by M C Dwyer
“Sword fighting?” Orin said, then paused to cough. “Forgive me, child; this cold doesn’t want to let go of this old man’s body.” Clearing his throat, he continued, “I don’t know much about the sword. Shall we see what the masters have to say?”
Nepenthe recognized that as a rhetorical question and simply followed him over to the shelves.
“Hmm,” he said, tapping along the books’ spines with his slightly arthritic finger, and then paused. “We shall try this one.”
Nepenthe waited silently as he paged through no less than four different books, not bothering to point out that the light was starting to go. He’d come to the conclusion that Orin actually had all the books in the library memorized; he simply needed an occasional reminder as to what was in which book.
“Ah, here we are,” he said, turning the book so Nepenthe could read it.
It was an old, hand-written tome done in faint, spidery script. Nepenthe squinted to read it, ignoring the strange spellings and trying to get a sense of what the author was saying.
When first drawing a sword, he deciphered, many a student who has suffered fear cannot bear the attack. The memory of pain is too strong to overcome, ending many a would-be swordsman’s career.
Well, that was hardly good news, Nepenthe thought, but read on.
The better course is to attack. Attack first and surprise the pain before it can gain control. In this way the student may conquer his fear.
Nepenthe frowned. It seemed counterintuitive, but it was worth a try. The author’s final note was encouraging.
This has worked for many of my own students, as well as myself—I would never have had the courage to draw the sword had my master not bid me attack first.
“Who wrote this?” Nepenthe asked, flipping back to the beginning.
“His name was Tyrault,” Orin said. “He is considered the father of modern swordfighting.”
“Huh,” Nepenthe said, handing the book back to Orin who replaced it with tender care. “I suppose he’s a reliable source, then,” he said, his eyes glinting with mirth.
“Away with you, child,” Orin said laughing, then started to cough again. He waved away Nepenthe’s concern. “I told you; it’s only a cold. Go, find your supper and your courage.”
Nepenthe obeyed the first, then spent the evening wandering the halls and thinking about the second. Was it as easy as that? He just had to attack first? It seemed too easy, but Nepenthe was desperate enough to try standing on his head if he thought it would make a difference.
The next morning brought no new counsel, so he took himself off the training room, prepared to ask Aidan to let him try his plan.
Aidan was looking rather grim, and he pushed Nepenthe through his warm-ups relentlessly. He tossed a practice sword at Nepenthe, who fumbled but managed to catch it, and then he called, “First form!” and was on him with an immediate, ruthless attack.
Nepenthe stumbled back in fright and surprise, barely managing to raise the sword before it was knocked from his hand.
“Again!” he said, and attacked as soon as the sword was back in his hand.
Frustrated and frightened, Nepenthe could only retrieve the sword and try to block Aidan’s blows.
“Again!” he roared, and again the sword went flying. “Again!” and so it went.
Nepenthe was panting, nearly sobbing, when Aidan misjudged his strike. The wooden practice sword connected with Nepenthe’s hand, and with a cry of pain, Nepenthe dropped, cradling the bruised hand to his chest.
Aidan gazed at him with a stricken look, taking in the look of shock and pain, and noting with horror the tears that had welled up in Nepenthe’s eyes.
Nepenthe felt the first tear drop, and his eyes widened in terror. He pushed to his feet with a cry and bolted from the room, not hearing Aidan’s swearing or cry of, “Penthe! I’m sorry!”
Deaf to everything except the indistinct strains of music that were even now drifting in on a faint breeze, Nepenthe tore off his tunic and used it to scrub his face dry. He was sobbing as he ran, but he sternly banished any further tears. Dashing into the kitchen, he evaded a surprised chef and several kitchen workers and made his way to the largest cook fire. He tossed the tunic into the flames, staying just long enough to see the faded blue fabric catch, and then he was off again.
The cold pierced through his thin shirt as he raced to the stables, but he didn’t notice it. He was too busy straining his ears for any more ghostly strains of music. He heard nothing but the whistling winter wind, however, and so veered away from the stables at the last minute. Instead, his steps turned inside once more.
He slowed, pausing several times to listen, but the air was blessedly free of any but the most ordinary sounds. He wearily climbed the stairs that led to the queen’s chambers, and with the last reserves of his strength, he retrieved the cloak. He wrapped it around himself, then stumbled onto the balcony where he collapsed on the stone bench. He pulled his feet up under the edge of the cloak, closed his eyes, and let go.
Nepenthe drifted for some time, unaware of anything except the play of sylphs in the air and the distant gurgling murmur of undine laughter. What was he? He couldn’t remember. He looked down, but saw nothing, no body to give him a clue as to what manner of creature he was.
Sylphs drifted by, giggling at him and urging him to join in their games, but when he tried to follow, he found he couldn’t. He could drift slightly: back and forth, left and right, and after a bit of thought, up and down as well. As he drifted downward, his vision darkened briefly and then cleared again, and he suddenly recognized his surroundings.
That was the library tower; that was the king’s balcony. He looked down and saw the training yard beneath; he knew where he was now. Or at least, he knew what his surroundings were. His own self seemed to be lacking, somehow.
He drifted aimlessly, waving away the sylphs who laughed in his ears—wait, if he had ears, he must have a body. He looked down, and a wispy shape hung below him. No, that wasn’t quite right; it wasn’t solid enough. With some concentration, he made the mists thicken into something resembling a body, but it took too much effort and it still wasn’t right.
He sighed, or would have sighed had he had lungs to sigh with, and drifted sideways. A murmur of voices wafted in from somewhere, and though he could understand the words, they meant nothing to him.
It’s all my fault. I pushed him too hard. I was trying to make him push back, and instead I—I broke him. Oh, spirits; what have I done?
Calm yourself. We’ll find him. He didn’t leave the palace; the stablemaster and the gate guards all verified that, right?
Yes, though he could have slipped through; you know how he is—people don’t see him.
You give him too much credit—and perhaps not enough. I repeat: we’ll find him. I have a few ideas of where we can look.
Thank you, Nepenthe heard as the voices started to fade. I’ll never forgive myself if he comes to harm.
The voices were gone, and Nepenthe lost track of things for a while until something like heat prickled all over his nonexistent body. He twitched, uncomfortable, and felt himself being drawn, slowly at first and then more rapidly, through the air. He saw a balcony below him, and a form he knew curled up on a bench, its head cradled in the hands of another form he knew.
With a glad cry of recognition, he dropped back into his body. It stirred slowly, somehow sluggish in its responses. As sensation returned, he realized he was terribly, achingly cold. He shuddered, and Tad said, “Spirits of earth, Shadow, you had me worried!”
Tad’s arms went under him and lifted him, cloak and all, and carried him inside.
“W-w-where are we g-going?” he managed, shivering.
“We’ve got to get you warmed up,” Tad answered, striding through the queen’s quarters and into the adjacent king’s rooms. He called out orders for a cool bath to be run and dry clothes and towels to be brought. Nepenthe couldn’t see if his orders were being obeyed, but he knew it wa
sn’t right for him to be in the king’s quarters.
“I sh-shouldn’t be here,” he whispered.
“Nonsense,” Tad said. “The king himself said to use his rooms.” He looked down at Nepenthe with some amusement. “Should we disobey the king?”
“N-no?” Nepenthe said, not as sure as he should have been for such a simple question.
Tad pushed open a door and revealed a bathroom fit for a king, which, Nepenthe supposed, it was. A large sunken tub was filling with water even as Tad set his bundle down on the edge. “Boots off, cloak off, then in you go.”
Suiting action to words, he pulled Nepenthe’s boots off and, after checking the water temperature with his hand and nodding in satisfaction, lifted him into the tub, clothes and all.
Nepenthe gasped when he entered the water. It was probably cool, but to his chilled flesh it was almost too hot. He adjusted quickly, however, his body warming to the temperature of the water. His spirit blood seemed to take over, then. He sighed as the shuddering stopped, and then slipped under the water. His earring did not like this, but his blood sang happily, silencing its protests. Nepenthe looked up through the water and saw Tad’s worried face leaning over the tub. He surfaced, not wanting to frighten him, and Tad sat back in relief.
“Can I add some hot water?” he asked, gesturing toward the brass fixtures at the side of the tub.
“Hot running water?” Nepenthe said incredulously.
“There’s a cistern a few floors up with a fire under it. They pipe the water down here for the king’s baths.”
Nepenthe splashed over to the fixtures and turned the handle. The water came out cool at first, but then he could feel the warmth as it spread through the tub. He sank under the water again and sat directly under the flow, letting the warmth soak into his very bones. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this warm.
The flow of hot water stopped, and he opened his eyes and rose to the surface of the water.
“You were going to overflow the tub,” Tad said apologetically. “I’d rather not get my boots wet.”
Nepenthe blushed, embarrassed. “Sorry.”
“There’s a drain down by your feet. If you turn it, it will open and the water can escape.”
Feeling around with his toes, Nepenthe found the drain, then ducked underwater again to look at it. It was an ingenious little valve, and when he turned it, he could feel the tug of the water. He let it pull at his hand for a moment or two, pretending it was the current of some larger body of water, then resurfaced with a happy sigh.
“Are you warm enough?” Tad asked as the water level quickly dropped.
“Yes,” Nepenthe said happily. He ran his hands over his hair, pausing briefly and then continuing when he remembered that Tad knew about the earring. “How do they empty it when the king is done with his bath? I can’t imagine him feeling around with his toes to empty his own bathwater.”
Tad’s eyes gleamed in amusement. “There’s a tool they use. Though sometimes he does use his toes, I believe.” At Nepenthe’s look of disbelief, he added, “He’s human, too.”
“I suppose,” Nepenthe said, unconvinced.
Tad grinned and held out a linen towel. “Here. Dry yourself off.”
He accepted the towel and scrubbed his short hair mostly dry, and then took Tad’s proffered hand to climb out of the tub.
“Here’s clean clothes to change into,” Tad said, nudging the pile with his toe. “I’ll just wait over there.” He went and stood facing the door, granting Nepenthe privacy to change in.
Nepenthe smiled gratefully at his back and quickly tore off the wet clothes. The towel took care of the last of the water, and then he climbed into the dry shirt and trousers. He giggled slightly when he had them on, and Tad turned at the sound and laughed, too.
The sleeves dangled off the ends of his fingers, and it was a good thing the trousers had a bit of string around them, otherwise they would have simply fallen off.
“Obviously, the previous owner was a much bigger person than my Shadow,” he said, turning back the cuffs so Nepenthe could at least use his hands. “No matter. They just have to get you decently clothed to the other side of the palace, and then you can change back into your own.”
Nepenthe pulled on his boots, which at least contained the trailing hem of the trousers, and pronounced himself ready.
“Take this, too,” Tad said, dropping the cloak around his shoulders.
“What?” Nepenthe gasped. “I couldn’t.”
“Why not?” Tad said. “You need a warm cloak.”
“It’s too fine for me,” he protested. “I can’t.”
Tad frowned for a moment, then said, “It was part of the king’s orders.”
Nepenthe groaned but gave in. “Fine. Fine! I’ll never be brave enough to wear it anywhere. But I’ll take it.”
With a gentle laugh, Tad said, “Shadow, you’re one of the bravest people I know.” With that, he held open the door for Nepenthe to pass through.
Thankful for the poorly lit halls that hid his warm face, Nepenthe hurried after.
Chapter 14
Nepenthe showed up at the training room with some trepidation the following morning, but Aidan was nowhere to be seen. With a sigh, he ran through his exercises. He hadn’t really expected him to come, but it hurt to be right.
Afterward, he went to the stables where he found a flurry of activity.
“There you are, Nepenthe,” Cora said, snagging his arm as she hurried down the aisle and dragging him after her like a boat caught in a rip current. “There’s a group of Ailerons heading out this morning on a mission from the king; they want Onyx and Kingsease in addition to several of the geldings. Get them in the crossties and I’ll bring the tack.”
Nepenthe drifted to a halt by the stalls, feeling a bit like he’d been washed up on a beach. He retrieved Onyx first, as Kingsease, despite his name, tended to be the feistier of the two. He had Onyx in the ties and was reaching for Kingsease’s halter when Cora returned with the first set of tack.
“Quickly,” she called over her shoulder. “The Ailerons want to leave as soon as possible.”
Quickening his pace, Nepenthe got Kingsease into the crossties and started rubbing him down, paying particular attention to where the saddle and girth would ride. If the horses would be out all day, it was especially important that nothing irritate their skin. He finished tacking up about the same time Cora finished grooming Onyx. He dealt with the bridle while Cora tossed the saddle up and tightened the girth.
Finished, they led the two stallions out to the courtyard. Nepenthe saw several other stable hands leading other horses out, and then he saw the group of Ailerons approaching from their wing of the palace. His heart sank as he perceived Aidan’s familiar face among them. Glancing around, he spotted Lira and Charl also, as well as three others whom he did not know as well. They approached, laughing and chatting with saddlebags slung over their shoulders. Charl approached Kingsease and greeted Nepenthe.
“Morning, boy,” he said, his voice as calm and even as it ever was. Unwittingly, Nepenthe relaxed slightly, wondering simultaneously if this is why he was such a good match with Lira’s exuberance.
He nodded in response and held the reins while Charl attached his saddlebags. “Where are you going?” he asked, reluctant to see them go without knowing why.
“Spring road survey,” Charl said, tying off the last of the straps and patting Kingsease’s flank. “Same as last year.” He accepted the reins and smiled faintly. “We’ll be sure to keep an eye out for any more errant waifs in need of rescue.”
Nepenthe reddened and ducked his head, shooting a glance at Aidan from the corner of his eye. “It’s still February,” he said, a question in his voice.
“We head south first. And then we’re going to spend some time in the east and try to see what the clans are up to. By the time we get back to Sterre and the Farlan Plains it will be May.”
His heart sinking, Nepenthe called to
mind Aidan’s long-ago promise that he could go with him to visit the Farlan. He sought Aidan’s eyes, but Aidan was studiously avoiding him though his cheeks were tinged with more red than was warranted by the nippy air. Nepenthe sighed. Aidan must have forgotten his promise. “Travel safe,” Nepenthe whispered, and then returned to the stables without speaking to any of the others.
Back inside, a sudden rush of energy spiked through his earring, searing along his nerves like fire. He dropped to his knees with a gasp, one hand clasped over his ear and the other keeping him partially upright.
“Nepenthe?” a voice said in concern, then Alric appeared in his peripheral vision. “Are you alright?” he asked, putting a hand on Nepenthe’s shoulder.
“I’m fine,” Nepenthe gasped, an automatic and obvious untruth.
“No, you’re not,” Alric said. “Granddad! Granddad!”
The concern in his voice brought Wyatt at a run, and then he, too, was kneeling next to Nepenthe. “What’s the matter, boy?” he asked, lifting Nepenthe’s shoulders.
The fire was fading, and Nepenthe managed to stay upright when Wyatt released him. “I’m okay,” he said faintly, combing the hair down over his ear. “Really, I’m fine.”
Wyatt looked at him, a frown furrowing his brow. “Take the day off, boy. Go see the physician and get some rest.”
Nepenthe would have protested, but he swayed slightly when Wyatt and Alric helped him to his feet and had to focus all his energy on standing.
“Go with him, lad,” Wyatt said to Alric, who nodded and looped Nepenthe’s arm over his shoulders.
The courtyard was empty when they shuffled through the door, and by the time they had crossed to the Ailerons’ entrance, Nepenthe felt almost normal. “I’m fine,” he said, removing his arm from Alric’s grasp. “Really, I am.”
Alric looked doubtfully at him, and Nepenthe gave a tired smile.