by J. S. Morin
“Two,” Rakashi replied without turning to look at her. “We picked them up just after we left the warehouse.”
“Do you think that shipper sent them?” Soria wondered aloud, turning down a side street to get away from the crowded main thoroughfare to somewhere she might be able to look back and check out their pursuers.
“Stranger things have happened, surely,” Rakashi joked, “but I think not. I believe we merely stopped there for long enough that whoever was looking for us had time to find us.”
Soria saw a stack of crates that had been delivered to a woodworker’s shop, and ducked behind them. She grabbed Rakashi roughly by the arm, and dragged him behind cover as well. She crouched low and shifted her own vision into the aether to watch the men through the wood of the crates. Luck was with her, and the crates contained nothing with a Source of its own; no chickens, fresh lobster, or potted herbs were left blocking the sight lines of the narrow road in the aether.
As the two men neared, walking slowly and obviously wary of their vanished prey, Soria allowed her vision to revert to the light as she leapt from her concealment. Rakashi followed her lead, drawing his half-spear fluidly as he took up a position behind her. It was not the most gentlemanly of fighting arrangements, but he had learned through experience that being between Soria and her enemies was hazardous. Soria grabbed the closer of the two by the wrist, pulling and twisting to force him down and off his balance. She fell with him and atop him, rolling across his back to launch a kick at the back of his companion’s knees. The blow struck true, and both men were on the ground before they could react to defend themselves. Soria continued her roll until she had regained her feet, one pursuer still held in her wrist-lock. Rakashi put the point of his half-spear to the base of the other man’s throat.
“Fine day for a walk, good sirs,” Soria greeted them sweetly in Kheshi.
Given the men’s lightly bronzed skin, dark eyes, and dark hair, it was an easy guess as to their homeland—the northern part of Khesh where the native blood was mixed thickly with foreign. Neither of them had reacted to the fight like a trained warrior, though both carried knives at their belt. It was said that in Marker’s Point, even midwives carried a blade, and that reputation was better deserved than most visitors realized. Still, a knife could only do so much from its sheath. The two Kheshi snoops bore lazy blades that had never left theirs to defend their owners.
“Please, do not kill me,” begged the one Rakashi held at spear-point. “We mean no offense.”
“You were interested in Denrik Zayne. Our master, he, too, is interested in Zayne. He would like to meet you and your friends,” said the man whose arm Soria was wrenching.
“To what end?” Rakashi asked calmly, pulling the half-spear’s point away from his captive’s throat just a finger’s breadth.
“Maybe to hire you,” was the reply.
Soria and Rakashi exchanged a glance. Soria shrugged. Rakashi nodded. It was the best lead they were likely to find.
* * * * * * * *
“My thanks for sparing the lives of my servants. They are both clumsy and unwise,” Parjek Ran-Haalamar greeted them that evening at his tiny palace on the seaside of the island chain, facing the sunset. Few could afford to excavate the rocky outer rim of the islands, giving such locales instant prestige among the residents of the Point. Parjek bore no noble title, for Khesh was miserly with such hereditary honors, having fewer noblemen than Acardia despite fifty times the population of those northern traders.
“They made no move for their weapons. I had the luxury of mercy.” Soria spoke for the group as the four of them stood before the Kheshi shipping magnate. She looked curiously about the room as she spoke, admiring the opulent imported marble stonework as it contrasted with traditional Kheshi woven straw mats, which were sold in bulk in every market the Kheshi traded with.
“Quite so,” Parjek agreed disinterestedly, giving the impression that his interest in his men’s lives was feigned out of politeness. “Now I understand that you have some sort of interest in a pirate named Denrik Zayne?” He waved a hand dismissively at Soria to forestall the answer she was about to give. “No, no, I know you do. I have an interest in him as well. I have lost two ships to him now. This is most obviously not good for my business. My customers expect their shipments to arrive. Storms may sink a trader’s ships, and send the cargo to a soaking grave, but what can be done about a storm, hey? You find good captains and hope they are better than the storms they see. Ahh, but pirates? My customers do not like hearing that some pirate now has their wares.”
“So you want us to hunt him down for you?” Soria asked, raising an eyebrow. She had really hoped to find out about Brannis’s (or Kyrus’s) whereabouts through more oblique methods rather than dealing with Denrik Zayne directly. Aside from the very real possibility that he would recognize her from their encounter at Raynesdark, he might very well be a threat in her own world.
“No. I wish to bait a trap for him. I have another ship setting sail, laden with valuable goods. Hmm, for the sake of discussion, let us call them mangoes. I am too well known to ship my mangoes in complete secrecy, so word escapes even before the ship leaves port. Pirates love mangoes, because they are easy to carry, easy to sell, and quite valuable,” Parjek explained.
“And when he attacks your ship, we catch him and kill him? That about do it?” Tanner quipped.
Soria and Parjek both glared at him. Soria was supposedly their leader, or she had told Parjek as much, at least. It undercut her authority to have her underling interrupt the negotiation of the deal.
“That … roughly outlines the plan … yes,” Parjek continued. “However, I need to know that I pay for good fighters. My coinblades must be able to overpower the boarding party that Zayne sends aboard, and then to take the fight to his own ship. You,” he said, looking at Soria, “who take ‘Coinblade’ as a surname even, I hope to see some evidence that you are worthy of the name. By your dress and manner, you are Tezuan Sun trained. I have two Tezuan bodyguards myself.”
And at the mention, two formidable-looking men stepped in from a side room. They were both Kheshi, with close-cropped yellow hair and muscular bare arms—pure-blooded southerners—exposed by the same design of armor that Soria wore. Neither was as tall as she was, but they were more stocky of build.
“Meet Jovin and Daar-Ben. They will be among those on the bait ship with you, should you pass my test,” Parjek said.
“What test?” Soria asked, narrowing her eyes at the Kheshi merchant prince.
“It is easy for a Kheshi lass to buy armor and call herself a Tezuan Sun disciple,” Parjek answered, his hands worrying at one another under her glare. “You need not win, of course, but you must convince Daar-Ben that you really are Tezuan. No blades, no killing, this is merely to confirm you are who you claim to be.”
Soria fought to keep a smirk off her face. If only you knew …
Managing to keep her composure, Soria turned to face her would-be opponent. She cracked her knuckles as she let her vision fade to the aether. Though she had not been told which of the two Kheshi was to be her opponent, she knew immediately. The one to her right was the stronger of the two by his Source and was the easy choice to test her skills. Drawing from her own Source, Soria worked a straightforward telekinesis spell.
The one whom she had guessed to be Daar-Ben stood still, dark eyes widening as he tried to adopt a formal Tezuan sparring stance. Soria knew, though, that he now felt as if he had been buried in sand, his limbs held tightly in place. He could wiggle a bit, but was otherwise held fast.
“Daar-Ben, step forward and face her,” Parjek ordered impatiently when his guard had not made a move after a moment. “What are you waiting for?”
“Do you yield?” Soria asked him, looking him squarely in the eye. She had always hated being asked that question …
* * * * * * * *
The children knelt in orderly rows on the rough stone floor of the courtyard in the Temple of the Sun. T
hey were ordered by age, then by skill, with the eldest students at the front and the strongest of each age toward the middle. Soria knelt in the very center of the fourteen-year-old disciples, as she had knelt in the center position of the thirteen-year-olds the year before. The Parting of Ways had come yet again, along with another chance at freedom.
She kept silent, unmoving, respectful. She had learned to stopper the emotions that had gotten her into so much trouble in her ten years as a Tezuan Sun disciple. They boiled inside her, but she had become more careful about how often they showed themselves. It allowed her to watch the formal proceedings with just the hint of a smile betraying her intent.
One by one, the students twenty years aged were called before Mother Stina, the highest-ranked of their temple. One by one, each learned their fate. By their skills and their conduct during their training, each had been evaluated and the masters had figured out how best they would serve the temple. The honored few were taken on as full Brothers and Sisters of the order. Those would teach and lead as the successors of the temple’s legacy. Others were assigned as gardeners, cooks, or other servant positions. The temple allowed no outsiders and certain tasks were better suited for adults to oversee, rather than the young disciples. Those chosen for such roles were rarely surprised, as their later years had groomed them for specific specialties. Another group was sent away from the temple. They would be expected to use their skills to earn money, most of which would be sent back to the temple to pay for their meager needs. It was the only source of income the ascetics had.
Soria was impatient. She knew her fate and six years seemed too long to wait. She would never belong in the temple. Juliana’s eyes saw more of the world each morning than Soria’s had since the temple had taken her in. There was a world beyond the walls, and Varnus had promised to show it to her. He was waiting in Delfar for her, just an hour’s walk from the Temple of the Sun. All she had to do was earn her freedom to leave.
“Are there any who would challenge their fate?” Mother Stina asked after the last of the assignments was handed down.
They were the words Soria was waiting for.
“I challenge my fate!” Soria proclaimed, standing and addressing Mother Stina directly. As far as she could recall, it was the first she had spoken to the Mother of the temple aside from apologies and excuses for her behavior.
“Your fate was not chosen today, young Soria,” Mother Stina replied serenely.
“That is what I challenge. I want my fate settled,” Soria countered and she began to walk forward, picking her way through the neatly ordered rows of her fellow students.
She stopped a few paces from the elderly Tezuan ascetic. The two women locked gazes. The younger was clad in nothing but the loose black pants that all the students wore and the cloth wrap the girls wore about their chests. She was barefooted, bare armed, but wore a look of determination like armor. The elder wore a robe of silk the color of saffron, which shone in the early morning light. She wore sandals beneath the robe, and walked with a staff that was a badge of authority more than any sort of aid. Her wrinkled face kept a serene look in place, but her dark eyes betrayed a hint of annoyance. Soria had a rather inimitable ability to annoy Mother Stina.
“Your fate is to spend six more years learning humility and patience,” Mother Stina spoke coldly, never taking her eyes from her petitioner.
“I challenge that, too,” Soria shot back.
There were gasps from among the onlooking disciples and even a few of the instructors. A few mutters were heard, but Mother Stina’s gaze quickly swept the courtyard, and all was silent again, save for the morning calls of the birds.
“So be it. If you would challenge me, then do so,” Mother Stina declared.
Soria fought back a grin, gritting her teeth and pursing her lips.
Many years, one or more of the disciples challenged the fate they were assigned. Few ever managed to actually oppose Mother Stina. She would stare at them until they changed their minds and yielded, never having so much as taken a fighting stance. Soria had paid closer attention the last year, when Ronmo had objected to being sent out rather than being installed as a fighting instructor as he had wished. She had seen the rudimentary telekinesis that the old woman used, holding her opponent in place with the power of her sann—what the Tezuan called aether or Source—they did not understand the two separately. Juliana had spent a good deal of time helping Soria find out how to counter such a trick.
“Do you yield?” Mother Stina asked.
Her manner suggested the mere question was a formality. Soria watched in the aether as the tendrils of Mother Stina’s spell wove themselves around her. Soria’s Source was stronger than Ronmo’s had been, and was not held entirely immobile. Fighting the spell, she brought her hands up in front of her, palms facing Mother Stina. With a quick jerk, she spread her hands, severing the spell’s connection to her. She continued the motion into a Tezuan fighting stance. Mother Stina seemed the tiniest bit surprised, but accepted that she would have to fight Soria to enforce her edict. The old woman let go her staff, which balanced perfectly on end, demonstrating her skill and control.
Soria saw through that little trick as well. She reached out in the aether, and loosed the staff from Mother Stina’s spell as well. It clattered to the ground. and Soria could not stop herself any longer. Her lips curled into the mischievous grin that had accompanied so many of the troubles she had gotten herself into during her years at the Temple of the Sun.
Mother Stina took the small disrespect for what it was, and leapt to the attack. No follower of the Tezuan way was unschooled in combat; age and experience often triumphed over the strength and speed of youth. The old woman flew through the air with her body outstretched, one foot leading in a kick. Soria ducked the blow and spun to face Mother Stina as the old ascetic landed behind her. Soria slapped aside two punches, a kick, another punch; Mother Stina thought to overwhelm an undisciplined defense. Soria kept her aether in check, her Source balanced. She took aether to where it was most needed within her body: legs to speed her footwork, forearms to absorb impacts … hands to deliver blows.
While Soria had started out on defense, she merely wanted to put on a show for the watching throng of disciples and instructors. Her first punch was faster than Mother Stina imagined a disciple could throw. It caught her squarely in the chest and took her from her feet. Mother Stina hit the ground as fluidly as any ascetic among them could manage, landing in a roll and popping back to her feet immediately. Soria could tell the blow had hurt her, though. A few murmurs began again among the disciples, but this time Stina was in no position to silence them.
“No, I do not yield,” Soria finally answered.
Mother Stina was more cautious in her second onslaught, keeping her defenses up while making attack after attack. She tried trips and feints, punches, kicks, and elbows. She tried to grab Soria to throw her. Nothing worked. Soria was too fast, her Source speeding her movements by skilled direction of the aether within it.
Finally one blow aimed at Soria’s face struck cleanly. Soria had made no attempt to block, dodge, or deflect it. Even with her own sann to strengthen and protect her, Mother Stina broke her hand against the shielding spell Soria enacted. Juliana had learned to cast them two seasons before, and Soria had been practicing them almost nonstop ever since.
As Mother Stina recoiled in pain from the unexpected impact against something she had not seen, Soria grabbed the wrist of her broken hand. She pulled down and across her body, bringing Mother Stina’s stomach and her own knee into solid contact. As the old woman doubled over, Soria brought her free hand across and stuck a blow to Mother Stina’s jaw. The Tezuan Mother’s control of her sann kept her teeth in her mouth, but a spray of blood and spittle spread across the stone floor.
As Soria twisted her arm, and forced her to the ground, to all appearances preparing for a fatal blow, Mother Stina spoke up.
“I yield,” the old ascetic croaked though bloodied lips. “Beg
one and never return, you rotten, ungrateful child.”
“Thank you. That is all I wanted,” Soria replied, letting go the old woman’s arm. To the rest of the assembly, she said, “Should I encounter any of you in the world out there, we will be as strangers. There is no past between us. I am starting anew. Friendships I may remember, but I leave all grudges here. Any who seek to do me harm or take my freedom again, remember this,” she said, pointing to where Mother Stina lay.
That night, she changed into some traveling clothes at the inn where Zellisan was staying. She met his friends Tanner and Rakashi. They did not care that she was not Kheshi born, like so many of her fellow disciples had. They spoke Juliana’s language to her, until she re-learned the forgotten Acardian of her infancy. They treated her like a friend.
* * * * * * * *
“What do you mean ‘yield’? You have not even begun to fight him yet!” Parjek objected.
“I yield,” Daar-Ben whispered hoarsely, short of breath as Soria’s spell held his chest tightly. A heartbeat later, he slumped forward, coughing and gasping to recover his breath as Soria released him. She turned her attention back to Parjek.
“Satisfied, Daar-Ben?” she called out over her shoulder, watching Parjek as she did so.
“Yes. Master, she is Tezuan,” Daar-Ben confirmed between ragged breaths.
“What nonsense is this?” Parjek demanded. “I ordered to you test her in combat, not stare at her and lose your composure. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“Master, it is a Tezuan technique that is beyond me. My muscles stiffened and I could not move.” Daar-Ben begged his master’s forgiveness. “Please believe me.”
“Jovin,” Parjek turned his attention to his other guard. “You fight her, then. See if you can actually attack her, unlike cowardly Daar-Ben.”
“No, Master. With respect, I will not,” Jovin answered, bowing slightly in deference, despite his insubordination.