes.

  There was one other important thing he had to do as well.

  When they’d ridden out that morning, the keystone had been tucked safely up in one of the mule’s packs, but the more he’d thought about the arrangement, the less Kellen had liked it. The keystone was vulnerable. All their enemies really had to do to win was destroy it or get it away from them, and even if he hadn’t seen any sign of enemies so far, Kellen couldn’t assume that happy state would continue as they rode north.

  He dug through his gear until he found the satchel Idalia had given him—filled with herbs and supplies for Wild Magic—and stowed its contents carefully among his other gear. The satchel was just large enough to hold the keystone wrapped in its spell-caul, and he could attach it to his sword belt. He might look a little odd that way, but he’d feel better if he had the keystone with him at all times.

  “Good,” Jermayan said briefly when he glanced up and saw what Kellen had done.

  And after all, he didn’t have to say anything more.

  By the time Kellen was done making his arrangements, Jermayan had already changed and had started a fire. Kellen changed as well, toweling himself off briskly all over, then rubbing himself with a bag of herbs that Idalia had given him for the purpose in lieu of a bath. The creek here wasn’t deep enough to bathe in, and the water was muddy and uninviting besides. At least Shalkan could purify what they’d have to drink later.

  As he’d expected upon close inspection, there was a greenish tender patch along his ribs where Jermayan had gotten him. Kellen winced as his fingers explored it. That was going to hurt tomorrow, and if the way the rest of him felt was any indication, it wouldn’t be alone. Why did all of his adventures seem to start out with a fresh set of bruises?

  He regarded his underpadding unhappily as he spread it out to dry. He hoped there’d be some way to clean it along the way, or after a few more bouts with Jermayan, he was going to smell about as attractive as week-old carrion.

  It was starting to get dark now, and Kellen felt the weight of a full day of riding and hard physical work. But he felt much better for being dressed in clean dry clothes with his hair combed out, and whatever Jermayan was cooking smelled good. He picked up the satchel with the keystone—he f
elt better keeping it where he could see it—and came over to the fire.

  “Take off your tunic,” Jermayan said, greeting him.

  “I want to see how badly you’re bruised,” he added, when Kellen didn’t move, “and without a good application of allheal to your muscles, you’ll be too stiff to train tomorrow morning, let alone to ride for a full day afterward. Now sit,” he said mercilessly. “You can eat after you’ve been tended to.”

  Kellen pulled off his tunic again and sat, trying not to wince as he folded himself into a sitting position. He was already starting to stiffen a bit.

  Jermayan poured, and reached across the fire to press Kellen’s fingers around a tall pottery cup. “Tea.”

  Idalia had always seemed to greet every crisis or stirring event with a cup of tea, and now Kellen knew where she’d picked up the habit. The Elves seemed to feel that every moment, good or bad, called for a cup of tea; Kellen was only surprised that he hadn’t been asked to fight with a cup in one hand and a sword in the other, though possibly that would come later. He raised the cup and inhaled, sipping cautiously. The tea tasted strongly of mint, with other musky but not unpleasant flavors beneath, and was heavily sweetened with something that wasn’t the honey he was used to.

  Jermayan knelt behind Kellen, a large pot of salve in his hand. It was that, Kellen ruefully realized, that he’d smelled heating, and not dinner; it must contain some of the same herbs as the tea did.

  Jermayan inspected the bruise on Kellen’s ribs critically. “Not as bad as it could be, but you would dislike to ride with it tomorrow.” He scooped up a generous dollop of the salve—Kellen watched out of the corner of his eye—and applied it to the discolored area, kneading strongly.

  It hurt. Kellen set his teeth and refused to complain as Jermayan worked the allheal into his aching side, working with no more respect for Kellen’s flinches than if Kellen had been a bowl of dough. When he stopped, Kellen breathed a sigh of relief—cut short when Jermayan began again on his neck muscles, with as much ruthlessness as before.

  “Hey—ow!” Kellen exclaimed, despite his best intentions, spilling tea on himself.

  “You’re tight as a drum,” Jermayan said, announcing the fact as if he were discussing the weather. “If you want your body to be able to do what your mind tells it tomorrow, you’ll let me work … or do you want me to be able to give you a set of bruises to match that one?”

  Not really.

  Kellen forced himself to try to relax as Jermayan worked the allheal into the aching muscles of his neck and shoulders and arms. Once he got used to it, it actually felt good.

  “Now you can dress, and we’ll eat,” Jermayan said at last.

  Kellen straightened up and reached for his tunic, realizing he’d actually almost fallen asleep. The next thing he realized was that he could stretch without stiffness. He felt tired, but that was all. Tired, but good. And beneath that, confident. That was something he’d never really felt before, Kellen realized with quiet surprise. He couldn’t really remember a time in his life when he hadn’t been worried about something—being found out; not living up to expectations that seemed to change daily. But now, when there were real things to worry about for the first time in his life, somehow, he wasn’t bothered about them. What would come, would come. And he would face it then.

  “Allheal is sovereign for ills of the body,” Jermayan told him, holding up the jar where Kellen could see it. “Its herbs can be made into a tea as well, and in that form give strength and rest. It can be used to doctor bruises and small cuts, and to poultice a lame hoof.”

  “I hope you’ve brought a lot of it,” Kellen said, grinning wryly as he pulled his tunic back on.

  “More than I think we’ll need,” Jermayan said with simple approval.

  Kellen shrugged his shoulders experimentally beneath his tunic. They felt fine. “Huh. Jermayan, that stuff works!”

  Jermayan smiled quietly, and said nothing.

  By now it was almost fully dark. Jermayan prepared their dinner, showing Kellen how it was done so that Kellen would be able to take on his fair share of the chores once he’d adjusted to the new routine of lessons and riding. Not that Kellen needed to be shown much, except for the differences between Elven taste and human—different spices and herbs, mostly. He’d taken his share of the cooking at Idalia’s insistence that everyone should know how to cook, and that the only way to learn to cook was to do so. Kellen had never been a good cook—and had never mastered baking at all—but he wasn’t helpless, especially on the trail.

  Since they were heading into unknown lands and could neither expect to find friendly villages nor stop to hunt along the way, Jermayan had brought Elven journey-food. These rations were simple and efficient; compressed blocks of dried meat, fruit, and grain that could be either eaten as they were or cooked to produce a stew.

  Kellen was relieved to see that at least for the first night or so, there was fresh bread and cheese to accompany the journey-food, because he meant to fill up on that. He and Idalia had eaten journey-food that she’d gotten from the Mountain Traders on the way to Sentarshadeen, and Kellen remembered it vividly: tough, bland, greasy, and nearly indigestible (as well as nearly indestructible). Even Idalia hadn’t been able to make it palatable. Better than starving, of course. Probably.

  But when Jermayan passed him a bowl filled with a thick soup, Kellen received a pleasant surprise.

  It smelled good.

  Kellen reached for his spoon and took a cautious taste.

  It had spices and flavor, and when he encountered a bit of meat, it was actually chewable. He glanced at Jermayan, hoping he didn’t look as startled as he felt.

  “It is better if it has longer to cook, of course, but well enough,” Jermayan said critically. “Ah, I see from your face that you have experience of human journey-food. Vile stuff. I would not shoe mules with it. Kellen, we Elves have had a very long time to learn to do things properly. If one must travel, there is no need to starve while doing so, and there is surely no need to make every meal an ordeal.”

  Afterward, all that was needed was to prepare for morning, bank the fire for the night, and to make ready for sleep. Tonight they were still well within the borders of Elven lands, so there was little danger of ambush, and both Valdien and Shalkan slept lightly, so there was no need for either Kellen or Jermayan to stand guard. Later, they might need to find some way to keep watch, but for now, they could rely on the keen senses of their hooved companions.

  KELLEN slept deeply that night. He dreamed half-consciously; once he realized he was dreaming he struggled against it, for the only dreams Kellen ever remembered having were nightmares of his flight from the Outlaw Hunt, and of Demons.

  But these dreams were different. In them he soared in flight over an unfamiliar landscape, looking down upon it as he imagined a bird in flight must view the world.

  He realized with a distant sense of discovery that he was looking down at the terrain ahead, and as that knowledge came to him, it seemed he could see it in a way that no human could, as if he were seeing it as something that had been assembled from a thousand different elements, and somehow he could see every part at once. Not seeing the surface, but seeing all the way through it, yet seeing all of it, as though he were the architect of its creation.

  And as he viewed the scene below him, he had a sense of the land’s weakness and strength. It seemed to him that he could feel the baneful orderliness radiating outward from the Barrier he could not yet sense, and feel those things that had fallen prey to its spell as well as those that yet withstood it and remained true to their own natures. In the land below he had a sense of things struggling and dying, and other things resisting … so far.

  It was as if vast amounts of information were being pressed into his mind, so much that he could not consciously contain it all. The more he tried to grasp what the land was trying to tell him, the more the knowledge slipped away, leaving nothing behind but the impression that it had once been there,
until at last, filled with frustration, knowing that he was forgetting important things but unable to stop himself, Kellen awoke.

  It was still dark, and the fire was no more than a few dim coals. He could see Shalkan, sleeping curled with his legs tucked beneath him, his head upon his knees, but Valdien and the mule—a pale blur and a dark—were no more than a vague impression of size. That he could see them at all meant that dawn was not far off, though.

  Kellen sat up quietly, feeling for the keystone and his sword. They were where they should be. He took a deep breath, calming himself and trying to summon back his dream, but could remember nothing more than the feeling of flight and the memory of being able to see everything about the true nature of the world at once. And that there had been definite signposts of the route they were to take.

  He looked around, orienting himself more by the landmarks he’d picked out when they’d made camp yesterday than by the stars, since they were unfamiliar and the moon had long set by now. Even though the dream was fading, enough of it remained to enable him to match the dream-landscape to his real-world surroundings. North and west … he concentrated, dropping into a light trance and trying to bring back the same perception of unnatural order he remembered from the dream. It was hard to put into words—almost a flavor, almost a color—but Kellen knew now that he’d recognize the Taint of the Barrier when he encountered it.

  And he had a sense, almost a strong hunch, of the direction to follow. It deviated a little from the course they’d picked yesterday. Today they could see if he was right.

  “Is everything well?” Jermayan asked quietly. The Elf Knight had not moved, going from sleep to wakefulness in silence.

  “I had a vision.” Yesterday it would have seemed silly to Kellen to say something like that. Today the words seemed almost natural. “I think I have a better idea of the way we should go, anyway.”

  “That makes good hearing.”

  Jermayan sat up and lit one of the small lanterns they carried with them—Elven cooking fires were designed to produce heat, not light, so they carried lanterns with them as well. By the bright cheery glow of the lantern, Jermayan unwrapped a disk of charcoal and slid it in among the coals of the fire’s embers to kindle, then got to his feet and stretched.