by William King
Korhien seemed to understand.
‘Keep it for a season and if you do not want it, return it to me in Lothern. You are going to need it now, for how else I am going to give you a lesson with it? That will be my birthday gift to you if your pride will not allow you to accept more than a loan of the sword.’
Tyrion smiled back. It was a compromise his pride was prepared to accept and his father would too. And he really, really wanted the sword. It fitted in perfectly with his image of himself and his unspoken dreams of glory. ‘Very well. I thank you for your loan.’
‘Don’t be so quick to thank me, doorkeeper. I mean to repay you for your lessons in chess-play,’ Korhien added. ‘Your father has told me you have not been schooled with a sword.’
Tyrion shrugged. He did not want to say there were no swords in the house. It seemed shameful to admit that his father had sold them for the money needed to continue his research. ‘I know how to use a bow and a spear well enough,’ Tyrion said.
‘I am sure you do,’ said Korhien seriously. ‘But the sword is the weapon you will be called on to use in Lothern, if you have any cause to use a weapon there at all.’
Tyrion did not need to ask why. Duels were not fought between asur nobles with spear or bow, not unless the situations were very unusual.
‘So when do we begin?’ Tyrion asked.
‘No time like the present.’
Tyrion shrugged and unsheathed the sword and fell into the stance he had always imagined wielding it. Korhien looked at him puzzled.
‘I thought you told me you had no training with a sword.’
‘My father has never given me any. Swords were not his weapon when he was in the levies. He says he is more likely to cut himself with one than any enemy.’
Korhien walked around him, inspecting his stance. ‘That is nothing less than the truth. Your father was the worst sword-bearer I have ever seen. Better to have no training at all than be taught incorrectly. That said, who has been teaching you?’
‘No one,’ Tyrion said.
‘Why did you choose that stance, that grip?’
‘It just seemed right.’
‘It most assuredly is, perfect for fighting one-handed with that blade, and without a shield.’ The big warrior looked at him thoughtfully. ‘A moment if you please.’
He walked away and returned. He returned with his enormous axe. ‘I would not normally allow another to bear this weapon, but show me how you would hold this axe.’
Tyrion shrugged and took the weapon, holding it two-handed across his body, feet apart, left in front of right.
‘Like you had been training with it for years,’ Korhien muttered. He seemed perplexed.
‘You say you can use a bow. Show me!’
‘I thought you were going to teach me how to use a sword,’ Tyrion said.
‘Time enough yet for your first lesson,’ said Korhien. ‘For the moment, indulge me.’
Tyrion brought his bow and strung it, strapped on his quiver and aimed at the target he had set up on the western wall of the villa. He breathed easily and loosed three arrows one after the other, placing them easily in the central ring he had made. They were not difficult shots and yet Korhien seemed impressed. A small crowd of warriors had begun to gather around them. They had begun to talk quietly among themselves.
‘Technique with a bow... perfect,’ he said, as if he had a list in his head and he was checking something off against it. ‘Spear now.’ He handed Tyrion one from the rack. ‘Cast it at the target.’
Tyrion smiled and turned, throwing the spear as part of the same motion he had taken the weapon. He was showing off now and he knew it. The spear landed in the central ring of the target and buried itself there, among the arrows. Korhien’s eyes narrowed.
‘I think I have seen enough,’ he said.
‘Enough for what?’ The warrior considered his answer for a long moment, as if undecided as to what he should actually say.
‘Enough for me to see that you will not be as difficult to teach as your father.’
‘I am glad to hear that. Shall we begin?’
‘Are you so anxious to learn how to kill?’ Korhien asked.
It was a serious question, and Tyrion sensed that more depended on his response than at first appeared. He decided, as he inevitably did, that honesty was the best policy.
‘I already know how to kill,’ he said. ‘I am anxious to learn to use a sword.’
‘Who have you killed?’
‘I have killed deer,’ said Tyrion, a little embarrassed now.
‘Killing another elf, or even an orc or a human, is not the same thing,’ said Korhien.
‘In what way?’ Tyrion asked, genuinely curious. He did not doubt for a moment that Korhien possessed personal knowledge of this subject.
‘For one thing they are intelligent beings who know how to fight. They will try to kill you in turn.’
‘I have killed mountain lions and monsters come down from the Annulii.’
‘Monsters?’
‘Mutated creatures with the forms of animals all mixed together, or so the other huntsmen assured me.’
‘You take me aback, doorkeeper. I came here expecting sheltered and scholarly princes, like their father once was, not someone who speaks quite so casually of killing.’
‘Is it a bad thing?’ Tyrion asked, well aware that his father found him coarse, violent and unruly, and was often embarrassed by his behaviour.
‘Not in the world we live in,’ said Korhien.
Tyrion was relieved. He had already discovered that Korhien’s good opinion was important to him, and he felt the big warrior was capable of teaching him about those things that were important to him, not just to Father and Teclis. He had long ago outstripped the local hunters in his ability with bow and spear.
‘You said you were going to teach me how to use a sword.’
‘And I am an elf of my word,’ said Korhien. ‘I thought I would need to begin by telling your father’s son which end of a sword was which, and which parts were used for doing what, but I suspect that in your case this might prove redundant. So let us move on to the practice swords.’
‘Wooden swords,’ said Tyrion, disappointed.
‘Everyone has to start somewhere, even you, doorkeeper. Do you have some around here?’
‘In the stables, on the rack.’
‘Typical... of your father I mean... to keep them there.’
Tyrion laughed at the obvious truth of what Korhien was saying and went to fetch them. The wooden swords were much more like clubs than real blades. They had handles and cross-hilts but where the blades would have been on a real sword were circular wooden poles.
Korhien weighed them in his hands critically and said, ‘These will do, to begin with, anyway.’
He handed one to Tyrion and then saluted; unconsciously Tyrion mimicked the moment. It was Korhien’s turn to laugh.
‘Did I do something wrong?’ he asked, face flushing.
‘No, doorkeeper, you did not.’
‘Then why did you laugh?’
‘Because like everything you do connected with fighting you do it so well.’
He took up a guard stance, and Tyrion mimicked it too.
‘Try and hit me,’ Korhien said.
Without any further prompting, Tyrion sprang forward. Korhien parried his blow, but did not riposte. Tyrion kept attacking, lunging and swinging. At first he was not trying too hard, not wanting to take a chance of accidentally hurting Korhien as he had done with Teclis and local hunters when he had tried using the wooden swords on his own. Soon he realised that Korhien was having no difficulty parrying him and he speeded up his attack, striking with greater force and precision.
‘Surely you can do better than this, doorkeeper,’ Korhien taunted.
‘Indeed,’ Tyrion murmured but did not allow himself to be provoked. He kept on attacking, looking for weak spots in Korhien’s defence, areas where his guard came up too slowly, where his response
s were a beat behind. To his surprise, he did not find any. He kept on attacking, and Korhien kept on parrying, and then suddenly the sword was knocked from his hands. When he replayed the action in his mind, he saw the trick that Korhien had used, and was surprised that he had not thought of it himself.
‘That was embarrassing,’ said Tyrion.
‘In what way?’ Korhien said.
‘In that you disarmed me so easily after I could not lay a blow on you.’
‘Trust me, doorkeeper, you did not do so badly. There are elves with a century of practice who have done worse than your first efforts here.’
‘My father, for one,’ said Tyrion sourly.
‘No. Elves who would kill your father in the first passage of blades.’
Tyrion found this talk of anyone killing his father disturbing. It made him uncomfortable, and it must have showed on his face.
‘It’s something you need to know, doorkeeper. Anyone you fight will be someone’s father or mother, someone’s son or daughter or brother. That’s what makes it difficult. That’s why some elves, like your father, to his credit, never really learn.’
‘Why do you say to his credit?’ Tyrion asked.
‘Because the loss of any elf life is something to be mourned.’
‘Even dark elves?’
Korhien nodded even if he could not bring himself to say the words. ‘There are not so many elves left in the world, doorkeeper. The loss of any one of us is a grievous loss to our people.’
‘It’s a pity Malekith’s subjects do not feel the same way.’
‘Who is to say they do not?’ said Korhien. ‘We are all still kin after all, even after all these centuries of Sundering.’
‘Perhaps someone should tell them that,’ said Tyrion.
‘Perhaps you are right,’ said Korhien. ‘Or perhaps they already know.’
‘It has not stopped them from raiding us.’
‘Nor us them, doorkeeper. It’s worth remembering that it takes two sides to make a war.’
‘You do not sound much like I expected a warrior to sound,’ said Tyrion.
Korhien laughed. ‘I am sorry to disappoint.’
‘That is not what I meant.’
‘What did you mean?’
‘You talk less of glory and more of reasons.’
‘I have heard too many people talk about glory, doorkeeper, and usually they meant their own. Normally when you hear an elf talking about glory and the spilling of blood, they mean their glory and your blood.’
‘You are doing it again.’
‘I am telling you this, doorkeeper, because I suspect you will turn out like me,’ Korhien’s voice was softer now and sadder. ‘I suspect you will end up spilling a lot of your blood and other people’s for causes not your own, in places you would rather not be.’
‘Why?’ interrupted Tyrion, now genuinely curious and quite excited. He did not think turning out like Korhien would be such a terrible thing.
‘Because you are already very good with weapons and you will become very much better unless I am greatly mistaken. And our rulers have need of warriors, our world being the sort of place it is.’
Again, Tyrion suspected he was missing something. He did not find the idea that there was a place where an elf like him might be needed as saddening as Korhien appeared to. He found it hopeful. It meant that there might yet prove to be something he could do with his life, and there would be people who were not disappointed with him.
‘Do you really think I could be a White Lion like you?’ Tyrion asked. He had promoted himself in his own imagination, he realised, and he felt as if he were overstepping the mark.
‘You will be whatever you choose to be, doorkeeper. You have that in you. I suspect it is your destiny to be something more than me. You are of the Blood of Aenarion, after all.’
‘Is that why you are really here?’ Korhien considered his answer very carefully and seemed to come to a decision.
‘Yes,’ he said. He threw his arm around Tyrion’s shoulder and took him to one side, out of earshot of the other soldiers. It looked like a casual thoughtless act, but Tyrion knew that it was not.
‘My brother thinks they will kill us if we turn out to be cursed.’ Tyrion felt as if he had truly overstepped the mark this time, particularly given what Teclis suspected. Korhien’s eyes widened. Tyrion guessed he had never expected to hear this.
‘He might well be right. Or you may find yourself in some isolated tower or dungeon.’
‘Would you kill us?’ Tyrion asked, feeling the sword heavy in his hand, not sure of what he planned to do if he got the wrong answer. He knew that if he wanted to Korhien could kill him quite easily for all that they were of the same size and strength. Korhien was silent for a very long time.
‘No,’ he said eventually.
Tyrion was uneasily aware that Korhien had taken the question very seriously and was giving a truthful answer. ‘I would not. But they would find others who would try.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because I am sure you would not prove so easy to kill, doorkeeper.’
‘They might be right to kill us if we are truly accursed, as Malekith was.’
‘They might be. If you were. I do not think you are.’ Korhien smiled again and there was genuine humour in it. ‘This is a very morbid conversation and I am sure your aunt would be very disturbed to know we have had it.’
‘She shall not hear of it from me,’ said Tyrion.
‘Nor from me,’ said Korhien. It felt as if they were partners in a conspiracy, and Tyrion knew in that moment he had found another person in the world he could trust.
‘We should return to our lessons. You have a long way to go yet before you are a blade master,’ said Korhien. He never seemed to doubt for a moment that Tyrion would become one. Nor at that moment, did Tyrion. He picked up the wooden sword with the sudden seriousness of a boy who had just found his vocation.
chapter Five
Lady Malene entered the room. She carried a glass beaker of a clear sapphire liquid in her hands. She walked carefully as if unwilling to take the risk of spilling a drop. Teclis struggled upright. The effort made him dizzy. The room seemed to tilt sideways for a moment before righting itself.
When she reached the bedside Malene handed the container to Teclis.
‘Drink,’ she said.
‘What is it?’ Although he was starting to trust her, Teclis was still unwilling to drink anything she had prepared without question.
‘It is a mix of aqua vitae and sunroot. I have woven several spells into it.’
Teclis looked at it dubiously. ‘What will it do?’
‘Help your body resist the infection currently raging through it.’
‘My father’s potion already does that.’
‘Your father’s potion does not. It soothes your nervous system and boosts some of your body’s resistance to disease. It lets you breathe easier and by taking the strain off your lungs, it makes it easier for your body to fight the disease in it. It does not do anything else to help you.’
‘You are claiming you know more about these things than my father?’ Teclis knew he was simply putting off the moment when he had to drink the potion. He realised it was not because he feared it might poison him, but simply because he was afraid of disappointment. What if it did not work as well as he hoped it would?
‘I hate to puncture your childish illusions but your father is an artificer, not an alchemist. He knows a lot about making and repairing weapons and armour but comparatively little about medicinal herbs.’
‘And you do know, of course,’ said Teclis with as much sarcasm as he could muster.
‘Actually, yes. Better than your father at least and very much better than you. I did not notice any volumes on herb lore or advanced alchemy in your library.’
‘I will have to take your word for that.’
‘I would advise you to do so, if you wish to recover your health.’
Teclis g
rimaced. He did not like being told he had to do anything. He was naturally contrary that way.
‘What is the matter, Prince Teclis? Are you afraid I am going to poison you?’
Teclis stared at her. ‘Do I need to be?’
‘What exactly do you mean by that?’
‘What exactly are you doing here with your soldiers and your over-muscled lover?’
Lady Malene cocked her head to one side and stared at him. He met her gaze and for a long time neither of them looked away. A slow smile, almost of understanding, crossed her face. ‘Are you jealous?’
Teclis was annoyed because he had not realised that he was, in part, until she had asked him. He knew how ludicrous that must look to her and beyond all things he disliked being made to look ludicrous.
‘Answer my question, please.’ It sounded more imploring than he would have liked. Normally he was better at controlling his expression than this.
‘I have come to take you to Lothern.’
‘Why?’
‘So that you may be presented to the Phoenix King and then, most likely, to the Priests of Asuryan.’
‘Why?’
‘So that you may be judged and found untainted by the Curse of Aenarion.’
‘What if I am not so judged?’
‘You are worried that you might be found to be cursed?’ She sat down on the bed beside him, still holding her flask of medicine.
‘Would you not be, if you were me?’
‘I suspect I would, Prince Teclis, but I am in no position to know. I am not a descendant of Aenarion.’
‘There are times when I wish I were not. There are times when I think I am accursed, that I must be, to have turned out the way I have.’
‘If your illness is your only manifestation of the Curse, you have nothing to fear.’
‘I fear my illness,’ he said.
‘I meant from us, from the Council of Mages, from the Phoenix King’s personal magii, from the Priests.’
‘What if you do see a reason to be worried, some echo of the doom of Aenarion down all the long centuries? What will happen then?’
‘I do not know, for certain.’