by Ben Hale
He had discovered this place when he was eight, and it had become his refuge ever since. Countless hours of practicing had been spent at this spot, and the evidence of mock battles could be seen in every direction. Cuts and holes from his swords, arrows, and other types of weapons marked almost every tree. Older cuts had begun to knit while several new ones still had sap running from them. Scrapes and scratches marred smooth stone where he’d struck it. This had also been the spot where he’d first tried fighting with two katsanas—and perfected it.
Stepping to a tree about five feet from the edge, he turned and sat heavily, leaning his back against the knotted wood. Before him the entire island stretched away, disappearing into a glittering ocean in the distance. Dense foliage dominated the vista, only broken by the occasional chimney or large structure.
Taryn’s eyes gazed without seeing the view, his mind too deep in thought to notice. Tiral, the only student to die during the pirate attack, pulled quickly into the forefront of his thoughts, but as always, he shied away from the lancing memory. Latching instead onto his enchanted weapons, he drew his fathers’ sword.
Who were his parents to have weapons like these? And why had they not revealed their true nature before? Magical weapons throughout Lumineia were not uncommon, but Taryn sensed that these weapons were far more powerful than normal. For one thing, he’d never heard of a transforming weapon.
Remembering the flash of white light and the writing that had appeared, he turned his father’s sword over in his hands and peered at the writing. Faint silver writing stood out from the shining metal. In flowing script he could make out the word “Mazer.”
What could that mean . . .? The thought trailed off as the idea came to mind that Mazer could be his father’s name. In that moment the sword glimmered blue as if in answer to his thought and magic tingled up his arm. The more he thought about it, the more confident he became. There was no way he could explain how he knew it. He could just . . . feel it—so strongly it brought tears to his eyes.
He finally knew his father’s name! Grasping his mother’s sword, he eagerly drew it and laid it across his knees as well. “Ianna” was inscribed in the same faint silver writing. Closing his eyes, he leaned back and reveled in this tiny bit of information he had yearned for his entire life.
Relief and joy spread through him, warming him more than the afternoon sun. For several minutes the strong emotions overcame him, burning into his heart and searing into his mind—and then almost imperceptibly began to fade. Second by second the elation dissipated, left to be replaced with the haggard sadness of one who has caught a glimpse of what they desire most, only to watch it slip away.
What now? The sobering thought whispered, sending a chill through his heart and chasing the last vestiges of relief away. His entire life he had wanted to return to the mainland of Lumineia to search out his heritage, learn where his family had come from, and why they had brought him to the island. The questions had burned within him from the moment he had understood that Murai was not really his uncle, and now that he knew his parents’ names, the prospect of returning felt all too real. For the first time he realized that knowing his parents names didn’t quench his desire to know more.
It fueled it.
Sighing at the elusive questions, he looked down at his parents’ swords, but the shimmering metal yielded no more answers. Deciding to momentarily set aside his concerns and see what the weapons were capable of, he rose to his feet and returned his father’s sword to its scabbard, focusing on his mothers’ weapon. Although his training had included little on magic, he knew enough to know that imbued weapons required something to activate. Perhaps he had to say words or incantations?
No, that wouldn’t be it. His parents had been warriors; of that he was certain. Warriors would want their weapons accessible, and the same should go for the magic contained within them.
Lifting his mother’s sword to eye level, he concentrated on the bow he had glimpsed before the battle in the arena. Before his eyes, the blade began to bend back on itself, while the hilt stretched downward and curved backward. At the same time, the metal faded and began to shape into burnished wood, its dark grain polished and smooth. As the arcing wood neared the end, a string of green light reached out from both ends and joined in the middle. A little taken aback at how easy it had been, Taryn hesitated and then examined it more closely.
The wood of the bow looked to be oak, which was odd, because most bows were made of yew or another kind of supple wood, oak being far too stiff. Intricate designs and runes were carved expertly along the entire length of the curved weapon. Upon closer inspection, he noticed what looked like faint veins of green light twined into the wood. At the end of the bow, the green light extended straight out of the wood to become the string. Reaching for the string, he half expected his hand to pass through it, but instead he found it to be as solid as steel.
Excitement rippled through him as he viewed the amazing weapon, and, seeing that a dark green arrow was already notched, he impulsively turned towards the mountain and drew the arrow to his ear. Smooth to draw, it wasn’t nearly as hard a pull as he'd imagined it would be, and he felt a tingle spread up his neck at the feeling. Taking aim at a tree that sat right against the rock, he loosened his fingers . . .
—With a snap the bow released its tension, and in an instant the arrow struck the tree, embedding itself so far that only the feathers remained in sight—and another arrow appeared to replace it.
Astonished at how fast the arrow had flown, Taryn leapt towards the impaled tree. When he got there, he was even more surprised to see that the arrow had gone all the way through the tree and penetrated the rock of the mountain itself! No bow he had ever seen could make an arrow sink into solid stone. His heart hammering, he returned to where he had shot the first arrow, took aim a few feet from the tree he had hit, and shot another arrow into the smooth cliff. While it quivered from the impact, Taryn raced across the ledge to find it similarly embedded halfway into the hard rock.
For twenty minutes Taryn shot arrows at various targets. Each arrow went exactly where he wanted it to go, and when he pulled the bow back as far as he could, the shafts embedded all the way to the feathers into solid rock or dense wood. After a few minutes he noticed the arrows he’d shot first had begun to fade away. Transforming the bow with a thought, he sheathed the blade and drew his father’s sword. Besides the writing, the weapon hadn’t changed, so what could it do? Recalling the glow along its edge, he remembered thinking it was becoming sharper.
Stepping close to a tree with a branch about as thick as his arm, he swept the sword to cut the branch. Yesterday he might have been able to cut the branch with the same sword, but today definitely felt different. The enchanted blade sliced right through the branch like it was a crisp stalk of celery. Turning to a branch as thick as his head, he cut through it just as easily. The sword glimmered dully blue as it cut the thicker wood. The same thing happened when he cut the wide trunk of a tree, except the sword flashed even brighter blue.
He smiled as the whole tree slid off the now angled stump and crashed to the ground. Glancing at a boulder nearby, he hesitated for a second before swinging the sword at the rock—and watching it cut right through!
As it sliced into the stone, the sword flared brilliant blue. So, Taryn mused, the harder the substance, the more magic necessary to cut it. The question was . . . how much magic did the blade contain and would it run out? He smiled as Murai’s words came to mind: “Always know the strengths and weaknesses of your weapons—and yourself.” Deciding it was better to know the limits of his weapons before a battle, and not during, he methodically began to make cuts in the mountain with his father’s sword. Each time, it would flash bright blue, but after the twelfth time the weapon only went partway through the cut before stopping as the blue fire extinguished.
The magic had lasted a lot longer than he had expected, and he nodded to himself as he made a mental note of its magical limits. Setting asi
de his father’s sword, he drew his mother’s weapon and changed it to the bow. As fast as he could, he drew back the arrows and fired them at the mountain. One after the other they sunk into solid rock. After the fiftieth streaked into place, no arrow appeared, so he began to count. It took thirty seconds for the first arrow he’d shot to disappear from the rock and reappear on the bow. Every five to ten seconds, the other arrows also vanished.
He forced himself to wait until all the arrows had disappeared and then began to shoot again, but this time shot only forty-nine arrows. He carefully counted fifteen seconds before the first one he’d shot faded away. OK, he thought, if I exhaust the magic, it takes longer to replenish. Turning the bow back into a sword, he sheathed the weapon.
Taryn picked up his father’s sword and repeated the earlier exercise of cutting into the mountain. The sword cut only eight times before giving out. It had only been two or three minutes since he had made the first cuts in the rock, so it was reassuring to know the magic of his fathers’ sword came back quickly even when it was exhausted. He breathed a sigh of relief; he’d half expected the magic to be gone forever.
With some practice and a little more experimentation it became apparent that he could make Mazer (in that moment he decided he would call his swords by the names on them) cut through almost anything, or not cut through objects if he didn’t want to. Good, he thought, I won’t accidentally cut one of my friends’ swords in half while we’re sparring.
His examinations complete, Taryn began to go through routines with his new swords. Linked more than ever, they responded to the slightest movements as if they were just another muscle in his body. Increasing the tempo and difficulty only made the weapons feel more and more connected to his thoughts and will. After thirty minutes he was using the hardest and most complicated techniques he knew without the slightest hesitation. Slipping in between the trees like a gust of wind, he bent and coiled, swinging both swords out to nick trees and rocks alike. In the middle of a combo he shifted his mother’s sword, sheathed his father’s sword, fired an arrow at the rock wall, and without missing a step changed Ianna back for the next block.
While he stepped through intricate sword routines, his mind wandered miles away from the island he’d grown up on. Out of nowhere, the resolution to find out more about his parents struck him, hitting him so hard he stopped mid swing. He had to find out who they had been, why they had been coming to Sri Rosen, and if he had any other family.
He furrowed his brow and shook his head, Where to begin though? The only thing he had from his parents was his newfound weapons and the knowledge that his mother was an elf. Maybe Azertorn, the city of the elves . . . ? His thoughts trailed off into nothing.
It was time to leave Sri Rosen.
The thought felt like a blast of icy wind, causing him to take a deep breath and look over his favorite spot for what he knew would be the last time. Trees and solid rock were littered with cuts and slices. Arrows had driven holes through trunks and stone alike. The evidence of his fierce battle had extended all across the ledge, and would linger for decades. The sight filled him with sadness, but a thread of excitement raced through him as he turned to get one last look at the view.
More time had passed than he’d realized. It was already early evening, the sun shifting from yellow to red as it sank towards the horizon. Every shade of yellow and orange spilled across the sky and ran together into vibrant streaks of color. Brilliant purple and pink soon appeared, shimmering in the few low-hanging clouds that dotted the view.
Taryn didn’t move until every shred of light was gone, and then stayed until stars began to wink and glitter. Only after the moon started to rise did he finally turn and climb slowly down. By the time he got home it was past midnight, but the soft glow of candlelight flickering in one of the windows revealed someone was inside. Without hesitation he opened the door and strode in.
To his surprise, there were several people in his room. He’d expected his uncle, but Liri and Mae were also present. The girls were seated on the bed while Murai sat in the only chair. Empty bottles of ale and crusts of bread sat on the desk and beside the bed.
Nobody spoke for several moments until Taryn broke the silence. He almost didn’t say anything, but he knew he had to share what had happened with someone and the people in the room were the only individuals he could imagine sharing something so personal. In halting phrases he began, “I know the names of my parents . . .”
For the next several minutes he explained what had occurred with his swords before the arena fight and a little bit about their magic—enough to satisfy curiosity, but not to reveal everything about their power. He wasn’t quite ready to share that, and throughout his tale no one spoke.
“I have to go back,” he finished, “now . . . on the next boat.”
Almost immediately Liri stood up. “I’m with you, whatever it takes.”
Mae wasn’t far behind her. “The ship in the harbor is leaving at first light,” she said quietly as she rose to her feet.
Taryn hesitated, a little taken aback by the directness of his friends. “Er . . .,” he began but Liri cut him off.
“You don’t have a choice, Taryn.” she said, her jaw set in a firm line that he knew from experience didn’t allow for disagreement.
Taryn smiled in surrender. “All right, get your things. We’ll meet at the dock an hour before dawn. Liri, would you mind letting the harbormaster know?"
“No problem,” she replied as she slipped out the door, a smile of triumph on her lips. Mae simply nodded and followed her out, leaving him alone with his uncle.
It took a minute before Taryn could look his uncle in the eye, so he took the time to place his weapons on the wall. When he finally did manage to face Murai, the sadness he had expected was there, but there was also something else. Was his uncle happy about his leaving?
“I am so proud of you, Taryn. I know . . . I know . . .” But the rest of his words were lost as Murai bounded across the room and embraced his adopted nephew. “I know you will find what you need.” He let go and pushed him back. “You will always be my family.”
Taryn smiled, swallowing against the surge of emotion. “And you will be mine.”
Then Murai inclined his head. “If I may, I have a few final lessons for you.”
After Taryn nodded, Murai began, his gaze piercing, “You have not been given an easy life, nor an . . . abundance of talents." He paused and gave an apologetic shrug for his honesty. "But it isn't what you have been given that has made you who you are. It is the choices you have made. There are many that have been gifted with much more but have achieved far less. It is your choices—not your ability, that will define your destiny."
"By now you should know, you have been much more than a student for a long time. I have had the privilege of watching you become far more skilled than any other master on the island. For this reason, you must remember to always trust your own abilities—yet do not allow that confidence to become arrogance.”
He paused until Taryn nodded again.
Murai’s smile turned sad. “Now for the hardest lesson, the one I cannot teach you.” Shaking his head, he took a deep breath. “As such a gifted warrior, you will face many opportunities to take a life.”
He sighed, his tone changing to one of regret. “Death by the hand of another destroys many things, but nothing is more damaged than the family. It steals the innocence of children, and shatters the hope of sons. It forever scars mothers, and fathers, and rips apart the very fabric of parenthood. The person’s very posterity is erased.” He paused and gave a tiny shake of his head before glancing back at Taryn, his eyes bleak. “Taking a life leaves a hole that cannot be measured.”
Taryn didn’t know what to say. Something in Murai’s eyes made him think that he knew firsthand the meaning of his words, but the thought only had time to flicker before his mind was drawn to the pirate attack where Tiral had been slain.
Unknowingly echoing his thoughts, Muari contin
ued, “I know the death of Tiral still haunts you, but you need to know that it is not your fault. He was too young to fight, and disobeyed his master in doing so.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Taryn whispered, barely able to get the thought out. “If I had killed some of the pirates, maybe he wouldn’t have died. We both know I could have.”
The silence in the cabin stretched for several moments, until Murai said, “I believe there is something in you that rebels against the killing of another, but you should not consider this a curse. Rather it is a gift, and a rare one for a warrior. Unfortunately, many of our trade will kill without a second thought, and their hearts become hardened as a result.”
“However, the lesson you will be forced to learn is when a life must be taken. Sparing the life of someone can mean others will perish—especially if it is someone who is more evil than good. As horrible as taking a life is, allowing that person to slay many more is indescribably more abominable.”
“How do you know when to do it?” Taryn burst out, unable to contain the question he’d wanted to ask since Tiral’s death.
Murai just shook his head. “You will need to find your own way to balance this in your life because justice and mercy are—and have always been—opposites. Because of your skill it will frequently fall upon your shoulders which to give. Just know that I trust you to make the right choice.”
It didn’t seem like much of an answer, but as Murai held his gaze, he knew it was all he was going to get, so Taryn nodded.
“Lastly,” Murai said, “it is important you recognize that every person is unique, with specific qualities and attributes that make them special. Some are special because of physical skills, sometimes it is a magical skill that sets them apart, but more often than not, it is something . . . else that makes them exceptional. This fact is overlooked by many, and as a result only a few are deemed important.”