“I thought you would be gone,” Melnar whispered, “I just came to check: why are you still here?”
They glanced at each other without speaking.
“Oh,” Melnar said, catching from their silence their meaning, “you’ve been arguing again, haven’t you? About where to go, I suppose?” He sighed and moved closer to them. “You two have to get along; your very lives depend on it: is anything more valuable than your life? Then it is not worth arguing over; both of you need to let it go and move on. Now, open your doorway and get out of here, before . . . ,” but what he was going to say was lost in a whistling sound followed by a dull thunk, and the steel point of an arrow erupted, bloody, from Melnar’s chest. His breath hissed from his mouth, and he fell forward into the kortexi’s arms.
Thal’s rod flew into his hand, and his voice hissed, “pleugikel”; an ice arrow streaked from the tip of his rod past Blakstar’s shoulder and slammed into the archer who had just stepped around the corner, going straight through the archer’s chest; he slumped to the floor, eyes wide with surprise.
“Go!” Melnar gurgled, blood on his lips and tongue.
Blakstar sank with Melnar to the floor of the cavern.
Melnar grabbed his arm. “Kortexi!” he hissed, struggling to breath through the blood filling his lung, “must . . . forgive!” He released Blakstar’s arm and slumped onto the floor, coughing up more blood. “Never . . . saw . . . sun . . . rise,” the ‘s’ trailed off as Melnar exhaled for the last time. Above, the sounds of the skirmish were growing louder; someone was coming to see what had happened to the scout sent to investigate this gallery.
Blakstar closed Melnar’s eyes, then stood quickly; he strode to Thal, took the reins of his mount and tied them to the saddle horn of Thal’s mare. Turning, he started to draw the circle on the cavern’s floor with the point of his golden-glowing sword.
“Where?” Thal asked.
“No time,” the kortexi replied, finishing the circle and lifting the sword as high overhead as he could to form the arch. “Get ready,” he added, as the point touched the floor, the gray arch shimmered and turned black, but to their enhanced eyes, they could see shapes in the darkness. “Go!”
Thal dragged his mare forward, almost leaping through the arch; Blakstar thumped both mounts as they passed, then jumped through after. Bows twanged behind him, but the arrows were foiled by his chain shirt, bouncing off as he lifted his sword and closed the door; he staggered forward into a downpour, the breath knocked from him, and he just caught the stirrup of his saddle to keep from falling onto his face in the muddy road, the sword slipped from his hand, extinguishing its golden light and hitting the ground, splashing his boots with water and mud.
“Nice weather,” Thal started to say, then turned when he heard the sword hit the road. “What . . . are you injured?” he asked, hastening to him, robes already drenched.
Blakstar pulled himself up, drawing breath with difficulty. After a few moments, he managed to straighten himself up and his breathing eased. “A couple of arrows, foiled by my mail,” he said weakly, “but the archers were so close that the force of them knocked the breath from me,” he finished, looking around. “There is a stable over there, behind the hut,” he noted, his voice stronger. He stooped carefully to retrieve his sword.
Thal untied the reins from his saddle horn and handed them to the kortexi. “Are you certain you are all right?” he asked. “Klaybear gave me several potions . . . ,” he began, but Blakstar waved him off.
“I’m fine,” Blakstar said. “I’ll have some nice bruises,” he added with a shrug, then led his mount toward the stable and inside. Once they had removed saddle and harness and filled the manger, they carried the saddles and equipment into the moss-covered hut.
“I noticed that there is no place for this gear in the stable,” Thal said once they were inside. Several magluku flared to life as they entered.
Blakstar shook his head and pointed to stands inside the hut. “We must clean and polish them before morning,” he noted, placing his saddle over one of the stands.
Thal did the same and felt an instant surge of teka from the stone stand. He held out his hands and felt an aura of warm, dry heat now surrounding his saddle. “That’s convenient,” he said, “and it will save us some time.”
Blakstar only nodded and started to remove all the pieces of his plate armor from various parts of his saddle and placed them on the room’s only table, which was surrounded by several chairs. There was also a lavatory, several bunks, and some storage cabinets.
“Must everyone who enters Karble, enter with the rising sun?” Thal asked.
Blakstar shook his head and moved to one of the cabinets, having placed the last piece of his armor–his breastplate–on the table. “Only if he enters with a kortexi,” he noted. Blakstar pulled a bundle of clean, white rags from the cabinet, along with several bottles marked for cleaning and polishing, for both leather and metal. He brought them to the table, set them down, then picked up the breastplate.
“It’s remarkably clean,” Thal noted, “considering all we have been through.”
Blakstar nodded. “Only a few spots,” he said, “then some polish.”
“Can I help?” Thal asked.
The kortexi looked at him a moment before replying; he shrugged. “If you want,” he said, “it’s not the most interesting work. In fact,” he gave a sidelong glance, “I detest it.”
Thal smiled. “I suppose it was a task given to novices?”
Blakstar snorted. “Along with other, more tedious work,” he said, “usually for punishment.”
“I imagine for an order focused on physical skills and prowess,” Thal said, smiling, “it would be punishment.”
“Yes, but necessary,” Blakstar said. He was looking over the breastplate. “This looks good; I think it can be polished.” He took a clean cloth, folded it into a hand-sized square, then turned the bottles until he found the right one. “Take some of this one,” he went on, “and pour it onto the cloth, like that, then rub it into a section of the armor piece until you can see your face sweating in it,” he finished, showing Thal what he meant by polishing one corner of the breastplate.
“By the tone of your voice,” Thal noted, “I’d guess that the last part about the shine is not yours?”
Blakstar shook his head while he rubbed, stopping to look after a time. “The words of the master of novices, repeated a thousand times a day, I think.” He tilted the breastplate in the light, then turned it so Thal could see. “Like that,” he said.
Thal took the breastplate and the cloth, then poured some more of the proper liquid on it; he started to rub next to the spot the kortexi had just polished. After about the same amount of time, he stopped and checked his spot against Blakstar’s. “Well,” he said after a glance, “it is certainly not as easy as it looks.”
“I doubt you have had much practice,” Blakstar grinned, “polishing armor.”
“Cleaning pots, yes,” Thal said, “but not polishing armor.” They both went back to work.
After a while, Thal broke the silence. “Curiosity is driving me mad,” he said, “why must a kortexi enter with the rising of the sun? It seems to be an odd practice.”
“The tradition is,” Blakstar said, checking Thal’s work, “you missed a couple of spots,” he pointed, “there, and there.” The white maghi took the breastplate back and polished it some more. “After Karble first climbed the Mountain of Vision, and the first kortexem followed him through that initiation, Shigmar called for aid, under attack by Gar. He rode with all the kortexem he could gather to aid the first kailu, arriving just in time to turn the tide and save Shigmar. Word of the victory preceded them back to Karble, and they rode home, but were attacked repeatedly along the way. A winter storm approached, threatening to close the pass, so they rode in haste. They climbed the pass just before the storm arrived, but were attacked again by Gar’s forces, slowing them down enough that the storm struck the pass even as t
hey rode across it. They rode on through the night, harried by both Gar and storm, almost as if they were chased out of the pass. Karble looked at his troops, saw they were weary, injured, and looked nothing like the kortexem who passed their initiations just a few weeks before, and he called out to the One for aid. This building appeared, and he sent them in by turns to clean up, polish, and heal. Just before dawn, they rode to Karble, appearing before the gates as the sun rose.”
“And that’s why you, we, have to do all of this?” Thal said.
Blakstar nodded. “That’s how the story goes.”
Thal snorted. “Why, that’s one of the silliest things I’ve heard,” he said.
Blakstar’s face flushed. “Are you mocking our sacred tradition?”
“A sacred tradition based on the fact that Karble happened to return at sunrise,” Thal said sarcastically, “what if they had arrived three hours before dawn, or six and three-quarters hours past sunset with a maple leaf stuck to the bottom of his boot? Would we have to do that in order to enter? Why not just say that you must enter at dawn to commemorate the events of that famous trip, rather than invent some ridiculous mumbo-jumbo that redefines the word, ‘silly.’”
Blakstar’s face was twisted with rage. “You’ve no right,” he growled through clenched teeth, “to mock what you do not understand!” He grabbed a handful of rags and threw them at the maghi, then slid the bottle of leather cleaner and polish toward him. “You better spend less time criticizing my order and more time polishing your saddle, or you will tarnish the reputation of your own order.” He picked up one of his leg greaves and rubbed with such vigor that it instantly sparkled, at the same time, he turned his back on Thal.
The white maghi shrugged, picked up the bottle, and moved to his saddle, holding the rags in his arm. Maybe Tevvy was right about Blakstar: he was just like all the other kortexem: dogmatic and prejudiced. He unstoppered the bottle, poured a little onto one of the rags clenched in his hand, and started to scrub at the spots on his saddle, thinking that no kortexi could outdo a white maghi in appearance, sitting with his back to Blakstar; the air hot, the light of the magluku around the hut tinged red.
Chapter 8
In a short century of our history, it is clear to me that the female of our species, nay, of every species, is far superior to us males. . . . Some have claimed an equal and complementary division between us–between logic and emotions, between mind and heart. While it is true that we males are more logical than emotional, with few of us able to understand our hearts and emotions, the opposite is not true; many of them are equal to if not superior to us in matters of the mind while they far exceed us in matters of the heart and emotions, realms that completely baffle the best of us. . . .
from Lectures of the Headmasters, ‘Shigmar’ Volume
Lecture by Headmaster Shigmar
Klare’s sleep was troubled; she had awakened again in a cold sweat clutching the firm rock that was her husband, Klaybear, who lay unmoving at her side, his breathing slow, deep, and even. It did not seem fair that he should be lying there sleeping so peacefully while she was wakeful and tormented in the dark by leering faces–purem–and the memory of groping, clawed hands; she shuddered and gently whispered, and a magluku winked on, glowing softly, next to her side of the bed. A change had occurred during her last moments of sleep; new images inserted themselves among the leering faces and groping hands, familiar faces, the surroundings were blurred, but the feelings associated with them were clear and strong, so strong that they were like colors surrounding the forms: Thal and Blakstar red with anger; Rokwolf and Sutugno mixed red and purple of anger and desire; Delgart and Marilee were yellow devotion tinged with purple desire; Tevvy was surrounded by a conglomeration of emotions and colors too complex to separate, as if he were caught in a maelstrom of conflicting feelings all directed at him.
Klare thought carefully over what she had dreamed as she lay in the half light, one hand holding firmly to her sleeping husband’s. With the white maghi and the kortexi, both were angry, and their anger was directed toward each other, which she realized was a serious problem, but as she recalled the images, she remembered that both were touched with black guilt: Blakstar’s greater and older; Thal’s smaller and more recent. Her brother-in-law and her best friend, she smiled as she contemplated their images together, both feeling anger and desire; Rokwolf’s desire and anger directed at Marilee, Klaybear, and herself, while Sutugno’s anger was directed at Klaybear, and herself, she knew, and her desire directed toward Rokwolf. Klare for a moment considered borrowing breath-giver to look in on them but rejected the idea immediately; she would know as soon as she saw them both. Delgart and Marilee’s images were surrounded by devotion, directed at each other and from those who surrounded them; the desire tingeing the devotion Klare knew came from the two of them, and was directed at each other, and as yet unrecognized by either one. But Tevvy . . . , the awemi was a puzzle; Klare recalled his situation last night and guessed that might have something to do with the emotions surrounding him, but she did not think that explained all of them. Tevvy was in danger–a true statement–and he was moving into even greater danger, according to his own perception of his circumstances and what she had felt. Klare drew a sharp breath, suddenly realizing that she had remembered who each of the figures in her dreams was. She wondered what could have triggered her memories and reasoned it must have been seeing each of their faces in her dreams. “Neki,” she whispered, canceling the light as she turned toward Klaybear, putting one arm across his warm body and laying her head on his chest; she sighed and slipped back into sleep and the world of dreams.
Leering groping claws tearing cloth red eyes hot panting screaming red anger maghi shouting kortexi facing accusing guilt lashing metal shining faces twisted shouting laughter leering groping claws tearing cloth red eyes hot panting screaming panting red hot breath wolf friend kissing passion friend purple moaning wolf howling mounted shrouded eyes friend ponkolu melting wolf howling purple mounted friend moaning offspring gray darkness drooping trees green-skinned wedaterem stalking seklesem howling laughter leering groping claws tearing cloth red eyes hot panting screaming yellow seklesa half-face seklesi brother yellow purple surrounded raised turned half-faces together whole shouting yellow laughter leering groping claws tearing cloth red eyes hot panting screaming white blade slashing faces leering splitting red blood awemi surrounded whirling maelstrom colors changing danger closing round face curly blonde innocence black bars white strands shaking awemi white struggling sticky laughter leering groping claws tearing cloth red eyes hot panting screaming red anger shouting kortexi accusing guilt maghi facing lashing red leather shining darkness pattern unraveling sword flaming glowing staff traitor accusing red guilt black anger test guilt trial field blood red kortexem one remaining laughter howling anger guilt black red facing shouting room magluku shining rain pounding sunrise traitor waiting kortexi facing red maghi shouting laughter leering groping claws tearing cloth red eyes hot panting screaming blood screaming passion screaming. . . .
Klare sat up in bed, grabbing and shaking Klaybear. “Wake up!” she hissed. “Something is terribly wrong!”
“W-what?” Klaybear yawned, getting up on his elbows, blinking his eyes to clear them; he whispered, and the magluku around the room glowed softly. As his eyes cleared and focused on his wife, he saw that she was white with fright. “What is it?”
“I’ve had dreams throughout the night,” she said, “dreams like your visions, where the images are smashed and melted together, but unlike yours, mine are filled with emotion, like an aura that surrounds and colors those I dreamed of; these dreams have kept me up most of the time that you have slept like the dead,” she noted, eyes narrowed and turned on her husband.
Klaybear looked sheepish. “That’s why I use a sleep orthek on myself,” he admitted, “so I can sleep without dreaming.”
Klare raised an eyebrow. “What an intelligent thought,” she said sarcastically, “I’m surprised
that you came up with it.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t,” he admitted, “Master Avril and Headmaster Myron suggested it for Thal.”
“Still, good thinking,” she said, “but never mind that, you have again distracted me,” she held up her finger to stop his obvious protest. “Just now, the dreams changed and I saw more than before.”
Klaybear kept his face even, knowing the volatile nature of his wife’s emotions. “Who and what did you see that caused you to wake me so suddenly?”
“I keep dreaming about Blakstar and Thal,” she went on, “and their anger with one another.”
“Anger? Over what?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she replied, wrinkling her brow, “but they are livid with each other, and I think, from what I just saw, that they are walking into some kind of trap that will end with the entire destruction of the kortexem at Blakstar’s hand.”
Klaybear looked shocked. “No,” he said, stunned, “that cannot be, what . . . how?” he asked, stammering.
“Something to do with the honor of his order,” she replied, “and a trial by combat that he wins; I also think there is a traitor among the kortexem.”
Klaybear shook his head. “That should not surprise us,” he noted, “given what has happened here. How does that involve them being angry with each other?”
Klare shrugged. “Maybe the fact that they are not unified gives the traitor an edge,” she suggested, “all I know for sure is that we need to go to them and try to resolve their disagreement before sunrise.”
“That’s a tall order,” Klaybear noted. “Why sunrise?”
Klare shrugged again. “I saw the others, too,” she said, “but the only other thing we need to worry about before leaving is your twin and my best friend.”
Klaybear gave her a questioning look but said nothing.
The Redemption, Volume 1 Page 79