No, but he did come up with an ingenious strategy. The War had devastated many structures in the County, and they all needed rebuilding. Sir Noble and Sir Rutherford, Duncan’s predecessors, had planned to address each of these projects piecemeal. But Duncan organized the repairs as one enormous undertaking. Castle Hartstone, Rutherford Manor, Fort Lockmey, the Deliem Bridge, and the Merrick Tower were folded into a single, huge project. Taking advantage of an economy of scale, Duncan restored all the landmarks in Deliem to their prewar condition. His second biggest task was the staff. About three months before the Castle was completed, Countess Vye had become ill because of some bad food.
“This never used to happen when Michael ran the show,” Vye explained to Duncan.
“Was Michael that good of a chef?” Duncan smirked.
“Well, he did have the Sword of Kings,” Vye mused in her fever, “So really, nobody was better at peeling a potato.”
“I’ll start looking into the whole staff. But are you sure you don’t want to be involved in this process?”
“What did I tell you when I first hired you?”
“That you liked being the Countess because everyone had to listen to you,” Duncan recited from memory, “But you didn’t want to actually have to do anything.”
“Correct.”
So Duncan met everyone who worked in the Castle. One at a time, in person, alone. He promoted the people who were good at their jobs, he sent off the ones that were terrible at theirs, and he filled in some of the positions that had been vacant since the war.
So what was the Countess doing with all this time? Was she just drinking mimosas and getting a tan? No. Vye wasn’t wired that way. She didn’t like to do nothing, she just wanted to do the things she knew how to do. So she spent most of her time training the guards. Technically, it was a task that was below her pay grade, but she got a thrill out of it, and Hartstone ended up with the best-trained guards in the Kingdom.
But she had another skill that was sought after, and that was her magic. She tried to train a student here and a student there. Smart, capable people, by her judgement. But it didn’t stick. None of them could pick it up, and Vye couldn’t say why. She still wasn’t sure why she, herself, had managed to learn sorcery. It was something that sort of happened to her.
After a few dropouts, Vye’s first real pupil was a girl name Nuria. She had been nine when Vye decided to start training her, and four years later, she was learning fast. Many people were confused by Vye’s decision to train Nuria. If you were only going to train one person to use magic, why would you choose an eighty pound girl?
Vye had two reasons. The first reason was Nuria’s ability to climb. Those who knew nothing about magic were happy to tell you that climbing had nothing to do with magic. But Vye was looking for something in her potential students, and she didn’t know what it was until she found it in Nuria. It was someone who looked at things from a different perspective. Nuria had the instincts of a parrot. She always wanted to find the highest perch. She didn’t climb for the fun of climbing. She climbed for the view.
The second reason was the day that Vye saw her playing with a group of older boys. They were playing at jousting with broom handles in place of lances, and crate covers for shields. Two of the boys would line up at opposite ends of a small field, run towards one another, and smash together. The fact that none of them lost an eye was kind of amazing.
And then Vye, who was watching from her balcony, saw Nuria walk up to the boys and ask for a go. They laughed, of course. She had all the bulk of a feather pillow. But she kept insisting until they said yes. Vye was reasonably worried. But Nuria seemed confident. So instead of yelling at some nearby guards to put a stop to the nonsense, Vye watched, carefully.
Magic was not something Vye completely understood. And after six years of practicing, she was still learning new things about it. But one thing she had realized was that she could...feel with the magic. She could put out vibes. Some things she could passively sense, if they were strong enough or close enough. But if she chose, she could send out a magical arm. An antenna of sorts.
So as she saw Nuria line up across from a rugged teenage boy, Vye reached out. She felt Nuria’s heartbeat. Sensed her steady breathing... If anything happened, Vye would be able to protect her. She would let the brave girl take her turn, but Vye would make sure her heart kept beating, her lungs kept expanding and contracting, her skull stayed in one piece.
And then Nuria turned to Vye. Across the courtyard, over the din of the marketplace, from the ditch by the road to the height of the balcony, Nuria made eye contact with Vye. Of course, many people throughout the day would glance up at the Countess. She was their leader, and a bit of a legend. People glared at her all the time.
But Nuria hadn’t turned around by chance. Somehow, the girl had sensed Vye. Somehow, she had known that Vye was watching her. She smiled at Vye and turned back to the boys.
Her hefty opponent charged across the line, broomstick held all the way out, wooden slats protecting his body. Nuria sprinted right back at him. But the broom was too heavy for her to hold upright. The boys laughed, making jokes about erectile dysfunction that three of the five of them would eventually suffer.
Nuria really did look lost. Her towering opponent was about to impale her on his “spear.” But that’s when everyone realized that she wasn’t trying to hold hers upright. She was trying to find the right place to plant it in the ground. She lodged the end under a rock and launched herself up with the bristles of the broom, arcing over the expected point of impact like the tip of a metronome.
And she pulled the “shield” up with her. In the middle of her vault, she planted her feet on the crate top, tucked her foot into the “handle” and slammed it right into the boy’s face.
That was how Nuria operated when she was nine. After four years of practicing, she was starting to amaze Vye. She was never a match for pure power, speed, or endurance. But her mind was working on a whole other level.
So on that day, the same morning in which the Baron Dubon von Wrims unveiled the Statue in Anuen, Vye came into the sparring room in Hartstone to a truly mind-bending sight. Nuria was perched, as she often was, high above the floor. But she hadn’t climbed there. She was suspended in midair. Her eyes were closed, concentrating.
And on the ground was a suit of armor. With a sword and shield. And even though there was nobody inside the armor, it was stomping around the room, swinging its blade and taking stances.
“What are you doing?” Vye demanded.
“They said I could borrow the armor,” Nuria defended. “Do you want to spar? En garde!”
The scale mail turned, shield forward, sword back, ready to strike. A duelist’s pose.
“Can you get down here?” Vye demanded.
“Don’t think you can take me?” The empty armor swung its sword around, as though trying to intimidate Vye.
“I can strangle you with your own ponytail.”
“I’m coming down,” Nuria said, her eyes snapping open. The armor collapsed in a clash of metal. Nuria grabbed the cushion, floating gently to the floor.
“How am I supposed to teach you lessons,” Vye asked, “When you’ve worn yourself down like this?”
“I’m not tired.”
“I hope when you’re my age, there’s a young girl taunting you with her relentless energy.”
“Am I going to have to live that long?”
“Seriously, I can kill you in, like, seventy-three different ways.”
“But really, I’m not that tired. I’m ready for our lesson.”
“How can you not be exhausted after moving that armor around? You had to concentrate on all those joints, the sword, the weight...”
“I didn’t do it that way.”
“Sorry?”
“I didn’t think about the different parts of the armor,” Nuria explained. She was trying to be helpful. She wasn’t trying to sound condescending. But she was a 13-year-old girl explainin
g to a 31-year-old woman how to do this trick. “I just wore the armor. I mean, I projected myself into the armor. So to move the leg, I just thought about moving my leg. It’s like the Far Sight you taught me. I just couldn’t go that far.”
“That’s very...resourceful of you.”
So they started their lesson. But Vye didn’t know what she could teach the girl. Nuria was younger, but she was also smarter. It was becoming clearer and clearer as Nuria got older that Vye was just a glorified sparring partner. It wasn’t until they finished, and they were heading for supper, that Vye felt useful. It was because of a question that Nuria asked, “Is Duncan...with any of the women in court?”
Vye immediately saw the whole picture. Duncan. The 20-year-old, handsome, charming, funny man in court. Vye remembered every time Nuria had volunteered to help him out with anything and everything. Of course she was infatuated. And of course it would never work. And of course there would be no convincing her of this.
“I don’t think so,” Vye answered. “I’m not sure.”
“Do you think I’m pretty?”
“OK, I see where this is going. I think you’re very pretty. I think you should try to have a crush on someone your own age.”
“Why does it matter?”
“OK, so, you see, when a man and a woman love each other--”
“I know about sex.”
“Thank the Gods.”
“I’ve had my first blood. I’m ready.”
“Those aren’t the same thing. Seriously, start small. Find a boy your age.”
“But none of the boys my age are any good.”
“Yeah, OK, true. But you can’t be with Duncan.”
“Why not?”
“It just wouldn’t be proper. Even with arranged marriages, they try to wait until you’re fifteen.”
“Fine. Can our marriage be arranged? I can wait.”
“Well, that’s--”
She stopped dead. So did Nuria. It was like their hearts had skipped a collective beat. No. It was as if there was an extra beat. One that didn’t belong to them.
“Did you feel that?” Nuria whispered.
“Go find Duncan. Now.”
“I should stay here with you.”
“No. Listen to me. Go right now and find Duncan and tell him something really, really terrible is about to--”
And then something really, really terrible happened.
Chapter 3: The Turin-Guarde
Vye wasn’t the only one dealing with new pupils. Far to the north, in the Turinheld, Master Eric was also trying to teach his new students. By contrast to Nuria, Eric’s class was much more respectful, deferring, and patient. Eric’s problem wasn’t insolent, upstart newcomers. It was his own prejudices.
Eric had trained with Argos, the leader of the circle of mages in the Turinheld, and the one who essentially started the war with the Kingdom of Rone. Argos had taught Eric that hatred and rage were part of the magic. He had infused Eric, and the others, with the belief that the only way to use wizardry was to hate the people of Rone.
This method had worked well for the Turin-Sen. That was what Argos had called the company. It roughly translated to “The Best of the Turin.” They were amongst the best sword-fighters in the Turinheld and they were the only ones who could use magic. So the moniker was accurate, even if it was a little conceited. But more importantly, the hatred had driven the Turin-Sen to be instrumental in the War. They had assassinated the leaders of the Rone in one fell swoop. They opened the door for the invasion.
But then, one by one, they began to fall. Selikk, Gerard, Halmir, Sandora, and finally Argos himself. Until Eric was the only one of the group left. The War cost him his friends, but the end of the War cost him his sense of direction. He had been a spy, living in the capital city of the Rone people. He had masked his appearance. Lived as one of them. He never lost sight of his purpose. Of his goals. But he also learned that many of the Rone people were not bad people. He still did his duty when called upon. He still murdered Rone citizens when it was part of his mission. But he felt his resolve weaken the longer he lived amongst his enemy.
When Argos died, it was as though a cloud lifted from his mind. Now back amongst the Turin people, Eric thought he would remember his old hatred. But instead, he started to think back on all the things he had done. And he realized that, while the hate and anger made the magic stronger, it also suffocated him. Argos had not only led his country astray, launching them into a devastating war. He had led the Turin-Sen astray, teaching them hate over self-control. Viciousness over compassion.
It helped that the political atmosphere in the Turinheld was also changing. The old Regent was shipped off to the Rone, sort of an apology gift for the War. In his place, a new Regent was elected. A woman named Rajani, who was much more level-headed and fair-minded. Someone who was invested in the peace process.
As a part of that process, Rajani asked Eric to rename the group of magic-users, and to train a new generation of them. They would now be called the Turin-Guarde, which translated as “Defenders of the Turin.” Eric agreed to take on the task, but he wanted some time alone. Before he could teach anyone, he had to see what he still knew.
He took a few months to wander the Turin woods. He had discovered that he had been moving in the wrong direction in his life, but he did not yet know which way was the right direction. He could still perform magic, but it was slower and weaker than he remembered. It was harder for him to find the energy without focusing on the hate.
He had hoped that his walkabout would lead to some kind of epiphany. But instead, he just felt bereft of solutions. He would continue to serve the Turinheld, but he was marginally worse than he used to be, and he didn’t know if he had anything to offer his suffering country.
He returned to the Lunapera, the training grounds for the Turin-Sen and Turin-Guarde. The plateau jutted out over the sea of trees below, like a wave had turned to stone before crashing down onto the forest. He hoped to meditate there, searching deeper for an answer to his questions.
But instead of finding solitude, he found a woman named Landora. He recognized her, though it took a moment. She was the younger sister of one of Eric’s old comrades, Sandora. But the last time Eric had seen her, she had been eight. Now she was fourteen. She didn’t have Sandora’s build. She was short and slight. She wasn’t made to be a warrior.
Even so, when Eric reached the peak, he found her tugging on one end of a rope. The rope was draped over the limb of a tree, and the other end was wrapped around some boulders. When her arms tensed, he could see muscles that were developed well beyond most teenagers. She may not have packed much of a punch, but she packed as much of a punch as someone her size could manage.
“Eric,” she had said when she saw him, “You’re back. I want to join the Turin-Sen.”
“We’re not called that anymore. We’re the Turin-Guarde.”
“Whatever. Teach me to use magic.”
“Why do you want to learn?”
“My sister died fighting the Rone. She was killed by a man named David Noble, and then her body was put on display to give the Rone courage. I want to be the best I can be, so I can get my revenge.”
Eric paced to the very edge of the cliff. He turned his back on the ledge, sitting and crossing his legs.
“Put the rocks down,” he said. Landora apparently hadn’t noticed she was still holding them, suspended above the ground. She lowered them down, wiped her arms off, and stalked up to Eric. She stood, defiantly, in front of him. It was clear he wanted her to sit. But she just wouldn’t do it.
“Landora, I knew your sister well,” Eric said. “She was brave and strong. I’m sorry that she’s dead. I’m sorry they’re all dead.”
“My family already observed her death. She doesn’t need another eulogy. She needs justice.”
“Justice? You didn’t say anything about justice. You said you wanted revenge.”
“They’re two sides of the same blade.”
&
nbsp; Eric sighed. He had been through these debates many times. He was Argos’ oldest pupil. And Argos had always spoken of revenge. Revenge on the Rone people for what they did, centuries ago. Revenge for the crimes they had perpetrated against their Turin ancestors.
Eric never disobeyed Argos. But when Eric was just starting out, he did question the notions of justice and revenge. He didn’t even know which side of the debate he was on now. There was definitely a part of his brain that wanted to murder every citizen of Rone, each time shouting out the names of one of his fallen comrades.
But whatever he felt, it wasn’t as naked and raw as what this girl was feeling. Landora had lost a sister. A role model. Someone she had aspired to be. Could Eric convince her to see past this hate? Was it possible to see past it?
“Very well,” Eric said. “I am going to train you.”
“Great, let’s get started.”
“No. Because my first lesson is going to be to teach you not to channel your hate when you fight, with metal or magic.”
“I will always hate. This is a fire that will never be extinguished.”
“You are welcome to hate as much as you want. I will not stop you. Hate the Rone people. Hate the man who killed your sister. Hate the soldiers who gained strength from seeing her corpse. Hate me, if you must. But when we train, you will not bring it with you.”
It was much easier said than done. Landora had worked her body into a frenzy. Sitting still wasn’t her strong suit. She was so used to expending so much energy every day that she became anxious easily. For months, her hatred ruined her focus. It was so intense, Eric could feel it when he was near her. A glowing, burning ball of rage.
So Eric had to teach her to slow down. They exercised plenty, but Eric also forced her to do meditation. They trained with swords and spears, but Eric would also insist that she sit at the edge of the Lunapera for an hour, without moving or speaking. The sword moves were easy. The meditation was hard.
Eric would often find her awake late at nights. She was hacking an old ax into a tree stump, over and over and over. As though the faded rings were the face of her sister’s murderer. He never interfered. He was glad she had found a way to channel that anger that wasn’t through her magic.
A Dagger of the Mind (The Imperial Metals) Page 3