Daylen smiled and turned before making his way to the city’s sky port. The crowd, still filled with people who had seen him fall, parted for him like he was royalty—which recalled all-too-familiar memories.
Daylen sighed and took a bite from one of the delicious meat pies.
Daylen decided to risk posing as an Archknight one last time to get passage on a carrier to Treremain. It was unlikely that any Archknight would hear of it, and if they did, what could they do about it? No one knew who he was or where he lived, and he was only going home to grab a few things anyway.
He enjoyed some fine food and drink and got a little rest. He also spent a little time in the water closet washing off the blood from his coat.
Once back in Treremain, Daylen began to make his way through the busy city toward home.
As soon as he passed the main exit from the skyport he heard a paper boy calling out the headlines from that fall’s broadsheet.
“Tensions growing between Hamahra and Azbanadar, might lead to war! Fire in the silversmith’s sky island workshop! Falling debris causes property damage, injuries, and a death. Silver Guild receives large fine, and local council representatives to submit new safety standards on all skysitters and sky islands above the city! Read all about it!”
Daylen would have bought the paper if he had any money on him; but he needed to get back home, collect his effects, and make his way to the capital as soon as possible, hard as it was, for many other things caught his interest through the city.
Light, what he would have given to go and watch the Sky Races again. He had always been good at picking the winners, as it was all a matter of statistics, and he was very good with numbers. But he didn’t deserve simple pleasures like that; well, not ones that he would go out of his way to find. He couldn’t help needing to travel on skyships, nor that he happened to enjoy flying so much. If the Light was going to curse him with life, he would appreciate the simple pleasures he couldn’t avoid, like walking with strength and energy. It helped him deal with his more powerful misery and self-hatred.
The one thing that did get him to stop on his walk out of the city was a duel being conducted on the main street. Duels happened in Karadale all the time, but Daylen had rarely been out and about to catch them.
This duel had clearly been spur of the moment, which was common enough. The other kind would have a set date and location. Still, even impromptu duels attracted quite the crowd, especially if a more prominent duelist was fighting, which seemed to be the case here.
The popular duelist was a woman with green-streaked purple hair. Her slanted eyes and warm skin tone spoke of Lee’on’tese decent over Delavian, though her features weren’t nearly as pronounced as a full-blooded Lee’on’tese and she certainly dressed in high Hamahran fashion.
She faced a man of local complexion, dark-green hair and strong of stature, who wore a tassel with fewer beads than his opponent.
Professional swordswomen like this fine lady were less common than swordsmen, even though the art was taught to both boys and girls through their younger years. Boys simply liked it more and were far more likely to continue the practice as a pastime or profession.
Wearing a dress that identified her as coming from a wealthy family, the swordswoman undid the snap buttons that ran down its left side. The hoops underneath which gave the dress its volume had been made to fold together and slide open like pegs hanging on a clothesline. The material that she pulled aside bunched up to her right and was held there by a small hook. Her dress flaring out behind was quite fetching to Daylen’s eyes, what with the woman’s white stockings being revealed to the upper thigh, the front of her dress provided minimal modesty. She also wore knee-high black leather boots of a practical design.
It was a very elaborate and expensive dress, the height of female dueling fashion, as Daylen had heard.
The swordswoman was young, at most in her thirties, with a nose too big for Daylen to pronounce her a beauty, though some would still find her attractive.
The woman carried a longsword in a parasol scabbard, which she drew, handing the scabbard to her male companion, who also looked to be a duelist.
Daylen’s dueling mind came alive as he assessed the two combatants.
The woman’s longsword was well balanced and sharply tapered, a popular type among women. That type of longswords only weighed fifty percent more than the average one-handed sword, which meant that with two hands longswords were lighter for the user, which was important if strength was a consideration.
Yes, men were stronger than women on average, but once a man or woman had adequate strength to use their weapon effectively they would become better by training in technique. Swords didn’t need a lot of strength to be lethal, after all, which was why women could be equally competitive in swordsmanship so long as they used a lighter weapon to offset their disadvantages in leverage, power, and speed.
The woman drew her sword and made a few practice swings. She was very proficient, but far from Daylen’s own skill.
Her opponent was armed with a rapier. A dirty, blackened rapier.
There was nothing illegal about rapiers, but with their extended length and total focus on thrusting they were nothing but a specialized dueling weapon. This openly scoffed at the very reason why Hamahrans carried swords in the first place. Killing a Shade with a rapier would be like trying to peel a craggot with a toothpick, and thus a man who carried a rapier sneered at tradition and only cared for one thing: winning duels. Daylen hated people like this, and truly wanted to see this man get beaten.
The man drew a dagger in his off hand. A good pick, but Daylen preferred an armored gauntlet instead, which functioned much the same as an offhand buckler, but with more grappling options.
A Bringer had been found—it was lucky that she had been so close to the challenge and was able to officiate the duel. Duelists always wanted a Bringer to officiate. Not being able to lie, they were the perfect judges and could heal the loser.
Standing between the combatants, the robe-clad woman stretched out her arm and then brought it down, signaling the duel’s commencement.
The combatants engaged and after a quick exchange of trained blows, first blood was drawn.
Duels weren’t long affairs, usually lasting five engagements at most, but it was common enough for them to end on the first exchange when one of the opponents was either particularly lucky or more skilled.
The woman had been more skilled.
The man had leaned low to thrust, and the woman had used her parry motion to deflect the thin blade and strike the man’s head with her back edge. An expert if predictable move.
That was the thing about sword fighting. It only took a year or so to learn the moves, but a lifetime to master them.
The crowd applauded, and Daylen clapped too. A well-won victory, especially against a dirty rapierist.
The Lightbringer approached the man to heal him. The swordswoman was practiced enough to have measured his opponent’s blow so that it hadn’t cleft his skull. Still, a devastating cut to the head by any means, and the blood flowed out like a river until the Bringer healed it.
Daylen turned to walk down the street, thoroughly in the mood to draw his own sword and go through some drills. Watching duels always got him in the mood to fight, but he resisted. There would be plenty of opportunity to use his sword in the falls to come.
Once out of the city, Daylen decided to run the remainder of the journey. He increased his speed eight times with three bonds while using the last on his stamina. His legs moved in a blur, and with his stamina enhanced he could push himself to run as fast as he could and not tire. He made sure to slow down when running over a hill or rise so as not to launch himself into the air.
Daylen knew that in his prime he could sprint at thirty kilometers an hour, and should be able to now. With one bond doubling that and then another doubling it again, he could run at one hundred and twenty kilometers an hour. That was three times as fast as Paradan’s wa
gon.
He ran with much more care than the time he accidentally launched himself into the air and by slowing at the top of hills he managed easily. His coat flapped behind him violently as he raced along the road, slowing down as he passed the occasional traveler, cart, wagon or coach.
From what he had figured out, his powers should exhaust after an hour of continual use, but he crested the last hill to his home near the end of high fall well before his powers started to fatigue.
It took about ten meters of skidding before he could stop himself.
“Now that was a run!” Daylen said, releasing his bonds, his body full of energy.
Daylen walked the remaining distance to his home, happy for the change of pace. Running faster than a hundred kilometers an hour was exhilarating, but Light, it hurt his face. He could only imagine what his hair looked like.
With his home nearby, Daylen finally saw that someone was sitting on the log railing that ran beside the road that passed his house.
“Who could that be?” Daylen said to himself—and then he remembered his powers.
He drew in light and bonded it to his eyes, his vision becoming ten times as sharp.
It was that Tuerasian Lightbringer Daylen had found outside his home two falls past. He was even sitting in the exact same place, except that now he had his head bowed over a book, writing something.
“What in the Light?”
Daylen walked with a purposeful step toward the man and, as he did, Daylen saw that the Bringer was drawing, not writing. The book was some type of sketchpad.
The brown-skinned Lightbringer eventually noticed Daylen and put his sketchbook away into a satchel that hung at his side. Daylen was taken aback when the Bringer stood to face him because he no longer looked to be taller than Daylen, rather they were of a height. Then Daylen realized why; he no longer hunched as he had with his aged body. It felt good to stand tall once more.
“Son, what are you still doing here?” Daylen asked the Lightbringer.
“Still?” the man said in that clear voice of his. His eyes narrowed at Daylen from under his short cut yellow hair. “How’d you know I’ve been waiting?”
Oh, shade it! Daylen thought in annoyance. “I, um…” For a little while he was at a loss for words, until he remembered the back story he’d crafted. “My father mentioned you.”
“Your father?”
“Who do you think lives here?” Daylen said, waving his hand to the sagging brick cottage.
“Oh I see,” the Lightbringer said. “Now that’s impressive.”
“What’s impressive?”
“Your father, the sly old man, to father anyone as young as you.”
“First of all, boy, you don’t know my age—and clearly he could still get it up, as otherwise I wouldn’t be standing here.”
The funny thing was Daylen knew from first-hand experience that the truth had been quite the opposite—but, happily, not anymore. It appeared that with his renewed youthful body, his hormones had been given the uncontrollable kick that came with being a teenager. Daylen was already sick of the blackened, unprovoked, and rather conspicuous erections he had been getting.
The Lightbringer frowned. “There’s no need to be crude, and I wasn’t questioning your parentage. You’re obviously your father’s son. I may have only met him once, but your voice is similar. The resemblance is strong, too. No, I was admiring him. Any man would hope to retain such…um, energy.”
“Oh, well, I’m just not used to people questioning or admiring the old man’s plumbing.”
The Lightbringer smiled and leaned in, chuckling as he said, “Then I’ll try not to look at the home’s drainage.”
Daylen could only stare back to the man. “That might be the worst joke I’ve ever heard.”
“Oh, come on, it was funny.”
“Trust me, it wasn’t.”
“You know, your father didn’t like my humor, either.”
“He had good taste. So now that my parentage is out of the way, my father mentioned he ran into some Lightbringer sitting outside his home, obviously you. Now as I asked before, what in the Light’s blessed light are you still doing here?”
“Oh. Well, I’m waiting for you.”
“What?”
The Lightbringer paused and looked the slightest bit hesitant. “What I’m about to say may seem odd, but upon the Light it’s the truth.”
“What’re you on about?”
“A week past now, the Light gave me a vision. In it, I was prompted to come to this very spot and wait for a young man. That young man was you.”
Daylen was now listening intently. Though there were many people who didn’t believe in the light, that Lightbringers simply tapped into some natural power much like the Archknights, Daylen knew from personal experience that the Light was very much real and that Lightbringers were indeed connected to it. Thus, he knew not to question the visions of a Lightbringer, especially if it involved him. He had made such a mistake in the past.
Lightbringers could perform varying miracles, but they could all heal the injured and create light. It was a sign of their holy calling, and proof of their personal worth and virtue. A Lightbringer received their powers purely because of their personal goodness and lifelong dedication to serving others, which also meant that they couldn’t lie. If ever they did lie, as with any other immoral action, they would lose their powers.
“How do you know I’m the one?”
“You were shown to me,” the Lightbringer said, reaching into his satchel. He retrieved his sketching book and opened it to show Daylen a detailed and truly perfect rendition of his now youthful face.
Daylen was stunned. He cast his mind back to the time he had first met the man. He had said that he was waiting for a young man, one in his late teens. But it couldn’t have been Daylen; he wasn’t even young at the time. If the Light sent this man a vision to meet Daylen in his renewed body before he had it, it meant that his transformation was preordained and not some freak accident, didn’t it?
The Lightbringer put away his book. “Has anyone ever mentioned that you bear a remarkable and rather unfortunate resemblance to the Great Tyrant?”
“Dayless the Conqueror?”
“That’s him. At first I worried that I was to meet the Conqueror himself! Can you imagine!” He chortled. “Anyway, I quickly realized that you simply looked like him. I mean, it would be impossible to meet the Conqueror in his youth after all.”
“Yeah… How do you even know what the Conqueror looks like?”
“I assume you mean looked like. He’s dead, after all.”
“Whatever, how do you know?”
“I had many chances to see the despot while he ruled.” The venom in those words took Daylen by surprise, as the Bringer had appeared to be so gentle. It was clear he hated the Conqueror, but that wasn’t anything special. Everyone hated him, himself included.
“Honestly, the resemblance is so striking that if I didn’t know any better I would say you were his son.”
“Huh. Well, you’re the first one to mention it.”
“Really? You know, come to think of it, your father shares a resemblance to him too, though it’s hard to tell given his age. Maybe a distant relation. In any case, you were shown to me in a vision.”
“Yeah, you’ve said that,” Daylen said, feeling dazed. The implications were profound, and he began to waver. He needed to think.
He stumbled to the old log railing next to the road and sat.
Maybe it wasn’t preordained; maybe the Light simply knew what was going to happen based on Daylen’s choices, a prediction of sorts—but that still left the question as to why the Light wanted this Lightbringer to meet him.
“Except that you were unclothed,” the Lightbringer added with a serious yet clearly embarrassed expression.
“What?” Daylen said. “I was naked?”
“Err, yes…”
“Well, you are Tuerasian.”
“I’ve never followed
that tradition,” the man said, clearing his throat and putting away his book. “Truly, I have no idea why. Believe me, it was one of the most awkward dreams I’ve ever had, especially since visions are as vivid as real life. Anyway, I only mention that awkward detail because your body was covered in scars. I don’t know if the scars were metaphorical or literal.”
“The scars are literal,” Daylen said after a pause.
“How’d you get them?”
“None of your business,” Daylen said, rising. “So, the Light sent you to meet me, to do what? To finally grant me mercy?” That was the only thing Daylen could think of. Maybe this whole new life thing was just a scare, one last kick in the balls before the Light did actually grant him release.
“Mercy?” the Lightbringer said. “No. I was told to follow you.”
“Follow me?”
“Yes, and that I’m to remain at your side for as long as the Light sees fit.”
“What?” Daylen said, nonplussed. “And how long will that be?”
“Until I’m instructed otherwise, I’d guess.”
“You’re not coming with me.”
“Sorry. I answer to a higher power than you.”
“But… But.” Daylen couldn’t think of anything to say. He had been foolish to hope for a release. No, he was truly cursed to live; yet how could he forge a new identity for himself with a blasted Lightbringer tied to his hip?
Yet how could he deny the will of the Light itself?
Could this be the Light’s answer to my prayer? Daylen wondered. When he had stood atop that roof, he had asked the Light as fervently and sincerely as he ever had for its help, to protect him from himself, to guide him to be someone better. Was this Bringer the Light’s answer?
Daylen looked to the man. “What’s your name?”
“Ahrek,” the Lightbringer said with a smile.
“A Hamahran name?”
“Oh, I’m Hamahran, born and bred. My parents were Tuerasian artists and received so many commissions from this country that they eventually moved here. They knew they had to adapt, so I was raised as a Hamahran with Tuerasian values. The best of both worlds. And your name?”
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