by Ana Mardoll
Her answer, if she made one, was lost in a bloody gurgle. Caran waited until death was certain, then opened the iron doors and slipped out. Outside, Janeida started from where she'd been resting against the wall. "What happened?" she demanded, eyes wide as she took in Caran's sopping wet cloak clutched to ner nose.
"She's dead," Caran answered with no joy in the telling. "Don't go in there. The room won't be safe for anyone else until morning. Thank the stars she left the windows open, otherwise the poison would take days."
The woman's eyes almost leaped from her head. "Poison?"
Caran hesitated, realizing belatedly the danger nee was still in. "We call it 'king's favor'," nee offered, letting ner heavy cloak fall away from ner lips. "It's quite lethal without the necessary protective charms. Anyone who eats the sap or inhales the smoke when it burns will die without immediate treatment."
Janeida stared at ner and Caran could see the questions in her eyes. When she opened her mouth to speak after a deep breath, however, all she said in her gruff tone was, "Interesting name."
Nee choked back a laugh born of panic, grateful to be alive for a little longer. "Well, the southern herbalists have a morbid sense of humor. Lovely golden-orange blooms, as rich to look at as any other flower you could name; but it'll turn on you as soon as not and its wrath is lethal. So."
The woman shook her head in exasperation. "Yeah, little witch, I got the joke. Now what?"
Caran stared at her, licking ner cracked lips and longing for dry clothes against the lingering draft. "You could take me home?" nee suggested, lifting ner eyebrows in supplication and daring to dream.
Janeida nodded. "I could take you home," she agreed, her gaze direct in the flickering darkness. "I could take you to the Eastborne wall while people panic over the queen's death and her favorites backstab each other in a bid for power. Or you could stay in Northnesse where by law a witch is a witch, and every witch is a valid claimant to the throne regardless of the strength of their magic. I can tell you right here and now that every man, woman, and child in this keep would rather crown the weakest witch I'll ever meet than one of the dead queen's hunters." She held Caran's eyes with her own. "So now what?"
Nee blinked at her, feeling dizzy after the combination of cold and heat, of ner fear and subsequent relief. Ner hands ached where the fire had singed them, and nee longed to find the right herbs in ner sack of samples to heal them. Most of all, nee wanted a good night's sleep and possibly a guard to ensure nee wouldn't be choked to death in the night. The experience had left ner with no desire for a repetition.
"We need you, Caran." A note of desperation in Janeida's voice tugged at ner heart. "The hunters would continue the late queen's policy of killing their competition, but you could stop the purges. You could tear down the wall and bring back our healers and let babies grow up in peace without being taken from their parents on the say-so of a glowing gem. You could help us and we would help you."
"A crown and a promise not to stab me in the back as long as I don't turn horribly evil?" Caran sighed and sagged backwards against the iron door, running a hand over ner eyes. "You realize if I do this, the Magic Guild won't pay my wages?" nee pointed out, a dry smile finding its way into ner voice. "You'll be crowning an impoverished hedge-witch of no account within the Guild, with a shady past as a spy for hire."
Janeida flashed ner a triumphant smile, throwing a steadying arm around ner shoulders and shuffling ner down the stairs. "We'll have the royal accountants send them a bill, obviously. You have a lot to learn about nobility, don't you? We behave as though money means nothing to us, but in truth we're parsimonious to a fault. You're lucky you have me at your side to explain these things. Now let's clean you up, Your Majesty. You have an image to maintain, shady history notwithstanding."
His Father's Son
Content Note: Violence and Sexualized Violence; Bloodshed; Death of Family, Parents, and Minor Children
Steel rang against steel as Nocien's saber struck his master's blade. A dozen clear notes sang in quick succession, each marking another metal kiss while his feet danced over the smooth earth of the circle: step forward, step back, lunge in, leap out. Each step was a light bounce, always ready to reverse away from unexpected trouble or to press forward towards a glimpsed opportunity. The trick was to stay moving, never slowing down or pausing for breath. A tired opponent became sloppy, making mistakes and leaving openings for attack. Stamina as much as skill determined the outcome of any battle.
Master Hilon lunged forward with his blade and Nocien threw himself backwards as his wrist twisted, bringing his own sword around to parry. Another beautiful clang sang out as their swords met, accompanied by the soft scuff of dirt under his feet. The footwork was almost second nature to him now, as much a part of his body as the dances he'd been taught as a child by his mothers. He felt the urge to laugh, delight bubbling up through his throat, but he knew by now not to waste the breath. Every scrap of air, every speck of his attention, must be devoted to the fight or he would lose his head.
There! An opening, he was sure. Nocien lunged forward as Hilon stepped back from his parried attack, swinging his blade to strike his master's wrist; if he could take off the hand, or at least sever the wrist cords, his opponent would drop his sword and the battle would be won. His saber connected, slapping the hard leather glove that covered his master's hand and arm up to the elbow, but Hilon's blade twisted in the air; it caught and threw glittering sunlight as naked steel carved a wide cut across Nocien's unguarded chest.
"Hold!"
Nocien lowered his sword, panting for air; worked up as he was, his armor felt too tight and his protective mask too stifling. He was hot and sweaty and the muffled voice from behind his mask sounded belligerent even to himself. "I disarmed you, master! I struck true and hit your wrist before the cut."
Master Hilon shook his head and a few long strands of hair escaped their bindings under his helmet to trail on the breeze. "Your hit wouldn't have stopped my cut, Nocien. You slowed the strike but it was still deep enough to kill. You're dead now and have only mildly inconvenienced me for your trouble; my wrist will heal."
"Well, of course your wrist is only lightly wounded, Master; I was holding back!" Even with thick boiled leather covering their faces, arms, and chests, both fighters had to practice care when using real blades. Nocien had been allowed to hit harder while training on switches cut from trees, back when he was learning how to aim and channel force into each blow. Now that they were perfecting his balance and technique, he was forced to moderate his strikes and sessions tended to descend into argument.
Grave eyes studied Nocien from behind the opposing helmet. "So your plan was to hit hard enough to take off my hand before I could cut you, thus rendering the opening you left impossible for me to seize?"
Nocien chewed his lower lip, not liking the options laid out before him. He would have preferred to argue he'd left no opening at all, but the leather covering his chest boasted a long pucker below his collarbone in proof to the contrary. Therefore, either the opening was an accident or he'd allowed it on purpose; one explanation was a blow to his pride but the other was false. He'd not planned to create an opening, he'd just seen an opportunity and leaped after it, overjoyed at the prospect of defeating his master—a rare treat in the ring.
"I thought I saw a chance to disarm you," he admitted, looking away to study one of the brush shrubs ringing the campsite. "My plan was to end the fight quickly with a decisive attack." He rallied, belligerence creeping back into his voice. "It was a strategy to avoid drawing out the fight in case of other attackers."
His master's laugh was little more than a huff of air. "Well, you certainly did end the fight quickly. Nocien, an attempt to disarm is good but not when it leaves you open to attack; you can't gamble on its success to save your life. And if you're expecting numerous opponents, risky attacks that leave you open to being wounded are even less wise than usual; you'll die from attrition." A pause ensued, almost gentl
e. "You know that."
Nocien was glad his face was hidden behind his mask, feeling heat rise under the birthmark on his cheek as he flushed. He did know better, but had been carried away in the pleasure of the fight and forgotten the reason for his training. He couldn't afford to learn careless habits just because these practice matches weren't real. Taking a deep breath, he hefted his saber. "Sorry, master. Start again?"
Hilon lifted his saber to touch Nocien's in midair. "Not yet. Swing at my wrist again, the way you did before but more slowly. There, stop and hold. You see how I twisted to exploit your opening?" He moved his blade in a wide arc, sweeping over Nocien's chest as gently as a feather. "Can you tell me how the same attack could be made without leaving you open to a counterattack?"
Sweat beaded on his forehead behind the mask and the urge to scratch became almost overwhelming. Nocien pushed aside the discomfort as best he could, studying the frozen scene and ignoring the ache in his stationary arm. If he stepped closer, he'd just bring his chest further into Hilon's blade; if he stepped back, he wouldn't be able to connect at the wrist in order to disarm him. "I need longer arms," he observed, shaking his head with old annoyance. His build was slighter than Hilon's, something no amount of training would alter.
"The battle doesn't go to the man with the longest arms," countered Hilon, laughing another soft huff. "Lean up on the balls of your feet. Support your weight with your toes and arch your shoulders back."
Nocien blinked at the command. "What?"
"Lean up on—"
He shook his head. "I heard you, master. I don't understand, but I'll try."
The order seemed preposterous, but Nocien took a breath and pushed so his heels lifted from the ground and only the front halves of his feet carried his weight. The blade pointing at his chest dipped lower on his body as he rose, and as he rolled his shoulders back he was able to draw away from the saber without losing his position at Master Hilon's wrist. He blinked and looked up at his master's waiting eyes.
"What have you learned, Nocien?"
"Flexibility can make up for my shorter arm length? But, master, I'm easily off-balanced when contorted like this." He wobbled in the warm summer breeze to demonstrate the effect. "I can't fight on my toes."
This earned a chuckle. "No. You can't fight on your toes. But you can land on your toes when you lunge for the disarm and pull your shoulders back when my wrist turns. Every finger-length away from a blade counts. You're already light on your feet, Nocien; lighter than any of my boys. You can be lighter still."
Nocien was glad again of the mask covering his face, this time because it hid the gratified smile that flickered over his lips before he caught it. Hilon brought his sword up to clink against the opposing saber in a starting salute. "Now we start again. Look for the same opening this time and attempt to disarm—"
"Father!"
The two men whirled as one, turning in the direction of the frantic shout. Lykos, the youngest of Hilon's sons, rode at full pelt on his horse towards their camp. The animal's hooves thundered against earth and Lykos lay low along its back, urging it on harder. Nocien tore off his protective mask and helmet, observing Master Hilon do the same as the boy charged into the fighting circle and brought his mount to a panting halt.
"Report." Hilon's voice was cool and steady, and he took the reins of the animal as Lykos swung down.
"Father, scouts on the northern ridge." Lykos doubled over, gasping for air, his hands gripping his knees. Hilon hurriedly handed the reins to one of his kinswomen so he could bring a water-skin to the boy. Nocien fought the urge to rush him, knowing that Lykos had trouble breathing under stress, but his heart beat harder than a drum. "Dust on the horizon and flashing steel inside."
"A kin on the move?" Hilon rubbed a gentle hand over the boy's back as he gulped water, but his face was grave; Nocien knew how many bad reasons and how few good ones there were for a kinship to approach theirs without advance warning from the autarch. Such warnings prevented lethal misunderstandings.
Nocien tasted blood and wondered when he'd bitten the inside of his lip. "What color was their flag?"
Lykos looked up from the water-skin, his eyes wide with fear. "Blood-red. Autarch Guyon and his kinship are coming."
"I want you to come with us."
The camp was in a controlled uproar. Guyon and his band of thugs would not reach the site for at least a day, but readying a few hundred kinsfolk and their animals to break camp and move in that short time took tremendous effort. Nocien moved swiftly about his tent deciding what to pack, what to burn, and what to bury on the slim chance he might return this way alive.
"Nocien, did you hear me? I want you to ride with us."
Master Hilon stood inside the flap of his tent, watching him pack. Nocien knew he shouldn't be there at all; as autarch of the kinship, Hilon had more pressing matters to deal with than the placement of an orphan foundling. To argue with him now in the midst of this crisis would be the height of disrespect. Better to let him return to more important things, while Nocien gathered himself and plotted Guyon's death.
"I heard you, master. Thank you. Are there enough horses or do you want me in the wagons again?" The last time the kin broke camp, Nocien had been too badly wounded to sit in a saddle.
"There are enough horses to go round. Myrrhine and her father are riding in the wagons with the children."
Nocien nodded, not looking up from his packing. Myrrhine was the youngest daughter of Master Hilon's third wife, and both she and her father were absolute terrors with blades in their own right. Knowing Myrrhine, she wouldn't enjoy being placed with the children, but Nocien could think of no one better to protect the young ones than the hotheaded girl and her fair-tempered father.
"My sons and I will ride at the head of the kin," Hilon continued, his dark eyes following Nocien as he moved about the small tent gathering his things. "Nocien, I want you there with us at the front."
The offer, unexpected and unlooked-for, stole Nocien's breath away. Hilon was autarch of the kin because he was their best and brightest, and his sons carried their father's legacy proudly. No one doubted that one of his children would be elected autarch when the unthinkable occurred and Master Hilon breathed his last. For an orphan foundling to be counted among his own accomplished offspring was an extravagant gesture.
"You do me great honor, master," Nocien managed, his voice struggling not to crack. He kept his face averted, not wanting Master Hilon to see the tears he blinked away. "Thank you."
He could feel Master Hilon's concerned eyes on his back. "You have thanked me twice, Nocien, yet you have not accepted. Will you look at me and tell me you will be there, riding with us?"
Nocien faltered, the tunic he'd been gathering up slipping from his hands to crumple to the ground. He straightened to face his master, opened his mouth, and found himself unable to utter a word. He was physically capable of lying to Master Hilon, of forcing the sounds through his mouth and into the air between them, but hadn't the heart to do it.
"I can't." The words were a whisper laden with guilt. To reject so kind an offer was the deepest discourtesy Nocien could display to his host and master, but acceptance was impossible. "I want to. But I can't."
"You can," urged Hilon. He didn't attempt to cross the short distance between them, but Nocien could judge how much his master wanted to embrace him by the way his hands opened helplessly at his sides. "Nocien, everyone in the kinship accepts you as one of our own. You're a good hunter, an excellent scout, and a hard worker. You have a family here. Please stay with us."
Nocien shook his head, praying that his voice wouldn't betray him and break; if that happened, he knew he really would cry. "Master, to be offered a courtesy position in your family is a great kindness—"
"It is no courtesy!" Hilon reached for him, his hands gripping Nocien's shoulders with gentle strength. "You are as much my child as any whom my wives have given me to claim before our kin. If my word is not enough for you, we can make
your entry into our family as formal as you desire. Pick any one of my sons to marry, Nocien; they all adore you and would leap at the chance to have you."
This offer was not new; Hilon had brought him similar offers in the past, though Nocien refused to be wed to any man. Yet he was almost grateful for the well-worn tread of the old argument to drive away the gathering storm of tears. Unless a miracle occurred, this would be the last time Nocien felt a fatherly touch, so though his frustration was keen he shook his head gently so as not to dislodge his master's hands from his shoulders. "Master Hilon, even if I were worthy of such honor, I don't wish to be a wife to anyone ever."
Hilon gazed down at him, his dark eyes grave. A dozen heartbeats passed between them, and he nodded as if making a decision. "Then be a husband," he said, his voice softer now. "Marry one of my daughters."
"Master?" Nocien blinked, stunned to hear this suggestion from Hilon's lips.
His master shook his head, sighing with rueful resignation. "You must know Xenia adores you. She hasn't the slightest interest in blades until you practice, then she drops whatever she's doing and comes running to watch. And I see the way Phile's eyes follow you since she nursed you back to health after we found you. Either would be happy as your wife. Or if you prefer a huntress to a healer, Myrrhine would fight for the honor. She is my wife's daughter and not my own, but you would be assured of your place here with us."
Nocien felt as short of breath as Lykos after a hard run. To say he hadn't imagined such possibilities would be a lie, but he had never pretended these options were open to him. He was an orphan and an outsider, limiting his value as a husband to the strength in his sword-arm or the skill in his plow hand. To rise from dust to the son-in-marriage of a kinship autarch and his own master was little more than a fond idea to be indulged whenever the girls brushed his hand or teasingly held his gaze over Master Hilon's dinner table.