Wycaan Master: Book 03 - Ashbar

by Alon Shalev

  As time passed, Seanchai felt it all connecting, and he began to push each opponent back, taking less and less time to determine and execute his strategy. He left these training sessions aching, sweating, and extremely happy. On the fifth day, multiple opponents interchanged. Suddenly, Seanchai found himself facing an opponent far more than his equal. He retreated under a blur of strokes, all masterfully executed.

  Faster and faster the blades swirled, and Seanchai was now defending with only his instinct. He felt strangely exhilarated and at peace. Backed against a tree, he considered using other tactics to free himself from the onslaught. But as this crossed his mind, his swords were whirled round, and a blade touched his throat.

  “Yield,” a rich voice roared.

  Seanchai relaxed his arms and bowed his head. The Weapons Master stood over him, sweat pouring down her cheeks, hair splayed wildly, and face flushed.

  “Remember. . . young Wycaan. . . there is always. . . someone better than you,” she said between panting breaths, and then smiled. “But they will be far. . . and few between. . . when you are finished. . . here.”

  As he walked to the log table of water skins, the other students stood aside and bowed their heads. Cheriuk was waiting at the log and handed Seanchai a skin.

  “Thank you,” Seanchai said, and as he glanced at Shathea, she gave him a small nod.

  Despite his aching arms, Seanchai went every day from swords practice to the archery range. There, he met Sellia, and it was she who guided him in integrating the lessons he had learned fishing with Denalion. It was not just his accuracy that improved, but also the fluidity with which he was able to draw and shoot arrows in quick succession.

  Just an hour or so after he had fought the Weapons Master, Seanchai shot four arrows in a square around the center of the target.

  “Don’t shoot the fifth yet,” an old elf, leaning on a staff, said from behind him. “Run to that rock there and back as fast as you can. Then roll and shoot.”

  Seanchai obliged, remembering the instruction Uncle had given him a lifetime ago. This time his step was sure, his roll controlled, and his arrow flew true.

  “Good,” said the old elf. “Follow me. You have earned your nocks.”

  Seanchai had seen this old elf watching him before at the range. In fact, on one of the first days, he had felt Seanchai’s muscles and measured his arms. The old elf’s touch was cold, but it possessed an undeniable strength and nimbleness. Still, Seanchai had dismissed it as senile eccentricities. He was wrong.

  “I am Niewak, the Master Bowyer. I have made bows for more than two hundred years, and apprenticed for three decades before that. Ever since you came among us, I have been preparing bows that fit your stature.”

  They stood before a huge, hollow tree.

  “Do your breathing exercises, young Wycaan. You may lift and hold each of the more than thirty bows inside, but leave here with only one. Each is imbued with magic of the forest and the Wycaans. My blood runs through each one, and I know them better than my own calhei, but you and the bow must choose each other.”

  Seanchai set his feet and breathed deeply. He felt the energy of the trees coursing through him. A few moments later, he stepped inside the tree.

  It took a moment for his sight to adapt to the array of bows hanging inside. He continued his breathing and felt tendrils of energy from the bows probe him. Many faded, leaving just four to choose from.

  “You are choosing me,” Seanchai said out loud. “Come to me, then. I await your choice.”

  Now three remained: One was golden, thick, majestic, and strong. To its left, a blood-red bow that pulsated with energy. And the third–pale green, sleek, and glowing softly.

  Seanchai looked at each before mentally thanking the golden one, and it faded away. He moved slowly forward and extended his hand to hold the red.

  He could feel vibrant, powerful heat emanating from the bow, but he released it back to the wall of the tree. The green floated into his hands, and he felt the trees stir. A gift from the great forest. A mighty warrior will yield the red, but this bow can only be harnessed by the wise.

  Seanchai’s hands clasped the green bow. He looked to the red. “Thank you,” he said. “You will serve a great master but it is not our destiny to walk the same path.”

  The red bow glowed brighter, and then slowly faded into the tree. Seanchai stepped outside and showed his bow to Sellia and the bowyer.

  “It’s beautiful,” Sellia murmured as she caressed it reverently.

  But the bowyer was shaking his head.

  “You disapprove of my choice?” Seanchai asked.

  “No, no,” the old elf was stunned. “I did not make that bow. I have never seen it before, and I never hung it in the collection for you.”

  “It is a gift from the forest,” Seanchai said, and the trees rustled their ascent.

  The bowyer walked into the tree and returned with a green and beige quiver full of arrows with light green feathers. He presented it to Seanchai and took the bow.

  “We usually make the bow string from the intestines of animals. But this is made of bloodwood vine. It is so thin, and yet,” he pulled and then bit it, “it is the finest I have ever seen.”

  They walked back to the archery range. Seanchai drew an arrow and fired. He barely hit the target, but adjusted his technique under the tutelage of the bowyer. The last few of the dozen arrows in his quiver hit the center.

  He went to retrieve his arrows, but the bowyer stopped him. Seanchai watched as the arrows disappeared from the target, and felt his quiver grow heavier.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  When Shayth woke, he realized just how tired he must have been. Maugwen had assured him that they were being guarded and could each catch up on their sleep.

  “They won’t be able to stop the army if they come searching, but we’ll be warned. It will be more effective than you sitting outside trying to stay awake.”

  He stood up and stretched. Maugwen was asleep in a big, round chair that made her look as diminutive as she had when they had met her in the dungeons. He had given her a hard time back then, suspicious of her prying questions even though she seemed o lost, left behind by her family, who had to flee in order to find medicine for her dying mother. By the time they had walked to the gallows, Shayth had begun to trust her, but he still had treated her gruffly.

  Rhoddan was asleep on the bed, and Shayth crept over to him. The elf was no longer sweating, and his breathing was normal. As far as Shayth could see, Rhoddan was sleeping peacefully.

  He turned, picked up his sword and scabbard, and stepped outside. It took a few moments to adjust to the sunlight, and, when he did, a small boy stood in front of him.

  “What do you want?” the boy asked, more inquisitive than rude.

  Shayth smiled at him, but the boy’s eyes were riveted to his sword. “I’m hungry.” Shayth said. “Do you know where I can get some food?”

  “Is the healer your friend?” the boy asked.

  “Yes,” Shayth replied. “We go back a long time.”

  That settled it. The boy just nodded and offered him his hand. They walked down to a hut with makeshift benches outside and a big window for passing food through.

  “The farmers have just eaten,” the boy said. “Maybe we can find you something.”

  A heavyset woman came outside, wiping her meaty hands on a dirty cloth. “Can yeh pay?” she asked by way of introduction.

  Shayth nodded and tapped his pocket. Coins jingled inside.

  “He’s a friend of the healer,” the boy protested. “She doesn’t pay.”

  “She pays by healing people and takes no money for ‘er troubles. If ‘e can pay, ‘e should. We ain’t rich ‘ere.” The woman put her hands on her hips, and the loose flesh of her upper arms quivered.

  She turned back inside, and Shayth ruffled the young boy’s hair. “Thanks,” he said.

  “Are you from a big city?” the boy asked.

  “I was born in the ca
pital, but ran away when I was just a little older than you.”

  “Why?”

  “My mum and dad died.” Shayth realized that he was able to say this without a boiling eruption of rage. Still, he preferred not to push it. “But I’d rather not talk about my past.”

  The woman had returned with a steaming bowl of food and stared at him as she set it on the table.

  “Thank you,” Shayth said. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Ain’t no need for yeh to pay, yeh majesty,” she said in a mixture of awe and fear.

  “Don’t call me that,” Shayth snapped. “And I insist on paying.”

  He slammed three draktans onto the table, an amount similar to what this woman would earn in as many months. Her eyes widened.

  “I’m paying for the food and your discretion.”

  The boy looked from Shayth to the woman. “What does dicre-discretion mean?”

  “That we continue to talk of ‘im as a friend of the healer,” the woman replied, “and nothing else.”

  “And he is the healer’s friend,” said Maugwen, coming up to them. She turned to the boy. “Would you sit with the patient while I eat? Call me if he stirs.”

  “Oh, I can do that. You can trust me.” He turned to Shayth. “You can be my friend, too. My name’s Miko.”

  “Thank you, Miko. The elf in there is a close friend of mine. Guard him well.”

  The boy sprinted off, gleeful with purpose. Maugwen laughed and sat down in front of her own food bowl. When they were alone, she leaned in to Shayth.

  “I see the evil prince is dead. Long live the good one.”

  Shayth snorted. “I’m no better than I was, I just have more control now; that’s all.”

  “I don’t think so,” Maugwen said. “People still talk about you, but now with hope instead of fear.”

  “Our hope lies with Seanchai, no one else,” Shayth said, feeling tension gathering in his shoulders. “Tell me what happened after you left us.”

  “I joined a caravan of traders. At first, I stayed with a kind, old woman. She was a healer and taught me a few basics. I knew very little, but I suspect neither did she. She suffered from a pain in the liver. I don’t know what it was, but once, when I tried to comfort her, I prayed to my gods–yes, those that I rejected in the cells–and a strange thing happened.

  “Warmth flowed through my hands and into the woman. I couldn’t heal her, but I was able to take the pain away. I think she even got stronger for a while.

  “The caravan passed through a monastery, and I stayed there, learning how to heal with prayer.”

  “Wow,” Shayth said. “Do you really think it is prayer?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is that I can help people. Then I met a woman who told me that the Wycaan had healed her this way, and I thought maybe I can develop my healing abilities with Seanchai.”

  “You were coming to find Seanchai? How did you know where to come?”

  “The monks suggested I look for him. I had a recurring dream of this village, and one of the brothers knew the place. In my dream, I joined up with Seanchai and the rest of you. So it did not surprise me to see you. I think I will find my own answers from the Wycaan, and that is why I have returned to serve him.”

  They both ate in silence. Then Shayth sighed.

  “What is it?” Maugwen asked.

  “I hope you get the chance to work together and heal people. It is Seanchai’s dream, and it will mean that we’ve won.”

  “You don’t sound too hopeful,” Maugwen said.

  “Seanchai went to the Elves of the West, as I told you. No one has ever returned from there. If they even exist, they have never come to our aid despite how elves are treated in Odessiya. I don’t know if even Seanchai can persuade them to join us.”

  “If anyone can,” Maugwen said, as she wiped her bowl clean with a piece of bread, “it’s Seanchai.”

  They sat together, each absorbed in their own thoughts. A few moments later, Miko came running up. “He’s awake and sitting up.”

  “Did he say anything?” Maugwen asked.

  “That he’s hungry. Is that a good sign?”

  Shayth grinned. “Hard to tell. He’s always hungry.”

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  It was Rhoddan who sensed the danger first, while he sat with Shayth and Maugwen, outside Maugwen’s infirmary. The sun was setting, casting warm hues that made even this dilapidated village look inviting.

  The conversation had turned to what they would do next, now that Rhoddan was improving. It was clear to all that Maugwen would join them when they left the village.

  “I want to try and cross through the Pass,” Rhoddan said. “Seanchai might need us there, but it’s also. . . well, I grew up hearing the stories of the Elves of the West. I’d like to see them for myself.”

  “How do you even know they exist?” Shayth asked. “They might only be legends, and you’d be wasting your time.”

  “They’re real,” Rhoddan said. “If they aren’t, what’s Seanchai doing there?”

  “Searching,” Shayth replied. “For the elves, for himself, for something to help him face my uncle.”

  Miko brought them a pot of stew and three bowls.

  “Aren’t you eating?” Shayth asked him.

  “This is food for customers,” Miko replied, matter-of-factly. “The meat’s expensive. Sometimes I get to eat it on festivals.”

  They went quiet as the warm food made its way through their bodies. The meat was tough and leathery, Rhoddan thought. It would be scraps for the dogs in most other places, but here it was out-of-reach to this peasant boy.

  He dished out seconds for Shayth and Maugwen. Then he filled his bowl and passed it to Miko.

  “I’m not hungry,” he said. “Still recovering, you know.”

  “Shayth said you’re always hungry,” Miko replied.

  “Then accept it as a gift from a friend,” Shayth replied.

  Miko did not have a problem with that and the others smiled as they watched him wolf it down. The conversation returned to their plans.

  “I cannot fight him,” Shayth said. “But I can hurt him by taking out his son.”

  “Is the Crown Prince good?” Rhoddan asked.

  “I wouldn’t know. But he must have trained with the best teachers at the academy.”

  “I heard he’s very good,” Maugwen said. “Rumor has it that his problem is with his studies. That’s why General Tarlach’s son was brought into the palace. He’s supposed to be the Crown Prince’s tutor.”

  “Supposed to be?” Rhoddan asked.

  “I also heard that the Emperor wanted Ahad close to him as a bargaining chip with General Tarlach.”

  “But Tarlach was loyal, wasn’t he?” Rhoddan asked.

  “Tarlach didn’t have a problem with disposing of Seanchai,” Shayth growled. “The Emperor was worried that Tarlach wouldn’t be able to kill me because he swore an oath to my father to protect me.”

  “He was in a tough position,” Maugwen said.

  “He was an oath breaker and a violent killer!” Shayth snapped. “Don’t let the intrigue in the public houses fool you.”

  Shayth’s tone ended the conversation and they sat in silence. Rhoddan glanced at Miko to see if Shayth had scared him, and a chill went through his body. Miko looked. . . different. His face was set in an expression of an older man. His body had straightened and tensed. Most noticeable, the boy was no longer eating.

  Shayth had not noticed and began to talk again. “I’m sorry for my outburst. Family isn’t my favorite conversation piece. Anyway, it’s not my cousin that worries me. He’s probably a good fighter, but so are we. He may have better technique, but we have more experience. Facing him one-on-one, I think I could take him. I just need to remember that he’s the son of the man who murdered my parents.”

  Rhoddan saw Miko’s face twitch, and the boy’s eyes hardened as he stared at Shayth. Shayth rubbed his spiky hair. “It’s Ahad who worries me. He’s n
ot only a product of the academy, but also of the assassins. He was the one who shot you with the small crossbow, Rhoddan. I’m sure of it. Only a Master Assassin could hit from such a distance.”

  “Does he have much experience?” Maugwen asked.

  “No. But the same fire that burns inside me fuels Ahad. He wants revenge on the man who killed his father. Sound familiar?”

  Miko wore a wry smile now. As he turned and saw Rhoddan staring at him, the smile vanished. Rhoddan whipped out his dagger and pointed it at Miko. There was no fear on the young boys’ face.

  “Go ahead,” said the deep, icy voice. “I have little need for the boy. He’s just another peasant who will probably die of hunger or disease.”

  “Who are you?” Rhoddan demanded.

  In answer, Miko looked at Shayth. “It is good to see you, nephew. I’m glad you remain as evil and violent as I remember. We are truly kin, after all.”

  The Emperor laughed through Miko, and it sent shivers through Rhoddan and the humans. The cackle was evil and alien to this innocent farm boy.

  Maugwen was the first to recover. Her voice was even, though Rhoddan was sure she was straining to keep it steady. “Say what you have come to say and leave the boy. He’s one of your subjects.”

  Miko turned to her. “I do not lack for subjects, little healer,” the Emperor said. “He should be honored to let me use his body.”

  Maugwen’s brown eyes hardened. “Do not harm him,” she said.

  Miko laughed again and then spoke to Shayth. “You will not kill my son. Not yet. Maybe in time, if you deserve to be my heir, but I am not convinced yet that you are worthy.

  “As for Ahad, the two boys that accompanied them were instructed to sow seeds of doubts in him. By now, he probably realizes that his father was not the hero the boy thought he was. It is a shame that you curtailed their fine work.

  “Your father became a threat to me by creating a close cohort of officers fiercely loyal to him. You’re making the same mistake, Shayth.