by James Shade
“Winter’s gale.”
Both men drew their swords and the day’s practice began.
~
The first time he had been brought to the sword master’s home, Jaeron was only seven years old. It was midsummer. In the heat of the day, Jaeron wore loose britches, worn sandals, and a thin, open-seamed shirt. Henri had knocked sharply on the door of a low-roofed stucco building at the end of Haven Street in Dockside.
The sight of that door filled Jaeron with a fearful uncertainty. The wood was stained a dark crimson color and carved with a complex weave of twisting cubes and foreign runes. Henri's knock was answered in a few moments and Jaeron breathed a sigh of relief when the door was obscured by the shadows inside the home.
An old man had slowly opened the door. He wore his wrinkled, dark skin and simple peasant robes with a humility that reminded Jaeron of the traveling monks of Teichmar. Jaeron assumed he was the servant of the house. His features were rough and shriveled. Jaeron realized with a start that his skin tone was not due to long hours of exposure to the sun and wind. He is a Pevaran! The foreigners were rare in Islar, despite the city’s status as a major shipping port.
He had not understood it at that age, but Bormeer’s relationship with its southern neighbor, Pevar, was strained and becoming more frayed as Bormeer pushed further hostilities with the kingdom of Rosunland. The war was staggering into its sixth year and Pevaran ships no longer made the journey to the northernmost trading city.
“I have brought my son for training with the sword,” Henri said.
The man did not answer, but looked down at Jaeron with his pale blue eyes. The man took measure of Jaeron, assessing his height, his weight, his hair. When the man reached out for Jaeron’s face, he backed away. Henri grabbed him by the back of his neck and held him still. The Pevaran grasped his chin and used a thumb to peel back his lips, scrutinizing Jaeron’s teeth and gums. Like I’m a mule! Then the servant let him go and turned back to face Henri.
“He is too old,” the man said.
Jaeron winced as Henri’s grip tightened. His father realized where his hand was and loosened his hold, moving it to Jaeron’s shoulder. The Pevaran calmly stepped back into the shadows beyond the doorway and began to close the door. Henri’s other hand shot forward to block the door, striking it with enough force to slam it back against the interior wall.
“We had a deal,” Henri said.
His father was angry, using a tone reserved for hard negotiations with Islar’s underworld. Jaeron did not hear it often.
The Pevaran shrugged, but Jaeron noticed something in the old man’s face. His features, weathered as they were, still seemed calm and serene. But his eyes were not. When he first emerged, the old man’s irises appeared soothing, like pools of fresh goat's milk. Now, they flared. Even in the half darkness of the doorway, Jason could see threads of darker blue-grey, storm clouds that gave warning to a potential danger that lay behind them.
“Teichmar preserve,” Jaeron swore accidently. “You’re the Swordmaster!”
Both adults stopped to look at him. Henri’s grip relaxed. The old man, however, stepped out across his threshold again and put a softer hand on Jaeron’s other shoulder. He bent over to look Jaeron in the eyes and concentrated, as if to decipher something that Jaeron himself did not know.
Without a look at his father the Pevaran said, “I will honor our bargain, deAlto.”
~
Now ten years later, Jaeron still came to that same house. Twice weekly for practice and once to do chores. Every week until last week.
He faltered through the finish of the Fourth Cycle, unable to follow the sword master’s movements. Jaeron suddenly realized that the man no longer had to train him. With Henri gone, whatever arrangement they had was no longer an obligation.
Jaeron shook the thought off, carefully sheathed his sword, and tried to sink back into the meditative state designed to clear his mind of all thoughts except those of Blade and Spirit. He found it almost unmanageable. Without his focus, Jaeron knew that sparring with Swordmaster Eranka would be impossible. Sweat streaming down from his hairline, Jaeron relaxed the muscles in his face, one area at a time. The furrow on his brow smoothed, he again took a deep breath that would re-initiate his meditation process.
“Jaeron,” his teacher interrupted. “That is okay. We are finished.”
Jaeron’s eyes snapped open.
“Sir, I can explain. I’m sorry I missed last week’s lesson. I didn’t think of it until just now… that we need another arrangement. I can pay you whatever my father had.” He did not know how he would find the money, but Jaeron was earnest in the promise.
The old man shook his head, once slowly.
“I was truly sorry to hear of your loss, Jaeron. Despite all else, Henri deAlto was a good father. But that is not why your lessons are complete.”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
“I cannot teach you more.”
“Why?” Jaeron asked, more confused.
“You are not ready,” Eranka said.
“I will practice harder then,” Jaeron said. “Sir!”
He added the honorific, embarrassed by his sudden lapse of respect and protocol.
“Jaeron, please sit.”
Eranka waited for him. Jaeron knelt and sat back on his heels, assuming the normal position for lectures on combat theory and strategy. Jaeron was surprised when the Swordmaster returned to his mat at the front of the training room and sat down to face him as equals. His teacher normally circled the room, pacing quickly and marking his points in the light sand covering the floor.
Jaeron was confused but remained quiet, waiting for the Swordmaster to begin instruction.
“It has been an honor to teach you, Jaeron deAlto. It is customary in Pevaran tradition for the teacher to make a final meal for the graduating student. Would you be available this evening?”
Jaeron did not, could not answer at first. His training could not be complete. He had seen Master Eranka do so much more.
“Master,” Jaeron said deliberately. “You have not taught me the Fifth Cycle?”
Jaeron watched an emotion flicker across the older man’s face. In less than a second, it was replaced with the normal, stoic calm, as if it never occurred.
“Master?” Jaeron began to ask again, but the Swordmaster raised his hand to quiet his student.
“Jaeron, I cannot teach you the Fifth Cycle because you are not ready to learn. We have spoken of this before.”
Jaeron thought about the statement. He remembered a number of discussions about Jaeron’s commitment to the practice, to the sword. His focus and beliefs. And he knew that there was something that his teacher expected that he was not fulfilling.
“I don’t understand,” he finally admitted. “You’ve said I was one of your most committed students. I train hard. I listen. I practice, daily.
“Can’t you tell me what I am missing?”
Eranka frowned. In all their years as student and teacher, Jaeron had never observed Master Eranka pause to figure out the answer to a question. He almost missed recognizing the situation for what it was. The Swordmaster closed his eyes and spent a few minutes contemplating. Finally he seemed to come to a decision.
“Jaeron, what is the First Cycle?”
“It is the Grounding. It is the basis for all that comes after. It teaches the beginning of all four paths,” Jaeron answered, slowly at first, but then building momentum.
They had been through all this theory years ago and returned to it regularly. But this time, his instructor had asked the question differently. Not that his words were different, but there was expectancy behind the words. A query within the query.
“All true. But what is it? In terms of the paths - the source of the stream, the mountain letting go of stone, the heat on tinder, the drawing of breath preparing for releasing it back into the air?”
Jaeron considered as the Swordmaster spoke and he made the obvious connection.
> “It is the beginning. Birth.”
The old man nodded.
“What is the Second Cycle?”
Jaeron blinked. He framed the question around the new understanding.
“It is gathering power, speed, position. It is growth?”
“Yes. Growth. Childhood. What is the Third Cycle?”
“It is establishing position, defining the field, and your place in it,” Jaeron paused for just a moment. Then more confident, he offered, “Adulthood?”
Master Eranka nodded again.
“And what is the Fourth Cycle?”
Jaeron shook his head. The forms that made up the Fourth cycle accomplished the same thing as those of the Third cycle. The focus was performing the same function, but against multiple opponents. He said as much to his teacher.
The old man grinned, and Jaeron thought the look strange on his face. It was as if the familiar wrinkles all disappeared to be replaced by an entirely new set.
“Perhaps the allusion is stretched a bit, but you are attempting to be in multiple places at once, yes?”
Jaeron nodded.
“We think of this in terms of parenting. Procreation.” The Pevaran shrugged, as if it did not matter. “And what is the Fifth Cycle?”
Other than knowing it was the final cycle of the set, Jaeron did not know the answer. Not from his training. He had not been taught a single move from the Fifth Cycle. They had not discussed any of the theory or purpose for it. But the progression was obvious.
“It’s the end… it’s death, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Jaeron waited for further explanation, but none was forthcoming. He saw it in his master’s expression. Jaeron needed to understand this on his own.
Finally Eranka spoke again, “Would you be available for dinner this evening?”
Jaeron considered the ramifications of the question. His training was over. The one aspect of his life that he believed to be immutable was ending.
“You are not supposed to help your students understand this, are you, Master?”
Eranka shook his head.
“Then... why? Why even give me a hint?”
“You are not Pevaran. The fact that your understanding is hampered by an inferior culture is not your fault.”
They were familiar words. Jaeron had heard them weekly since beginning his training. Is there another answer? It was not because the Swordmaster was unable to teach him the Fifth Cycle. Of that much, Jaeron was sure. Which meant that Jaeron himself was the problem. He was not ready to learn about it.
No, not learn about it!
He thought of his reaction to Henri's death. Disbelief. And a thirst for justice. Justice, but not vengeance. Jaeron could learn about death, but he was unable to accept it. His belief in Teichmar made him value life so much that he could not see death as part of the cycle. He could not accept his own death or the killing of another.
Jaeron took a breath and seeing his comprehension reflected in the sword master’s eyes, he rejected the invitation.
“No, master. For many reasons, I cannot come tonight. But mainly I will not come to dinner for the chance that I may come to be better prepared to learn more at some time in the future.”
Eranka seemed satisfied with the answer, though perhaps saddened by it. He rose and turned away from Jaeron to face the front of the training room, bowed and knelt. It signaled that the training session was over and Jaeron should go.
Thirty
Gerlido finally had Lord deLespan’s steward cornered, though the man did not realize it. The manservant was busy this morning, working through a list of errands amongst the clothing and shoe shops in the Market Ward. Gerlido shook his head at the wasted time and effort and at the notion of a life spent doing another man’s bidding. The three thieves that followed the steward were dressed as laborers. At Gerlido’s command, they pulled linen sacks over their heads and fastened them about their necks with kerchiefs. The Black Fangs were careful about their identities, especially with free citizens of higher stature.
As the servant stepped out of Rosche’s Embroidery, Gerlido gave his lieutenants the signal to act. Sukul moved first, snatching deLespan’s man by his waistcoat and spinning him around the corner of the building into Brale’s meaty arms.
Gerlido followed them into the narrow walkway next to the store.
“Don’t make a sound,” Gerlido growled.
He smiled when he saw how it made the man tremble. He moved in close, shielding their actions from observation from the street. He produced a pair of thin, dark metal blades from his belt and held one to the servant’s throat and the second inches from his groin. The servant did not move or shout, but he did drop his parcels.
“We’re not here to rob or kill you,” Gerlido began. “But we will if you don’t tell us what we want to know about your employer.”
Gerlido would have preferred just killing the man after getting the information he wanted, but the nobles of Islar could push for a deep investigation, kicking over every anthill on their way to satisfaction. Gerlido did not need that interference. And as loathe as he was to admit it, he would have needed Grandmaster deSwan’s permission to kill such a high-profile target, and he was still a little afraid of Islar’s Master of Thieves.
He also admitted to himself that he did not know which of the nobles were aligned with Larsetta. The woman was beginning to shorten his leash and he suspected she had designs on Islar greater than mere control of the Thieves’ Guilds. It was an unpleasant notion.
Gerlido understood his duty and his commitments to Larsetta. He was grateful for the start she had given him. But he also understood that gifts from her came with strings attached. Gerlido was no longer willing to be bridled with any more strings. The fact that she was on her way to Islar, could in fact already be in the city, maddened him.
Blood pounded in his ears. Gerlido felt his teeth shifting. He struggled to pull his anger under control. His focus regained, Gerlido noticed that his breathing had nearly plunged his blade into the servant’s throat. The tip of metal was inflecting the skin but not breaking it. Gerlido pulled back his hand and dropped the blade to the man’s heart.
“We have heard that Lord deLespan recovered the necklace that was going to get his son in trouble. Is that true?”
The servant frowned at him, but remained silent.
Gerlido said, “You know, if deLespan’s servants didn’t drink so much, such private matters wouldn’t be scattered amongst the rumors of the city.”
He smiled when the man paled. It was not this servant’s drinking that had given Gerlido the information about the necklace, but the man did not know that.
“Well?”
“Ah…” the man stuttered. “Yes… the matter has been resolved.”
“How?” Gerlido pressed. He had been afraid that was the case, but needed to be sure.
“The jewel case was recovered and given to Lord deLespan.”
“By whom?”
“I don’t know anything more. He kept me out of it.”
“You are the head of his house staff. Nothing goes on there that you do not know of! Who gave him the jewels?”
The man shook in his grasp. “I do not know. Somehow they worked with Master deLespan directly… That wasn’t the original arrangement, but… well, I don’t know anything else. I swear to Teichmar.”
Gerlido raised his off-hand, prepared to backhand the man against the stucco wall behind him. He cringed, but did not look away. It told Gerlido what he needed to know. The servant was not lying.
“Let him go,” he said to Brale and Sukul.
~
“What in the hells are those?” Chazd asked, jumping up from the floor pallet.
Jaeron smirked and shrugged. He spread the parchments open so that Chazd could get a better look at the inked drawings.
“Wanted posters?” Chazd asked again, but already knew the answer to his own question.
“Looks like the Guard is getting more serio
us about catching us.”
“Doesn’t really look like me,” Chazd observed.
Jaeron nodded saying, “You should see Avrilla’s.”
He unrolled the third poster and held it out for Chazd.
“It looks like a woman of her age and the nose is close… well, smallish and the right shape. But it really does not resemble her.”
Chazd gave him a huge grin. “It’s kind of ugly!”
The brothers laughed together and Chazd suddenly realized how long it had been since they had shared a joke.
Chazd turned the second poster around, eyebrows crooking as he looked at it more closely.
“This does look a lot like you, though, Jaeron. That could be a problem.”
“I decided to do something about that this morning. We’ll see in a day or two if it’s enough.”
Jaeron stroked his face and jaw, bringing Chazd’s attention to the bit of stubble purposefully left intact that morning. He looked at this brother skeptically. Studying him closely he could tell that Jaeron had not shaved, but he had doubts about whether a beard would hide his brother’s identity. Jaeron was a meld of features that were born to be memorable.
Jaeron’s lean, angular face was crowned with wavy, black hair that curled at the ends when he wore it long. His eyebrows were thin, angular, and expressive. They gave his eyes a measure of empathy and authority. His eyes were crystal blue, tinged near the pupil with flecks of white and green. He had an aristocratic nose and cheekbones, and the slightest hint of dimples when he smiled. And though the deAltos never had wealth, his brother had great teeth. ‘Teeth of the rich’ Henri used to say.
Chazd glowered internally at the one real aspect of his brother of which he had always been jealous. He could not count the number of barmaids that had asked him about his brother over the years. Sometimes Chazd thought that Jaeron really did not understand the gift he had been given. But there was Jaeron’s entire deep immersion into the religion of Teichmar which Chazd did not understand either. Perhaps he really had been fated to be a priest.