Sorcery's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 2)

by D J Salisbury

  The blasted sword master had also ‘forgotten’ to mention how she could earn those points. They hadn’t expected her to last long enough for it to matter. He could have told them otherwise. When his gyrfalcon wanted something that badly, she fought for it. Even when she drove everyone around her to feeding themselves to the bahtdor to escape her.

  Viper slid down from the Witness Post, steadied his crutches, and hoisted Lorel’s sword belt over his shoulder. He fought to hide how badly he was shaking. The turybird would be insulted if she knew how much he’d worried.

  Servants lifted the wounded master onto a litter. She saluted Lorel as they carried her out of the courtyard.

  The woman had style. Viper paused and watched her litter ease around the corner. “Will she be all right?”

  Clercmauri shrugged. “Most likely.”

  These people didn’t care about each other much. Would his turybird’s bright aura survive in this cold place?

  He hobbled across the courtyard to stand beside her. He was afraid to touch her – every bit of skin he could see was swelling and turning blue. Blood dripped down her face and arms, and stained her clothes.

  Lorel wobbled to her feet and slung her sword belt around her waist. Her hands shook so hard that Viper had to fasten the buckle for her. And he needed three tries to get it hooked.

  How could she triumph and still look like the deathwind had caught her?

  Clercmauri watched, smiling slightly. “You show potential, Lorel Gyrfalcon. Come back tomorrow. You obviously are not wealthy, so we shall take you on as a demonstrating student. We will provide you with food and a bed. Leave your personal weapons in storage; you will not need them here. Now go home and arrange your affairs.”

  “We can pay you,” Viper began.

  Clercmauri cut him off. “We have decided. Go.”

  A different servant led them back to the street.

  Lorel staggered out the gate like a drunken sailor on a lunar-long binge.

  Viper trailed behind her, hoping to prop her up if she fell. He prayed to the Thunderer that she would not fall. She’d mash him, crutches and all, and never notice.

  She lurched down the road to Karisu’s home, gory, groggy, and grinning. She’d be spending all of her training getting beaten up. Every day. How she could grin like a demon with a priest in its paws?

  Didn’t she know what happened to a demon once the warriors caught up with it? Though in this case, Viper wasn’t sure if she would play the demon, the warrior, or the tormented priest.

  It may not matter which roll she played. He feared for her life, her honor, her happiness. Everything about the sword school made his skin crawl.

  Chapter 24.

  Darkness coated the streets like gray slime. Little pink lizards crept up bamboo walls that stank of old piss. Old women wrapped in thin green fabric set up their fruit stands and eyed her warily as she walked past.

  Lorel still hurt all over from the beating she took yesterday, but it was a good hurt. She’d earned all them bruises, and given back every one. Nobody gonna say she hadn’t won her place here.

  The sun was just rising when she reported at Gyrfalcon School’s front gate. “Master Clercmauri said to come here today.”

  The guard peered up at her blackened eyes and shook his head. “You aren’t very smart, are you?”

  Who did the little twerp think he was? She got enough of that crap from the kid last night. Enough that she’d snuck out this morning before he woke up. “I’m as smart as I need to be.”

  He shrugged, pulled a bell cord, and unlocked the gate. “Follow the servant.” He locked the gate behind her and strutted back to his hut.

  A skinny girl in a plain green wrap, the kind only poor people wore, dashed up and bowed. She mumbled something and scuttled into a hallway.

  That must be the servant. Might as well follow the poor little thing.

  They trudged down one long hallway after another. Voices shouted in the distance. Wood banged against wood and bronze. Some lucky brat was getting the sword lessons she wanted. She needed. Desperately.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in a good fight. Unless it was the day she’d killed Kraken. No forgetting that. The memory still make her gut queasy.

  Did fighting a real kraken count? Not really, since the kid had to rescue her. How about that overgrown snaky thing at Moyara-Dur?

  No, monsters didn’t count. She needed a real fight with a real person. She never dreamed she’d miss rumbling with the gangs.

  The servant plodded down a staircase or three.

  This place was even bigger than it looked from outside. She better pay more attention to where she was, and how to get out again.

  A tall woman (for the locals; she only stood as high as Lorel’s shoulder) met them at the bottom of the stairs. She grumbled to the servant.

  The servant mumbled back and scuttled away.

  Weaver drowned in tears, the help around here was too nervous. The girl acted like somebody beat on her.

  The woman eyed Lorel from the bottom of her rotting boots up to her frayed-out, cut-off sleeves. She grumbled something.

  The kid was right. She should’ve bought new clothes before she reported in. “Sorry, I don’t none understand you.”

  “Temple-cursed Zedisti.” The woman sighed, but shrugged. “I housekeeper. I show bed. Come.”

  That was clear enough. Lorel followed her as meekly as she could manage, even when she had to bend halfway over to fit under the door sill.

  The housekeeper had to bow her head, too, so it weren’t no intended insult. She marched into a big, dark, clammy room.

  Dozens of little woven-straw bedmats littered the floor.

  Oh, no, not again. “Any chance of a mattress that’ll fit me?”

  The woman stared blankly at her before turning to the toddler-sized beds. “I see. Push together.” She pointed at two mats along the far wall.

  Two mattresses might be long enough, but she’d need four to make a decent-sized bed. Asking for them might be straining her luck, though. Good thing these baby beds didn’t have no head or footboards.

  Lorel knelt and slid the two bedmats together.

  The housekeeper marched to a cabinet, selected a blanket, and spread it over both mats. Or tried to. The blanket, of course, covered only one little bed. She sighed and collected another blanket.

  A gong rang. Moments later a dozen girls streamed into the room.

  Finally, real fighters. These girls were sweaty, muscled, and bruised, and their eyes looked ready for trouble. They wore blue hip wraps, just like the boys, and tight breast wraps, like she did under her shirt, to keep the bouncy bits out of the way.

  They’d all get arrested in Zedista, but here nobody’d even notice. Could she get away with dressing like that? She’d need twice as much fabric as these skinny little girls, though. Would they charge her double?

  “Listen.” The housekeeper clapped her hands. “New girl Zedisti. Charity student. Show rules. Teach Duremen-Lor. Use honor.”

  Charity? What did she mean, charity?

  Several girls narrowed their eyes while others translated.

  That was downright rude. The kid would’ve paid for her if Clercmauri would’ve let him. Did the woman have to announce she was on charity?

  Some of the girls snickered. Others twittered to each other behind their hands. All of them looked her over like she’d tromped horse pucky into Weaver’s own chapel.

  She didn’t feel like no charity case. And she’d never act like one.

  Lorel yanked her chin higher and stared down her nose at the fraying snobby girls.

  The housekeeper pointed at the girl with the most bruises. “Tsai’dona. Guide. Keep out trouble.”

  The girl – Tsai’dona? Or was that a word? – bowed and walked closer to Lorel’s beds. She studied the arrangement, grinned, and tittered something.

  Was this a language lesson? But the words didn’t sound like the local mush. They sounded
almost– could the girl be speaking Zedisti? “Say that again, but slower.”

  Tsai’dona frowned. “You’re. Too. Tall. What’s your name?”

  She’d said lots more than that, but it wasn’t worth fussing over. “Lorel Gyrfalcon.”

  The girl rolled her eyes. “That’s not your name yet. We’ll call you Sentakai. Means too tall.”

  The fraying speck of Loom lint hardly stood taller than Lorel’s waist. And Sentakai likely meant something worse than tall. Shorty was trying to get one up on her.

  But last night the kid had whined and scolded that she gotta get along with the students here. They had to stand together. They had to support each other or the instructors would tear them apart.

  The kid was full of crap. Shorty was full of crap. All them girls giggling behind their hands were full of crap.

  She’d teach them. She was better than all of them.

  Tsai’dona shrugged and turned away. “Come, Sentakai. Teachers want you.” She led the way up the stairs and down a long corridor.

  Lorel paid more attention to the route this time. She had a feeling she’d lose her guide the first time Shorty thought she had something better to do. Of course, if somebody offered her extra lessons, she’d drop the newbie, herself. Even if it meant getting punished. Nothing was more important than learning to fight.

  Shorty led her into a sandy courtyard where a bunch of boys were bashing wooden swords at each other.

  The crashing of wood on wood was glorious. Sweat poured down the boys’ faces, down their bare chests and arms. They grunted when a blow landed, but nobody squealed or backed away. These were serious fighters.

  This was gonna be fun.

  A bunch of old people lined the courtyard, all watching the boys fight. One of the old men waggled a finger and said, “Kuru.”

  She was pretty sure that meant ‘come,’ so she followed him through a skinny little gate into a smaller courtyard.

  He pointed at a teakettle-sized rock sitting on the paving stones and mumbled at her.

  She really had to learn more Duremen-Lor. They’d never teach her nothing otherwise, for all they said they spoke Zedisti.

  She stared at the ground and scuffed her feet. Her big toe showed through the leather of her right boot. No wonder everybody treated her like she was poorer than the beggars outside the Weaver’s temple. Even the scummiest street gangs dressed better.

  The old man sighed loud enough to make her look up. He mimed picking up the big rock and holding it out in front of him.

  That was easy enough. She didn’t understand the point of it, but the kid made her do weirder things when he was training her.

  Lorel knelt, picked up the big rock, stood, and held it straight out, like he had. Her hands hovered a foot higher than his head.

  The instructor stood still and scowled up at her.

  What’d she done wrong? She started to put the rock down.

  He shook his head.

  She was supposed to just stand here, holding a rock? She lifted it back up and held it at arm’s length.

  The old man stood still, just staring at her.

  Wooden swords clashed in the next courtyard. A woman shouted orders, and boys’ voices answered. The banging stopped, but quickly started up again.

  Why wasn’t she out there practicing? She weren’t no beginner. She’d had lots of lessons. She didn’t need this crap.

  Her arms started to shake. How fraying embarrassing. She didn’t look no stronger than poor Chorette after the old lady’d spent an hour puttering around her little garden. She better suck it up and steady out them muscles.

  The instructor stared at her. His sandal tapped on the stone paving. What was wrong with him?

  Her arms shook hard. Really hard. Sweat dripped down her nose. Her shirt stuck to her back and itched like it was full of burrs. Hot coals settled into her shoulder joints.

  The old man didn’t move.

  She hissed through her teeth and fought the pain in her shoulders. Pain rolled down her back and chewed on the end of her tailbone. Her head throbbed as if the boys were banging on her skull instead of each other.

  Nobody here was gonna make her look weak. She’d outlast all of them. She held onto that rock like it was her own thread on the Shuttle.

  The instructor nodded. “You’ll do,” he said in Duremen-Lor. At least, that’s what she hoped he’d said. “Come.”

  She followed, but she battled to keep the rock at chest level. Her arms burned so much they felt ready to fall off.

  The old man glanced back. “You can drop that now.” In Zedisti.

  Lorel fought down the temptation to drop the rock on his thread-snipping head. She’d only need to toss it a little. If she stumbled she could claim it was an accident. She wouldn’t let it hurt him. Not much.

  Her sweaty hands lost their hold on the miswoven torture device.

  The teakettle-sized rock landed on her naked big toe. Red spears of pain raced through her toe, up her leg, out the top of her skull. She swallowed down a grunt, though she wanted to yell.

  The instructor looked back, raised his eyebrows, and smiled.

  Chapter 25.

  Viper leaned against the window frame and watched a tall, slender form march out the healer’s front gate. Tears pressed against his eyelids, but he blinked them back. Would she at least turn around and look at the house?

  The sleeveless white shirt disappeared into the darkness.

  Lorel hadn’t waved. She hadn’t spoken to him. She hadn’t bothered to say goodbye before she left for the sword school.

  It was his own fault. He’d lectured her too much last night. She barely even argued back, which was eerie. Lately all she’d done was herd him around like a mother duck trying to force an undergrown nercat kitten to swim across a river overrun with the whole bahtdor herd.

  He’d never seen a nercat that stupid. He had seen ducks turn into bahtdor snacks.

  He shook his head and gathered his crutches under his arms. Lorel was on her own now. He could only hope the Gyrfalcon Academy didn’t devour her soul.

  Pain roared up his leg. A wave of dizziness swept over him. He sat on the edge of his bed and leaned forward.

  The stench from his bad foot forced him to sit up again. It hadn’t stunk nearly that awful yesterday. Maybe the smell meant it was beginning to heal. He’d ask Karisu this afternoon, when she got home from her rounds.

  Hobbling down the stairs without help was harder than he’d expected. After the third step he sat down, held his bad foot and his crutches high, and scooted down on his rear end. He made it out the front door before a nurse or a servant noticed him.

  The gate guard eyed him and shook his head, but didn’t try to stop him.

  The streets in front of the healer’s house were silent, but once he found a market square, the city bubbled with life. Fruit vendors set up their stalls, not yet shouting about their wares. Servants in white tunics darted from shop to shop, gathering basketfuls of produce and eggs before scurrying up the street toward the wealthy parts of town.

  Men in long-sleeved silver robes watched everything.

  The long sleeves made it obvious those men weren’t local. Lorel had gone to a great deal of trouble to keep them away from him in Toranan-Yiet. He didn’t know why, but he trusted her instincts. What he’d do if they bothered him, he didn’t know. Would anyone help him if he shouted?

  A crinkled old woman in a blue-and-pink flowered wrap paused next to him. “Have they bothered you?”

  “Not yet, but they stare at me a lot.” Viper shrugged. “My traveling companion despises them. She seems to think they’re after me.”

  “She’s a wise woman.” The old woman shook her head, and her waist-length white hair shimmered pink in the dawn sunlight. “Even injured, they will find you fascinating. How old are you, child?”

  He looked down at the crushed shells paving the street and tried to remember. “Thirteen and a third.” He felt so much older, after all he’d been thr
ough. “I’m called Viper,” the last word said in Zedisti.

  Her wrinkled mouth twitched into a grin. “I’m Macdeea. Come, walk with me. My joints stiffen up if I stand too long.”

  She started walking, or rather, shuffling down the street. He had no trouble keeping up with her. It was pleasant to walk with someone slower than he was. Lorel usually forgot and loped along like a starved turybird chasing a frantic prairie hen.

  A group of young men and women sauntered up and surrounded them. Unlike Macdeea, all of them were taller than he was.

  How many were there? Seven? Ten? They moved around enough to make him dizzy. Dizzier. He tried to hide how badly the market was spinning around him.

  Macdeea touched his sleeve. “They’re with me. Some days they’re a bit overprotective. Just ignore them.”

  They must be family, in that case. Lorel was the closest thing to family he had now, and she was appallingly protective. “Are they your grand­children?”

  The people around them snickered, and Macdeea laughed outright. “Do they look like my grandchildren?”

  Her followers were all much taller than she was, but so were all of his own birth family. Her flowered wrap was traditional, where they dressed in the latest fashions: short, striped, sleeveless tunics decorated with black embroidery. Jewelry glittered in their upswept hair. Each wore a gem-encrusted knife on a braided belt at their waist. Lorel would have declared them fops and turned her back on them.

  He didn’t know what to think of them. They watched him as if he might be dangerous. Him, dangerous? His conceit made him smile.

  They turned a corner into a smaller branch of the market. Brightly-colored birds fluttered in cages hung from bamboo beams. Gray kittens meeped and pawed at the bars of their enclosures. A cluster of men surrounded a pair of confused-looking girls wearing plain green wraps.

  “In the names of the Seven Temples!” Macdeea threw up her hands and stopped walking.

  Her entourage paused with her, blocking the lane.

  “How dare they? And in the middle of the day.” She pointed at the group of silver-robed foreigners, who appeared to be running an impromptu slave market.