I did not pause to admire his counter. Following the line of his deflection, I turned my stroke to a disemboweling slash.
Again I found air rather than my target. He had shifted aside, guiding my hand so that my own motion helped him drive my wrist against the point of his knee.
My grip loosened. Before I could secure it, he knocked the fang from my fingers.
By that time, I had already directed a jab at his face, seeking to gouge him blind. But the motion was a mere formality, nothing more. With a negligent flick of his elbow, he knocked my arm aside.
Then he stood a pace beyond my reach, holding my dagger lightly by its blade. I could not see that my efforts had inconvenienced him in any way. I told myself that I might have pressed my attack more stringently—that I might perhaps have retrieved my fang in a way which threatened him—but I did not believe it. He had made his point in terms I could not contradict by skill alone.
When I had bowed to show my acquiescence, he restored the dagger to me and bowed in turn.
At once, Isla advanced. Her desperation she expressed as anger so that it would not turn to despair. With the compact force of the Direct Fist, she flung a blow at him which caused my own qa to quake, although I was now a bystander.
Her speed did not exceed mine, of that I was certain. However, the efficiency of the mashu-te had the effect of enhanced quickness. Her first strike touched his robe—as mine had not—before he turned it. And even then her fist focused so much qa that he was forced to recoil as if he had been hit.
As easily as oil, she followed one blow with another.
He did not deflect her again. Rather, he met her squarely, palm to fist. I hardly had time to see the flex of his knees, the set of his strength. When their hands met, I flinched, thinking that she had shattered his bones.
Yet it was Isla who gasped in pain, not the shin-te. Her own force had nearly dislocated her shoulder. If the blow had betrayed any flaw, she would have ruined her arm.
He waited, motionless, until she had mastered her distress enough to bow. Then he replied gravely, with such respect that if I had not seen the event I would not have known he had humbled her, “Have I harmed you?”
Glaring, she dismissed his concern. “This proves nothing,” she retorted. “You are greater than we. Your skill surpasses ours. So much we already knew. You have not demonstrated that there is no killing stroke.”
“Still,” he assured her, “it is the truth.”
“I disagree,” she protested. “A master may strike at a farmer, and the farmer will die. He can neither counter nor evade the blow. Is he then responsible for it? Is it not a lie to say that he chooses his death? Is the blow not murder? The mashu-te teach that the burden and the consequences belong to the one who strikes. How otherwise,” she concluded, “do the shin-te call themselves honorable?”
He was young and bereft—and apparently better content to contest his beliefs with actions than with words. Yet he did not shirk her demand.
“Service to qa precludes murder,” he answered. “Acceptance of that which opposes us necessitates responsibility. There is no killing stroke.
“Consider the farmer. Do you contend that the master struck him without cause? Is that the act of a master? Do the mashu-te conduct themselves so?” He shook his head. “If you wish to say that the farmer did not choose his death, you must first consider the cause of the blow.”
“That is specious,” Isla snapped. “Maybe mages reason so. Warriors do not.
“No cause is sufficient,” she insisted. “Despite whatever lies between them, they are unequal in skill and force. Therefore the blow is murder.”
Unswayed, he lifted his shoulders delicately. “Since you do not name the cause,” he murmured, “I cannot answer you. The truth is there, not in the conclusions you draw from it.”
Although he had been slain several times, he knew how to render the teachings of the shin-te unassailable.
He disturbed me. I found suddenly that I feared for him more than I feared his skills, or the distilled potency of his qa. Isla was right. His words, like his actions, proved nothing. I was nahia to the core. I knew—as he did not—that any belief which placed itself beyond doubt nurtured its own collapse. A warrior who did not risk despair could not master it.
_______
Again, he was no longer among us. Neither Isla nor I saw how he was taken from the cell. We could not name the moment of his disappearance. We only knew that while she wrestled with her own beliefs, and I considered my fears, the object of our concern ceased to share our imprisonment.
“Asper,” she said when she had recognized his absence, “we’re beaten.” She may have meant “broken.” “We can’t help him. And he can’t help himself. If he can’t remember what happens to him, he can’t get past what he’s been taught. And all that shin-te training has already failed him.”
She had endured her own testing without aid or companionship. She had strength enough for any contest, even though it killed her. But she could not suffer helplessness.
I, on the other hand—
I could not have borne repeated death alone. But I was nahia—oblique of heart as well as of skill. I had been trained to impossible escapes and improbable disappearances. My masters had made a study of helplessness.
I did not attempt to answer her. She was too pure—no answer of mine would touch her. Instead I turned my attention to the walls.
As ever, there was no door, no window, no gaps at all. Faceless granite confronted me on all sides. But I did not allow myself to be daunted.
Raising my fists, I cried as though I believed I would be heard, “Are you stupid as well as cruel? Does magery corrupt your wits as it does your heart? Or are you only a fool? He cannot succeed this way!”
Isla gaped at me, but I took no heed of her chagrin. I was certain of nothing except that our captor needed this shin-te master as sorely as we did.
“He remembers nothing,” I called to the blind stone. “He learns nothing! Death after death, he fails you. If you do not let us teach him, he will always fail you. And we cannot teach him if we do not know what he opposes!”
The walls answered with silence. Isla stared at me in shock. After a moment, she breathed, “Asper—” but no other words came to her.
“Hear me!” I demanded. “They say that the Black Archemage is malefic beyond belief, but even Argoyne himself could not be this stupid!”
An instant later, I was stricken dumb by the sudden vehemence of the reply. From out of the air, a voice clawed with bitterness replied, “And what in the name of the Seven Hells makes you think I can spare—?”
As abruptly as it had begun, the response was cut off. A soundless tremor filled the cell as though the stone under our feet had flinched.
“Asper,” Isla whispered, “what have you done?” She stood ready for combat.
I swallowed a moment’s panic. Adjusted the fang in my grasp. “Apparently,” I said, feigning calm, “I have insulted our captor.”
“Oh, well,” she answered between her teeth. “If that’s all—”
Without transition, we became aware that one of the walls was gone. Its absence revealed a corridor I knew too well—a passage as wide as the cell, leading from nowhere to nowhere, and fraught with death. Like the cell, it was endlessly lit. And it showed no intersections or doorways through which it might be entered. Still it held perils without number, threats as enduring as the light.
It was the arena in which Isla and I had been slain too often.
In the center of the space stood the young shin-te master, waiting. His back was toward us, but his stance showed that he was ready, poised for challenge. No sound came from his light movements, or from the faceless walls—or from the warrior advancing behind him.
The warrior held a spear, which he meant to drive into the young man’s back.
I made no attempt to help or warn him. The silence stilled me. I remembered sounds from that corridor, a host of small distractions hampering awareness—the distant plash of water, the rustle of unnatural winds, the grinding of shifted stones. And I did not believe that we had suddenly been given our freedom. But Isla immediately hastened forward, perhaps thinking that she would be allowed to aid the young man.
At once, she encountered the wall of the cell, and could not pass it. The scene before us was an image, mage-created, showing events which transpired elsewhere. Apparently my demand had been heeded.
“By the White Lords!” she swore. “What—?”
I ignored her confusion. It would pass.
That warrior looked to be the same one who had slain both of us until we were entirely beaten. I saw no reason to think otherwise. I had killed him occasionally myself, as had Isla, but death had not hindered him significantly. When my memory was restored, I had concluded that he was not a man at all, but rather a creature of magery, returned to life whenever he fell by the same power which had first created him. If he had a man’s features—or even a man’s eyes—I could not recall them.
From a distance of no more than five strides, he cocked his spear and flung it.
Warned by the sensitivity of his qa, the young shin-te turned, snatching the spear from the air. With the ease of long familiarity, he whirled the weapon as if it were a staff, and confronted his assailant.
By some means which I could neither observe nor understand, the warrior held another spear. Flipping his weapon swiftly end for end to disguise the moment when he would strike, he attacked.
The young man countered smoothly with the shaft of his staff. Foot and knee, hip and arm, at every moment his stances were flawless, apt for attack or defense, advance or retreat. The fast wheel of his assailant’s blows he parried or slipped aside, adjusting his distance from the warrior at need.
Then he saw his opening. Stabbing his staff between the warrior’s arms, he slapped its shaft against both of the warrior’s wrists at once. The spear spun from the warrior’s grasp.
A quick thrust would end the contest, at least momentarily.
“Now!” Isla commanded sharply, although the young man could not hear her.
He did not thrust. Instead, he stepped back, holding his staff ready.
“Fool,” Isla groaned.
I agreed mutely. That warrior could not be defeated by death. Still, a living assailant was always more dangerous than a dead one. That the young man seemed to have no use for his spear’s point disturbed me. To my eyes, the shin-te carried their denial of the killing stroke to unfortunate extremes.
Surely these contests were being staged to test his ability to master living opponents? If they had some other purpose, I could not fathom it.
Already the warrior had retrieved his weapon. Now he held it by its balance in one hand, bracing it along his arm so that it extended his reach. With his free hand, he warded away the young man’s staff. To my eye, this method of attack seemed awkward, but the warrior employed it smoothly. Feinting forward, he flicked his fingers at the young man’s eyes. In the same motion, he kicked rapidly to draw the staff downward, then jabbed with his spear.
The young shin-te countered, retreating. A line of blood appeared on his cheek before he knocked the spear aside and spun out of reach. The staff blurred with speed in his hands. Undaunted, his assailant advanced. An abrupt slap of the spear broke the staff’s whirl. Precise as a serpent, rigid fingers struck at the young man’s throat. I felt rather than saw the spear follow the blow.
The young man saved himself by dropping his staff. Simultaneously, he blocked the spear with one palm, the blow with the other. An instant later—so swiftly that he astonished me—he collapsed one arm and struck inward with his elbow, catching his opponent at the temple hard enough to splinter bone.
The warrior flipped away to diminish the force of the impact.
The shin-te pursued without hesitation. But the warrior landed strongly—and in his hands he now held both weapons, their points braced for bloodshed. Again the young man was forced to retreat.
I hardly saw the warrior settle both spears into his awkward-seeming grasp. The young man commanded my attention. His poise betrayed no uncertainty, and the cut on his cheek was small—dangerous only if the spearpoint had been poisoned. Still he alarmed me. Although he fought well, his eyes held a flinch of defeat. Repeated death had eaten its way into his heart. When his opponent attacked again, weaving both spears in a pattern intricate with harm, he could find no opening through which to repay the assault.
“Asper,” Isla breathed suddenly, “he needs a champion.”
I ignored her. I could not look away from the shin-te master’s grief.
“The mage,” she insisted. “He needs a champion. That’s what he’s testing us for. He’s trying to find someone good enough to fight for him.”
Without thinking, I murmured, “That is an assumption.”
A rent appeared in the young man’s robe, showing blood on his skin. He countered at the warrior’s knees, but failed to penetrate the weaving of the spearpoints.
“I’m sure of it.” In her excitement, she turned her back on the scene before us in order to confront me. “Forget your nahia rigor for a moment. Listen to me.
“Why else does a mage do this?” She gestured at the young man’s battle. “A mage so beleaguered he has no power to spare? If he were not already embattled for his life, he would have no need to treat us this way. What does he gain?”
I found myself looking at her rather than at the contest. She had thought of something which had eluded me. Her assumption exposed my own. Without realizing it, I had simply believed that the motives of mages surpassed our capacity to explain them—that no guess of ours could hope to approach the truth. But we had been given a hint when the mage spoke. And she had made better use of it than I.
“Why doesn’t he return us to our lives?” she continued. “Or simply kill us? Or let us remember? Because he can’t spare the power. These trials are all he can manage.
“He needs someone,” she stated as if she were certain, “to fight for him.”
Behind her, the shin-te went to the floor in a flurry of spear strokes. I thought him finished, but he recovered. Scissoring his legs, he flung out kicks which cost him a jab to one thigh, but which succeeded at breaking apart the warrior’s attack. For an instant, he appeared to spin on his back among the spears. Then he arched to his feet, facing his opponent.
Now he held one of the spears. I had not seen him acquire it, could hardly imagine how he might have wrested it from the warrior’s grasp. Nevertheless he had restored a measure of equality to the struggle.
Although his leg had been wounded, his stance remained sure. His air of strength was an illusion, however. His new weakness revealed itself in diminished quickness, diminished focus. Pain and damage disturbed the concentration of his qa.
And still he used the spear as a staff—a defensive weapon. While his opponent sought to kill him, he appeared to desire only the warrior’s defeat.
He had said that there is no killing stroke, but he was wrong. And I believed that he knew it, although he might not have been able to name the truth. The anguish in his eyes did not arise from his wounds. Mere hurt could not exceed him.
I knew to my cost that the killing stroke was despair.
For a moment, I had the sensation that my mind had closed itself, shutting out thought. I felt only panic. Who else but Argoyne might require a champion in the midst of the Mage War? Black Argoyne, Archemage of the Dark Lords? All others like him were dead. And everyone in Vess—everyone in all Vesselege—knew that the White Lords were winning. They had no need of a champion.
Isla had not yet pushed her assumption to that conclusion. When she did, what would she say? Impelled by the scruples of the mashu-te, would she insist that w
e must pray for the young man’s failure, so that Argoyne would receive no aid from us?
I was nahia to the bone. The violation of such a sacrifice would burst my qa entirely, leaving me empty and lost.
While she returned her gaze to the contest, the warrior again changed his tactics. Now he held his spear by its butt with both hands, whirling it about his head as though it were a bolus. To my eye, this seemed an implausible assault. Surely it left him exposed to counterattack? Yet apparently it did not. The young shin-te found no way past the wheeling spearpoint.
At first this baffled me. And the more closely I studied him, the more confused I became. Why did he not strike now—or there? But then, despite my panic, I glimpsed the truth. The warrior varied his stance, distance, and pace in ways which exactly mirrored the young man’s qa. Every shift of the young man’s energy or intention was reflected by the whirling spear. He could not counter because the warrior’s weapon matched each movement.
The truth was that I had concentrated my attention on the wrong combatant. Thinking that I must understand the young man’s skills and limitations and mistakes in order to aid him, I had missed the real point of Isla’s assumption. His mastery was not at issue. Rather, he needed to grasp the nature of his opponent.
If it was true that Argoyne required a champion, then it must also be true that the warrior we watched had been mage-made to mimic an opposing champion. The champion of the White Lords, and of Goris Miniter, Vesselege’s King.
“Where—?” I tried to ask Isla. But my voice stuck in my throat. I swallowed, breathing deeply to clear my qa. “Where,” I began again, “have you seen a spear used in that way before?”
I feared her reply almost as much as I feared her scruples.
However, she answered softly, “I haven’t.” Then she added, “The mashu-te distrust weapons. I know less than you.”
Indeed. No doubt the mashu-te believed that any weapon diminished the personal responsibility of its wielder. In contrast, the nahia studied weapons without number. But ours was the Art of Circumvention. We studied all weapons—apart from the fang—in order to counter or defeat them. We did not wish to become dependent upon them. And I had never encountered tactics such as the warrior used.
Reave the Just and Other Tales Page 10