Spirit Song

by M C Dwyer

  “I’ll go straight to my room and rest. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Alright. Ring for a servant if you need anything.” He gave a crooked smile. “You may as well get some use out of your high-born standing.” He waved his right hand somewhat mockingly and turned to go.

  “Thank you, Alric,” Nepenthe said.

  Alric nodded and was gone.

  In the privacy of the empty entryway, Nepenthe heaved a deep sigh and leaned against the wall to sort through his memories. Had anything changed? He still had his memories of his mother, the older man (Father, they whispered), and the castle. He prodded at the wall like he would probe a sore tooth, looking for trouble spots and weaknesses along its length. He found one and poked harder.

  A new face, this one. It was lean and sharp and some might call it handsome. Above the thin lips that smiled somewhat mockingly, grey-green eyes stared down a long, narrow nose. Red-gold hair hung in thick waves, slicked into place with oil and confined with a black ribbon that matched the velvet of his tunic. He bowed, holding out a hand to Nepenthe, who recoiled in fear.

  Nepenthe gasped. The strength of that memory was frightening, and the emotions it produced in Nepenthe’s chest no less so. He leaned against the wall, hand to his heart and breath coming in shallow gasps as he tried to shake off the dread of that disconnected memory. When his breathing slowed, he poked at the memory again, wondering if it would produce a name or anything else he might identify the face with, and thus avoid it in the future.

  Nothing was forthcoming, and Nepenthe was forced to give up the attempt. He stood with a sigh and took himself off to the library, where he obeyed the spirit if not the letter of Wyatt’s command.

  The next morning, Nepenthe went to the training room reluctantly. There wasn’t much point, he thought, of continuing without a teacher. But he didn’t want to lose the strength he’d already gained, nor forget the forms he’d acquired with such trouble.

  Gathering a practice sword from the rack, he saluted the empty air and began running through all twenty of the basic forms. Panting slightly, he finished the final form and gave a flourishing salute. Letting the point of the wooden sword drop to the ground, he collapsed to the floor with a groan, feeling very near tears.

  That would never do; he sat up on his knees and took several long, centering breaths, calming his heart and banishing even the faintest idea of tears. Calm again, he opened his eyes to see Tad leaning against the doorway, staring thoughtfully at him. He leveraged himself to his feet with the sword, and bobbed a slight bow of greeting in Tad’s direction.

  Tad pushed off the doorjamb and entered the room. He came to a stop about ten feet away and continued to study him.

  Nepenthe stood self-consciously, rubbing his sword arm with his free hand. He looked back at Tad, taking in his broad shoulders and easy stance. Nepenthe hadn’t seen him during the mornings since before he was sick; he must have found time to practice in the evenings or he’d be looking as scrawny as Nepenthe was feeling. He found himself envying the easy strength with which Tad spun the heavy practice sword.

  “You haven’t been here in a while,” Nepenthe finally said.

  Tad nodded, then said in his deep, rich voice, “I was working on a decision.”

  Nepenthe’s brow puckered. What kind of decision required six weeks’ thought? “And did you decide?”

  “I thought I had,” Tad said, “but then circumstances changed, and I realized it didn’t really make any difference.”

  Mystified, Nepenthe could only stare.

  With a brief laugh, Tad waved the conversation away. “It’s no matter. Things are what they are, and you need a teacher, so here I am.”

  Nepenthe blinked, then breathed in sharply. “Do you mean that?”

  He gave a slight bow. “I can make no promises as to being here every day, as I have duties to perform as well. But I will come when I can, and teach you what I can.”

  “That’s enough for me,” Nepenthe breathed, eyes wide with excitement.

  Tad bowed again, and said, “Form one.”

  Nepenthe took the stance somewhat reluctantly, fearing another repeat of what had happened with Aidan. “Orin said,” he started, then trailed off.

  “Yes?” Tad said, waiting patiently.

  “Orin said—well, Tyrault said it, actually—that,” Nepenthe said, hesitating, then finished in a rush, “it might be better if I can attack first.”

  Tad considered for a moment, then nodded. “Sixth form.”

  Nepenthe gaped at him as he assumed Nepenthe’s first form stance. Rearranging his own feet into sixth form, Nepenthe looked across at Tad and suddenly said, “Oh!”

  A quirk of his lips was all the sign Tad gave of having heard him, and then he said, “Begin.”

  As Nepenthe moved through the sixth form slowly, Tad moved through the first, blocking Nepenthe’s lunges and countering with his own that Nepenthe blocked in turn, never deviating from the proper sequence. They finished simultaneously and saluted each other.

  Nepenthe let his sword drop and scowled, indignant. “Why didn’t he tell me that’s what the forms were for?”

  A full smile broke through and Tad shrugged. “I told you; he’s a natural swordsman. He probably assumed you could see it.”

  “Can we do another?” Nepenthe pleaded, and Tad laughed.

  “Twelfth form,” Tad said. “I’ll take seventeenth.”

  Nepenthe arranged himself correctly, and when Tad’s sword came at him, he automatically responded with the twelfth form sequence, blocking each attack. A whisper of fear tried to worm its way through Nepenthe’s thoughts, but the sequences of the form took over, effectively banishing it. Knowing the forms as well as he did, he knew exactly what move was coming, and he could now see how his own form was set up to block it effectively. They finished with a salute, and Nepenthe panted, exultant.

  Tad smiled. “Obviously, the forms aren’t much use in a real fight, as you would know what to expect and how to counter it. But they’re effective training tools. We’ll practice the forms until your muscles know how to respond properly to each move, and then we’ll move on to free sparring.”

  Nepenthe’s triumph slipped a bit at this, but he grimly took himself to task. He could do it. He had done it, and the only thing that marred his happiness was that Aidan had not been here to see him succeed.

  His heart clenched slightly, but as Tad had said, things were what they were. When Aidan returned, he would be able to show him his improvement.

  Nepenthe returned to the stables feeling buoyant, a feeling that carried him through the morning. Alric and Wyatt both expressed concern about his health, but Nepenthe reassured them that he felt fine. Better than fine, actually, as there was a bubbly feeling in his blood that made him want to dance through his tasks. It might have been his success on the training ground, or it might have been the breeze that whispered through the stables, bearing with it a hint of spring. Either way, his good mood carried on as the days grew noticeably warmer. Sparring practice moved back outdoors, and Nepenthe had to go ask the seamstress for a suit of summer stable greens because he was sweltering in the wool.

  It was, perhaps, too good to last.

  Chapter 15

  Tad greeted him that morning as every other, with orders to jog and then warm up by running through the forms. It had been maybe four weeks since Tad had started training him, Nepenthe thought, saluting and then beginning the sequence. He could feel the difference already. Tad was, he thought guiltily, a vastly superior teacher to Aidan. He made his movements clear and explained why he did what he did. Nepenthe had learned a great deal in the last month.

  Today, Tad tossed him two smaller wooden knives in exchange for the usual sword.

  “Run through the forms again, first with your dominant hand leading, and then with your off hand.”

  Nepenthe considered that for a moment, testing the weight of the wooden knives and then trying to picture what the forms would look like leading
with the opposite hand. He’d have to adjust his footwork to compensate, otherwise he’d be lunging forward with the wrong foot. He started the first form, running through it even quicker than usual due to the lightness of the blade. Then he did it again but leading with his left hand, laughing at his own clumsiness.

  “Shadow, I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you laugh,” Tad said, smiling in wonder. “It’s a lovely laugh.”

  Nepenthe turned pink with embarrassment and returned to his left-handed attempt at the first form. But a smile continued to play around his mouth. “Why am I trying to fight left handed?” he asked, messing up again and starting over.

  “What if your right hand is injured and you’re attacked?” Tad rejoined. “What if your enemy knows you’re right handed, and slices that arm at the beginning of the fight? You won’t get far if the tendons get cut. Even without your right hand, you could still win a fight—especially if your attacker isn’t expecting it.”

  “Huh,” Nepenthe said, thinking. “Why am I practicing with knives instead of a sword?”

  “Would you rather use the sword?” Tad said, picking it up and offering it to him.

  “No! No,” he said, backing away quickly. “I’m happy with these knives.”

  Tad laughed at him and set the sword down again. “Your left arm isn’t as strong as your right, and if your current attempt is any indication, you’d run out of strength long before you sorted yourself out.”

  Nepenthe gritted his teeth and began the form again, this time managing to make it to the end. He hefted the knife a couple of times, running through the sequence in his head, and then did it again, faster. “Got it!” he said happily.

  “Good,” Tad replied. “Second form.”

  He groaned, but began.

  By the time Tad called a halt, Nepenthe was dripping with sweat but hadn’t managed the second form.

  “I want you to keep working on the left-handed forms,” Tad said as they washed up at the pump. It was too cold to do more than splash a little water on their face and arms, but it was getting warmer by the day.

  Nepenthe looked up at him, water dripping from his curls. “That sounds a little ominous.”

  Tad grimaced. “I’m going to be busy for a while. The Ionan princess is coming this week, and—”

  “And you’ll be a little busy,” Nepenthe echoed with a sigh. “I understand.” He paused, then asked, “How does the king feel about the visit?”

  “Conflicted,” Tad answered shortly. “It’s one thing to know your duty, and another to do it.”

  Nepenthe pursed his lips. “There’s still an escape clause, isn’t there?”

  Tad shook his head. “That clause is there for Princess Ingrid’s sake. Alain needs this alliance too badly to give it up on the king’s whim. But no one here wants to force a twelve-year-old to marry against her will.” He paused, looking at Nepenthe consideringly.

  “What?” he said. “Do I have a smudge of dirt on my face?” He used his damp hands to scrub at his brow, but Tad shook his head.

  “No, but I have a job offer for you.” He hesitated, looking more uncertain than Nepenthe had ever seen him.

  Nepenthe nodded encouragingly.

  “The princess could use someone to help her out while she’s here. She’ll have her servants and attendants, but she could use someone closer to her own age to help her out and show her around.”

  “I’m not exactly her age,” Nepenthe said cautiously.

  “No, but your age difference is less than that of the king,” Tad said grimly. “He’s eighteen years older than she is.”

  Something tightened in Nepenthe’s chest and he felt a rush of sympathy for the unknown princess. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll do what I can. I mean, I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try.”

  Tad caught his hand and bowed over it. “You have my thanks. And those of the king.” His lips twitched ever so slightly. “Go visit the seamstress and ask for the palace blues.”

  Nepenthe groaned. “Please, no! Not her, again!”

  Tad laughed and gave Nepenthe a gentle shove towards the door. “I’ll tell the stablemaster you have new duties for a while. Stay nearby until I send for you.”

  Chapter 16

  The princess arrived the next day.

  Still feeling uncomfortable in his new blue suit, Nepenthe waited in the central palace courtyard with Drinian, Rhian, and several other Ailerons, as well as the Ionan ambassador, Sir Thom. He was an older, grey-haired man, who stood looking on as though he’d bit into a particularly sour lemon. While willing to help Tad, Nepenthe was feeling very out of place as he stood there with the honor guard. He was no Aileron, and he would have given a great deal to be back in his regular routine with no princess. There was nothing he could do about it, however, so he stifled his sigh and looked towards the distant gate.

  The sun was just starting to slant towards the west when a coach and four pulled into the yard, followed by no less than three other carriages. The first was by far the most elaborate, and Nepenthe wasn’t surprised when it pulled to a stop next to the waiting contingent and disgorged a highly beribboned and bewigged older man who stooped to let down the steps. Princess Ingrid descended, one dainty foot at a time, her full skirts rustling as they shifted to fit through the narrow carriage door.

  Nepenthe caught himself staring. Ingrid’s fashion was nothing like that currently being worn in King Edmun’s court. This dress was square-necked with a high lace collar and rolls of fabric at the shoulders and elbows. The stiff brocade of the bodice lay flat and stiff against her chest, providing a contrast to the immense bell shape of her skirts. The princess was small, as Nepenthe expected, but she was also pale and beautiful, with golden curls pulled back from a round face that was currently looking a little pinched, either with bad humor or fatigue. Nepenthe hoped it was the latter.

  “Your highness,” Drinian said with a bow, and all the others bowed with him. Ingrid inclined her head slightly. “I am Sir Drinian,” Drinian continued. “I am at your service for anything you may need during your stay.” With a sweep of his arm, he indicated Nepenthe. “Nepenthe here has been assigned to you, so feel free to make use of him however you need to.”

  Nepenthe shot a somewhat alarmed glance at Drinian’s back, but gave another short bow.

  “Thank you,” the princess said faintly. “I would like to be shown to my rooms first, that I may freshen up before meeting your king.”

  “Of course, your highness.” Drinian bowed again, then stepped aside to allow her to precede him into the palace.

  He led the entourage up a flight of stairs and into the guest wing. Nepenthe looked around in interest, as he’d never been inside any of these rooms. While they were not as elaborate as the king or queen’s quarters, they were still beautiful, with rich tapestry curtains and polished woodwork on nearly every surface. Even as they entered, the princess’s servants were hauling things in and arranging her belongings.

  “When will the princess meet the king?” the ambassador asked.

  “Someone will fetch you all in a few hours so that you may dine with him,” Drinian said. “Until then, just ask Nepenthe if you need anything, and he’ll take care of it.”

  An easy promise for him to make, Nepenthe thought, irritated. He still wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing here or what good he could possibly be.

  The princess merely curtsied slightly. The ambassador murmured something quietly to her and departed.

  The Ailerons turned to go as well, and Nepenthe gave Drinian a questioning look. He motioned to a plush chair stationed by the door, and with a silent sigh, Nepenthe sat down.

  As the door shut behind the Ailerons, Princess Ingrid heaved a long-suffering sigh of her own, and swiped a quick hand across each eye. Nepenthe looked closer, startled. Was she crying?

  At his motion, Ingrid seemed to notice him and quickly turned away, firing directions at her servants regarding the stowing of her belongings. Nepenthe leaned back
and sat silently, thinking.

  “The princess would like to rest,” an older woman said, approaching Nepenthe and offering the shallowest of curtsies.

  Nepenthe bobbed a bow in return, and relocated to the adjoining sitting room. This room was furnished with plush couches and a low table currently holding a bouquet of dried flowers. Not feeling that it was right to sit on the couches, he found a low stool near the door and made himself as comfortable as possible by leaning back against the wall. This put him in a position to hear the argument going on just on the other side.

  “—came because my father forced me to, and you know it, Marid,” a voice said. Nepenthe rather thought it was the princess.

  “You came to contract a marriage,” came the response. This was the older woman who’d asked him to leave. Her voice was more modulated, and Nepenthe had to strain to make out her words. “King Edmun is a good match, and the best we can hope for, unless you’d rather marry Prince Jermain?”

  “Talus wouldn’t treat with us, and you know it,” came the petulant response. Nepenthe wondered faintly if he should feel guilty about eavesdropping but didn’t move. “Besides, Jermain is even older than Edmun.”

  “Well, there’s no one else, and we need the alliance,” the woman responded. “Unless you were holding out hope that the lost prince would be found?” The sarcasm in her voice was withering.

  There was a momentary lull during which Nepenthe had to imagine what was happening. At last, the princess sulkily responded, “At least Pyrdred would have been closer to my age.”

  At that, the woman shushed her with a hissed, “That’s enough! You’ll bring sorrow on us all if you mention his name.”

  “You and your superstitions,” the princess sulked, but said no more.

  Nepenthe sat frozen, the name “Pyrdred” having fallen on his ears like the crack of doom.

  By the time Drinian appeared that evening, he’d recovered for the most part, a somewhat translucent cast to his already pale face being the only signs of inner turmoil. While the princess left to meet the king, Nepenthe took himself off to the kitchens to find his own supper.