The Orphans' Promise

by Pierre Grimbert

  “If that’s your theory, then why did you claim the opposite at first?”

  “Because if I had told you that anyone can do it, you just need to try hard enough, you wouldn’t have really tried. And you would have ended up giving up, getting upset with me, upset with yourself, and upset with everyone for your failure. Trust me, I know from experience.”

  Yan nodded, smiling. Corenn was right. It was easy for him to imagine how others would have reacted that way.

  “To finish answering your question, there’s a third possibility: The power might be hereditary to some degree. But in a way so anarchic that you couldn’t properly call it a rule… my own grandmother, the daughter of the emissaries Yon and Tiramis, was a magician. My aunt, the Mother of Norme, was also one. But neither my cousin nor Léti have shown the slightest disposition.”

  “To my knowledge, none of my ancestors were magicians. There’s not much to support that theory, unless there’s some rather complex rule.”

  “We agree, then. Welcome to the great circle of polemicists!”

  “Do you know a lot of other magicians?”

  “I know three. Two Kauliennes, who apprenticed under me, and an old friend from Crek whom I correspond with rather regularly. Unfortunately, you can’t go about parading this kind of ability, as you’ll find for yourself. So it’s difficult to establish friendships with other magicians…”

  Yan agreed, though he had already decided to keep it a secret. He was already strange enough in others’ eyes, and he wasn’t going to openly display a power that the superstitions of the weak-minded wouldn’t hesitate to deem dangerous.

  “Shall we start the lesson?” Yan asked impatiently.

  “It has already started, young man. We’re not going to spend the whole time moving shells around. Before you learn how to use your Will, you need to get to know it. Respect it. And believe me, it’s more a question of safety than it is philosophy.”

  Grigán had also decided to move on to more serious lessons with Léti. If her first sessions had been meant to discourage her, the next few were to give the warrior a chance to judge her weaknesses, and find ways to fix them. Now he was sure enough about his student and about himself to really start teaching her.

  Léti was waiting for his instruction, standing on the sloop’s deck, which rocked according to the whims of the waves and was kissed by the sun’s rays. They were only two days away from the Upper Kingdoms, but the sun was already more mild in these waters than in Lorelia with the oncoming cold Season of the Earth.

  The young woman waited and tried a variety of tricks with her broadsword. She was the only one who carried a weapon on board. Grigán himself didn’t give a thought to his curved blade until night fell, as he was unable to sleep without a weapon within reach. Léti kept the heavy sheath at her side at all times, and it scraped her thigh day and night.

  She had ripped up her Kaulienne work tunic, which, after three dékades of travel, was torn up and dirty beyond recognition, to fashion a pair of shorts and a loose short-sleeved shirt. Such an outfit would have earned disapproving looks in Kaul, but gave the young woman more freedom to move, which was needed as she trained. Grigán was happy that she had taken the initiative for these improvements without him having to say a word, but he still had more advice to give her…

  “Your hair, Léti. Tie it up anytime there might be a fight. It’s too easy to grab.”

  She ran her hand through her long brown hair, which fell in gentle cascades down her neck, and then hastily gathered it into a ponytail, which she wrapped around itself and fastened with the help of a bandana. It wasn’t the most charming hairstyle, but the warrior understood and admired its advantages.

  “Starting today, all our exercises will illustrate one of these three rules: steady hand, firm footing, sharp mind.”

  Léti nodded her head. When the warrior was teaching her something, she stayed silent, drinking in his words and saving her strength for the physical training. And though it was very respectful of her, Grigán couldn’t help but expect some kind of reaction from her. He had struggled to formulate these three rules, and would have liked it if she had shown some more interest in them.

  “Every mistake you make can be explained by forgetting one of these rules. If you lose a fight, it’s not because your adversary is better than you: It’s because he was better at that moment. That he had a steadier hand, firmer footing, a sharper mind. You should work to eliminate your weaknesses, and learn to see those of others.”

  Léti nodded again with a serious look on her face. Grigán couldn’t understand how she could stay like that, with no reaction. He had failed to consider that the student was stoic as a reflection of her instructor. Grigán’s lesson was clear, and the young woman had, up to that point, no questions to ask.

  “Demonstration,” decided the warrior, who was more at ease in practice than in theory. “Defend yourself.”

  A bit surprised, Léti obeyed. It was the first time that they were both armed during an exercise. She considered the risk of an accidental injury, but forced the idea from her head as she remembered her first lesson. Grigán knew what he was doing.

  She assumed a combat stance, somewhat clumsily, copying the master-at-arms’ posture. The position suited a warrior using a four-foot curved blade perfectly but didn’t suit one with a short Goranese broadsword. Grigán simply extended his arm and hit Léti’s blade with his scimitar. In the instant it took her to recover, the warrior took a step forward and held the point of his blade an inch from his student’s throat.

  “Steady hand,” he repeated in a grave voice.

  He got back into position, followed by Léti, who instinctively adjusted her stance. He launched a similar attack, but the young woman kept him at bay and kept up her guard without flinching. Grigán accelerated his attack, alternating an assault at her legs with another aimed at her head. Léti did her best to parry, even though she had never learned how to do so properly. Each time he attacked, she recoiled a small step unconsciously, until the warrior surprised her by delivering two consecutive attacks to her legs. By reflex, she jumped back but couldn’t regain her balance and fell. Grigán once again menaced her throat with his blade.

  “Firm footing.”

  “And sharp mind; I get it,” she said, frustrated. “Could we move on to the lesson?”

  “Didn’t you learn anything from this?”

  The young woman stood, her face unreadable. She shot a look at Bowbaq and Rey, who were fishing on the other end of the deck. The two men were hardly interested in the two combatants at the moment. It was better that way. No one had seen her fail so dismally.

  “You won’t get me a third time,” she promised the warrior in a defiant tone.

  “A fight is never won in advance, Léti. Not for me; not for you. If you do hold me off, I’ll be the first to congratulate you, but I doubt you could ever manage to best me. Or anyone,” he said in a scornful tone, to Léti’s great surprise.

  Silent, they squared off again. Léti had never been so humiliated. Since Grigán stayed motionless, she instinctively attacked first, without having the least idea of what she was doing.

  The warrior was waiting for it. He caught her arm before it reached its target, and once again pointed the tip of his blade at her throat.

  “Sharp mind,” he said, smiling. “Your mind’s heavy with rage.”

  “You deliberately provoked me! That’s… you should be ashamed! That’s cheating!”

  “All right, so it’s not very honorable, but it’s not cheating. In a combat, a single rule counts: The one who is the least injured wins. I am here to teach you to defend yourself, not to teach you fancy fencing techniques.”

  Léti massaged her wrist, thinking about the warrior’s words. He still had a steady hand; that was for sure. He also had a funny way of teaching his students! But underneath it all, he was right.

  “All right, all right. You won three times. So what do we do now?”

  “We’ll get
started… from the beginning, of course. Take your weapon. Stay standing. In a fight, we are as vulnerable as newborn babes. So for a start, I’m going to teach you how to walk.”

  Rey dug up an old stringed moon with two strings missing while rummaging through the sloop’s bow holds. To trick himself out of his boredom, he made restoring it a personal project, and was proud to present his masterpiece to the group on their third morning at sea.

  The fishing lines distinctly didn’t sound as true as traditional strings, but they weren’t so out of tune that they discouraged Rey from launching into a recital of bawdy songs, to Yan and Léti’s great amusement.

  Impressed by her friend’s talent, Léti suggested, “Maybe you should compose a ballad about the wise ones of Ji.”

  The actor’s face grew grim as he answered, “I’ve already considered it… but I don’t like sad songs.” He still only saw the negative aspects, the “curse,” surrounding their ancestors’ experience; how most of them were deprived of their land, titles, and positions. What secret deserved such a sacrifice?

  “There’s a ship off our bow,” Bowbaq announced suddenly.

  His companions rushed to join him at the front of the boat. Sure enough, there was a ship, a small dot on the cerulean horizon of the Median Sea. From this distance they couldn’t distinguish much else.

  “It’s from the Small Kingdoms,” Grigán pointed out, “which isn’t much to worry about. I would be a lot more concerned if we saw one in our wake.”

  “I thought the coastline between Lineh and Galen was a haven for pirates,” Rey commented.

  The heirs exchanged worried looks. Everyone had heard that rumor at least once before, and a sinking feeling came over the group. The whispered rumors seemed to speak clearly now as truth.

  “We are far from Lineh,” Corenn decided. “It must be a merchant vessel.”

  The rest of the day crawled by. The heirs traded watches, observing the approaching ship. It was clear that they would pass one another soon. Everyone silently hoped that it would be an encounter without incident.

  As the boat closed in, they were eventually able to make out a Junian frigate. It was a good sign, since the Barony was renowned for its pacifism, but it didn’t mean they were in the clear.

  “Should we try to avoid them?” Bowbaq wondered aloud.

  “That would be pointless; they’re a lot faster than us. They could easily catch us if they wanted to. And if they turn out to be harmless and don’t know who we are, we will have lost an excellent opportunity to gain some information,” Corenn offered.

  Bowbaq appreciated Corenn’s sound argument. They were forced to leave Lorelia in such a rush that they didn’t even know if Queen Séhane, who had been the main purpose of their voyage, was still alive. It was a vital question whose answer they needed as soon as possible.

  As they approached, they could see that the Junians were going to sail past without incident. The heirs took the initiative and signaled to the merchant ship, whose hull towered a whole two yards taller than theirs.

  The Junian crew signaled back and bustled around the deck to slow their course and drift up to the sloop. They tossed a mooring line to keep the two ships abreast.

  “Are you doing all right?” a tan-skinned, portly man asked, leaning over the open water. He had addressed them in Lorelien.

  Grigán replied in perfect Junian to make the conversation more familiar and friendly. “A rat thought it was a good idea to make its grave in our freshwater barrel. If you have a barrel or two to spare, we’re happy to buy it… we’re sick of drinking liquor,” he concluded, joking.

  The fat man answered with a hearty laugh and motioned to two of his men, who disappeared into the frigate’s hold. Since Grigán was the only one who spoke Junian, the others got by with a simple smile, impatient for Grigán to translate.

  “Are you from Junine?” Grigán asked casually.

  “Oh, you’re a smart one, aren’t you,” he replied, laughing again.

  “How is everything over there? I heard the succession wasn’t going so well.”

  “Always the same stories. Ever since the queen reached an age where she can’t have children, the schemes have been flying. Despite the treaties, all the barons would like to add a piece of our beautiful land to their domains. People say that Séhane’s longevity is ruining several of their gambits. Too bad for them! So much the better for us!”

  “I heard someone tried to assassinate her, is that true?”

  “If it’s true, it was kept under wraps. No one would have allowed that. The people would have chased the barons back to the borders, jabbing at those fat bastards with daggers—pardon my language!”

  The two Junian men reappeared, struggling to carry an enormous barrel of freshwater. A few others helped them tie it to a hoist.

  “It wasn’t a baron. I heard it was a Zü who tried to infiltrate the palace,” Grigán continued.

  “That would surprise me. Or he must have been really clever. Not even mice can enter into the Broken Castle without proving their loyalty. So a red killer; you really think so!?”

  “So you don’t like them much in Junine either, do you?”

  “Absolutely not. We’re not about to let them walk around with their poisoned daggers in our town, not like they do in Goran or Lorelia. Not that we would let them in our city without their daggers, either!”

  The barrel was lowered to the sloop’s deck, and Yan and Bowbaq worked on untying it, without understanding a single word of the conversation. Grigán went down to the hold for a moment, to return with a full purse and a jug of liquor. He tied both to the free lines of the hoist, despite the captain’s polite refusal. The Junian captain had done them a greater favor than he realized, though perhaps not in the way he thought he had. Regardless, the heirs owed him.

  The crews waved their good-byes, and the ships sailed off in opposite directions. Grigán summarized the conversation, the news of which brought both joy and relief to his companions. The Züu weren’t in Junine. The queen wasn’t their mysterious enemy; on the contrary, she would help them identify him. Perhaps she could even find more heirs, if there were any left…

  Every lesson with Corenn was a privilege for Yan. The Mother could always captivate him, as strange, disturbing, or mundane as the subject could seem at first glance.

  The young man had not called upon his Will for several days, but he had learned more about magic by merely discussing it with Corenn than by practicing to move small trinkets with his mind. The Mother had even gone so far as to ask him to stop these exercises for a while. And what she was teaching him gave him enough subject matter to keep his mind occupied.

  They had spent the first several decidays spelling out a certain theory of magic, not useful in and of itself, but it allowed Yan to better understand the more technical themes that Corenn would later explain. Yan enjoyed these mental games. Corenn was making him more… intelligent, he felt, more perceptive than he had ever been.

  Certain reflections had affected him so strongly that they followed him into his sleep. He looked back on several of them:

  With your Will, it will be easier to push than to pull. Easier to cut down than to build up. Easier to destroy than to create.

  With just a little rage, you could explode a rock into dust. But it would require complete serenity to reconstruct it. That’s the beautiful thing about it.

  Serenity is magic. Patience, reflection, and moderation are magic. Using anger to arouse your Will is an aberration. Worse, it’s dangerous…

  The body normally limits a person’s folly, their fury, their thirst for chaos. The Will liberates the spirit. It allows you to break past this limit. If your spirit is momentarily destructive, the effects will be devastating. It will not spare the body—or the mind—of the person who unleashes it.

  Never call upon your Will under the influence of rage, suffering, or liquor, she had concluded with a grave tone.

  Corenn’s sermon impressed him. The young man thou
ght for a long time about her wise warning. He wasn’t going to forget it.

  And another time she said, “Magic doesn’t create anything. Everything you draw from it, everything you do with it, is already there, somewhere, around us. If you make a mountain grow, you will have simply brought the earth underneath to the surface. If you make a flower grow, you will have simply nourished a nearby seed.”

  “You can do that?” he asked with surprise.

  “Of course. You’re capable of anything your mind can imagine. Except to create. Only the gods are privileged with that power. And unwinding time’s work. That’s the most powerful force in this world. Even gods succumb to it… what has already been made is unchangeable. Gods can revive a man centuries after his death. Priests have told such stories. But even the eternals can’t do anything to change the fact that he was once dead.”

  This type of thinking made Yan feel a bit crazy. Corenn knew she was going fast in her teachings. For a simple fifteen-year-old fisherman, it was a lot to understand, let alone accept as truth, in such a short time span. But this fisherman was hardly stupid. Corenn felt rushed by their situation. It was impossible to know how many days were left before the Züu—or another catastrophe—interfered with their little project.

  She needed to teach the young man as much and as quickly as she could, and not just because it would be useful in their quest. No, Yan had such a true talent that it would be criminal to leave it in such a raw state.

  “Tell me again what you felt after releasing your Will,” the Mother asked her student. “The painful moment.”

  The young man had no problem recalling the dreadful experience, which he had already gone through several times.