Reave the Just and Other Tales

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  _______

  “I’m not sure that was a good idea,” she observed when she had composed herself. “What do we gain by watching him die? I don’t think any master can beat that—that whatever it is—that creature.”

  Certainly she and I had both failed often enough.

  Pacing the cell, she continued bitterly, “It’s inhuman. None of us can defeat magery. That’s not what the Fatal Arts are for.

  “If our captor wants a champion to fight an enemy like that,” she avowed, “let him create one.”

  “Again you make assumptions,” I sighed. “Your conclusion does not follow from your observation.”

  I had no wish to argue with her. More than that, I actively wished to avoid speaking of my own assumptions. I did not know how I might counter her reaction to Argoyne’s name. But the young man’s death had restored my knowledge of despair. I contradicted Isla simply so that I would not succumb.

  “That our captor uses an inhuman test,” I explained, “does not necessarily imply that he intends his champion to fight an inhuman opponent. It suggests only that he cannot persuade or coerce an appropriate master to serve him.” If he could have done so, he would have had no use for us, and our lives would have been left undisturbed. “Lacking any man or woman who fights as the opposing champion does, he is unable to test us fairly. This is the best he can do. With the power at his disposal.”

  A power which was itself being tested to its limits.

  “Are you defending him now?” she protested. But her objection was not seriously meant. “Who is he, anyway?” she asked more plaintively. “Who in all the White Hells needs a champion at a time like this?”

  I spread my hands. “Does it matter? If our captor cannot obtain a fit champion—and if his champion does not win—we will die. Nothing else has significance.”

  She snorted. “Of course it matters.” Apparently she felt a mashu-te contempt for the ambiguities of the nahia. “All this must have something to do with the Mage War. Why else does a mage need a champion? Are you saying that you see no difference between the White Lords and the Dark?”

  In Vesselege it was believed that the White Lords were the servants of light and life, while such men as Black Argoyne devoted themselves to havoc and cold murder. For that reason—it was believed—Goris Miniter had allied his reign and his kingdom against the Dark Lords, and the Archemage.

  I shared such assumptions. If I distrusted them, I did so on principle, not from conviction.

  “That is not how you reasoned with the shin-te,” I countered wearily. “Then you claimed that only the blows mattered, not the context.” More than my companion, I had been broken by my defeats. “Who we are asked to serve will mean nothing to us if we are dead.”

  I prayed that this thin argument would suffice. I lacked a better one—except that I was nahia, and my loyalties did not much resemble the abstract purity of the mashu-te.

  Fortunately, Isla was silenced while she considered the contradictions of her beliefs.

  _______

  Once again, he returned from death to the cell, remembering nothing. The sight of him wrung my heart, for his sake as well as my own. The bereavement in his eyes had deepened until it seemed to swallow hope. For the second time, he staggered as he appeared. And he was slow to recover, as though he were unsure where his balance lay.

  Still his thoughts followed their familiar path. When he could summon his voice from his parched throat, he asked, as he had always asked, “Where am I?”

  Neither Isla nor I attempted a reply. Instead we stared in dismay at the blood which drained from his lips with each word, dripping from his chin to spatter his robe with failure.

  Then he was gone. We observed his departure no more clearly than we had witnessed his arrival. We only knew that he had been given back to us—and taken away again.

  _______

  “By the Seven—!” Isla cried. “Asper, what’s happened to him?”

  The young man’s blood might have been my own. I had grown tired of speculation. I did not like where it led me. But I did not need to assume much in order to answer.

  “Our mage grows weak.” According to the stories told in Vess, Argoyne had fought alone against the assembled might of the White Lords for the better part of a year. “He could not spare the power which allowed us to witness the contest. For that reason, the shin-te was inadequately restored from death.”

  She accepted this explanation. “Who is he?” she asked again. “Asper, I do not know what to wish for.” She was close to despair herself. “I want to live. I want to repay what this mage has done to us. He has taught me hate, and that I will not forgive. But I cannot desire victory for such as the Black Archemage.

  “I need to know who it is that requires a champion.”

  Behind the grime on her face, her anguish was plain. Until then, I had not fully appreciated how costly the scruples of the mashu-te might be. During my own trial, she had saved my spirit. Now she threatened to crush it within me.

  “Isla,” I replied as gently as I could, “I am nahia. We have taken no part in this war because it surpasses us.” Tales were told of mashu-te who fought for Goris Miniter, and of ro-uke, but never of nahia. “Who are we to stake our allegiance”—our honor—“on a struggle we cannot understand?” Honor was a word which my masters did not use lightly. “I want to live. And I want to repay this mage. Other concerns do not trouble me.”

  Mine was the Art of Circumvention.

  I expected more mashu-te contempt, but Isla surprised me. She regarded me, not with scorn, but with wonder and pity. “You’re avoiding the truth,” she breathed. “You know who he is. And you don’t want to name him.”

  Her qa confronted me as though she readied a blow.

  “You believe he’s Argoyne,” she said softly. “And you’re willing to help him. You believe we’ll die here if we don’t help him defeat the White Lords, and you’re willing to do it.”

  I would have preferred being struck. Stung by despair, I cried, “Because it does not matter!” Against her scruples and her purity, I protested, “I matter. To me. You matter to me. The shin-te matters to me. But this war of mages and kings—” I could not explain myself to one who was not nahia. “It requires too many assumptions.”

  Her reply might have finished me. Before she could utter it, however, we became aware that the young man had returned.

  _______

  The blood was gone from his lips. He appeared stronger—perhaps better rested. This time more magery had been spent on his restoration. But it did not soften his loss and bafflement. Mere power could not heal the aggrievement of his young heart.

  “Where am I?”

  Mere power could not make him other than he was.

  “Who are you?”

  This could not go on. If Argoyne was scarcely able to heal those he tested, his crisis must not be far off. And despair was not cowardice. Although I feared Isla in several ways, I did not allow her to daunt me.

  Only memory would be of any use to him.

  Instead of answering the young man, I faced Isla squarely.

  “Stop me now,” I told her. I was certain that she could do so. “If you mean to abandon your life”—and your hate—“for the sake of guesses, do so now. Or stand aside, and let me do what I can.”

  The young man appeared to think I meant to attack him. His stance shifted subtly, focusing his abused qa.

  She glared at me from the depths of her begrimed face. The mashu-te placed great value on achieving their ends through sacrifice—in this case, obtaining Argoyne’s defeat at the cost of her life. But to sacrifice my life, and the young man’s, for the sake of her purpose troubled her. And if she played only a passive part in the Archemage’s death, her hate would not be appeased.

  Deliberately she withdrew. From the distance of a few paces, she fixed a gaze hungry with anger on the shin-te.

  In haste, I turned to the young man. I could not know when Argoyne’s crisis would overtake him
.

  Recognizing his apprehension, however, I paused to bow. I wished him to see that I meant no challenge—that I regarded him as a respected comrade, not as an opponent.

  As he bowed in reply, he softened his stance somewhat. But he did not set aside his readiness.

  “Young master,” I began, “you have been imprisoned by a mage. As have we. He has deprived you of your memory. For that reason, you cannot recollect your circumstances, or your name. You do not remember us. But we remember you. We are your allies.”

  I could not imagine why he should believe me. In his place, I would not have done so. Certainly I had mistrusted Isla long enough—until death and isolation had forced me to set aside suspicion. Nevertheless I spoke with all the conviction I had learned from my plight.

  “Our captor,” I continued, “is Argoyne the Black. The Dark Archemage. Somewhere beyond this place, the Mage War rages, and he intends you to play a part in it, if you are able.”

  I studied the shin-te for a reaction, but he betrayed none. His expression revealed only courtesy and grief, nothing more. Lacking memory, he could attach no significance to Argoyne’s name. Doubtless the Mage War itself meant nothing to him.

  Perhaps that simplified my task. I could not tell.

  Stifling a sigh, I informed him, “The Archemage desires a champion. By some means which we do not understand and cannot fathom, this war has become a matter of single combat. Both Isla and I have been tested to serve as Argoyne’s champion, but we failed. You are all that remains of hope for the mage—and for us.

  “You have not failed,” I insisted, fearing that Isla would contradict me, although she made no move to speak. “You have met certain setbacks.” This was difficult to explain. “They account for your weariness and confusion. The magery which restores you exacts a toll. But you have not failed. The shin-te teach that you must give ‘service to qa in all things,’ and you have done so.”

  The young man received this assurance as he had all I said—sadly, without acknowledgment. Though he had no memory of the experience, he appeared to understand in his bones and sinews—in his qa—that he had indeed failed.

  Breathing deeply to quell my alarm, I pursued my purpose. “However,” I announced, “you have not grasped the nature of the champion who opposes you. The champion you are asked to defeat. And your ignorance has caused your setbacks.”

  At last I saw a hint of interest in the shin-te’s eyes. He found it easy to credit that he was ignorant—and that ignorance was fatal.

  I summoned my qa. “The challenge before you is the true test,” I told him, “simple and pure. The shin-te believe that ‘there is no killing stroke.’ You will face a master of the nerishi-qa. The Art of the Killing Stroke.”

  There I stopped. I saw in the sudden flaring of the young man’s eyes that he knew more of the nerishi-qa than I.

  Isla could not silence her surprise. Advancing, she demanded, “Nerishi-qa, Asper? How do you know?” At once she added, “How long have you known? Why haven’t you said anything?”

  “I do not know,” I replied without disguising my vexation. “I am making an assumption.” An exercise I did not enjoy. To the young man, I said, “We were permitted to watch the contest from which you have just returned. In it, you were slain. And restored by magery. At the cost of your memory. Your opponent fought in ways unfamiliar to me. I am nahia. Isla is mashu-te. I have seen the ro-uke. And you are shin-te. Your opponent’s skills belong to none of these. Therefore he is nerishi-qa.”

  From the first, the shin-te had met death with sorrow, remembering nothing except his loss. Now, however, there was another light in his gaze. Strictures shaped the corners of his eyes, the lines of his mouth. A sensation of anger emanated from him.

  “The nerishi-qa,” he pronounced softly, “teach a false Art.”

  Isla rounded on him. “How so?”

  “Legend teaches,” I put in, “that nerishi-qa is the first and most potent of the Fatal Arts. All others derive from it.”

  The young man shook his head. There was no doubt in him. “It is false.

  “You have called it ‘the Art of the Killing Stroke,’ yet there is no killing stroke.” The strength of his conviction shone from him. “The nerishi-qa claim for themselves the power and the right to determine death. But he who determines death also determines life, and that they cannot do. Life belongs to the one who holds it. It cannot be taken away. Therefore no killing stroke exists. There is only choice.”

  In my urgency, I had no patience for such mystical vapor. And Isla felt as I did, apparently. Nearly together, we objected, “We saw you die.”

  Direct as a fist, she added, “That champion nailed you to the floor with a spear.”

  “Did you choose that?” I demanded.

  Uncomfortably, he answered, “I do not remember.”

  A moment later, however, he shouldered the burden of his beliefs. “Yes. I did.”

  Then his earlier sorrow returned to his gaze—a bereavement shaded by shame. “You say that I was ignorant. I did not know him for nerishi-qa.”

  I accepted his assumption. I feared to weaken him with doubt. But Isla did not.

  “Or you knew,” she countered, “and that’s why you chose to die. You knew you couldn’t defeat him.” Mashu-te to the core, she accepted the risk of what was in her heart. “You surrendered to despair.”

  Anxiously I watched the young man for his response.

  “I do not remember,” he repeated. “Perhaps I did.” The flinch had returned to his eyes, although he did not look away. “If so, I do not deserve to be named among the shin-te.”

  Seeking to help him if I could, I asked, “Are you acquainted with the nerishi-qa? Would you recognize that Art?”

  He considered for a moment, then shook his head. “There are scholars among the shin-te, preserving our knowledge of all the Arts. I have studied the texts. But they are old. And what is written conceals as well as reveals what it describes. I have never seen the nerishi-qa.”

  I sighed privately, keeping my relief to myself.

  Isla was plainer. “Then perhaps,” she said, “we can still hope.”

  “I do not know,” he said as if admitting the true source of his sorrow. “Every year, my masters send one of us to carry a challenge to the nerishi-qa, so that we may test our skills—and our beliefs. But the messengers are always spurned. The nerishi-qa disdain to measure themselves against us.”

  I was sure that Isla retained her wish for Argoyne’s destruction. For the present, however, she had apparently accepted that life was better than death. There may have been a hint of the nahia in her nature. Rather than merely assuming that the Black Archemage would be ruined by the young man’s defeat, she hoped to witness that ruin herself—and to participate in it if she could. And for that purpose sacrifice would not serve.

  _______

  As on previous occasions, the young shin-te needed rest. Both death and restoration had been arduous for him, as I remembered well. Despite my eagerness to know what he had read in the texts of his scholars—and my belief that Argoyne’s crisis was near—I urged him to his pallet.

  He acquiesced readily enough. But he was not granted an opportunity for sleep. As he uncoiled his fatigue upon the pallet, a tremor shook the cell. In the distance, we heard a mutter of stone, as though the crags of Scarmin ground their teeth.

  “Earthquake,” Isla suggested when the tremor had passed.

  “Do you believe that?” I asked sourly. I did not.

  A second tremor followed the first, stronger and more prolonged. In its aftermath, dust sifted from the ceiling, filling the constant light with hints of peril. Again we heard from afar the rumor of crushed rock.

  We were on our feet, the three of us, instinctively keeping our distance from the walls—and watching the timbers above us, in case they should start to crack.

  For the second time, a voice spoke in the air. “Now,” the mage said harshly. “It must be now.”

  Then the
young man was gone. Neither Isla nor I saw his departure.

  _______

  She reacted while I stood motionless in consternation. In the wake of Argoyne’s bodiless utterance, she protested, “He’s exhausted! He hasn’t rested!” Furiously, she cried, “By the White Lords, do you want him to fail?”

  There was no answer. Instead a third tremor jolted us. It struck the cell harder than the first two combined, endured longer. I staggered, despite my training, and Isla fought for balance. Above us, timbers shrieked against each other. A disturbing unsteadiness afflicted the lamps.

  Argoyne’s peril was more desperate than I had imagined. He had expended too much of his power testing us—and lost too much time.

  When the convulsion eased, I saw that its force had stricken a crack up one wall from floor to ceiling beside the door.

  The door—

  Isla did not see it. The straining timbers consumed her attention. “Asper!” she shouted. “The keep is falling! We’ll be crushed!”

  The door. At last. Argoyne’s magery had failed him. Or he no longer needed it. Or our imprisonment served no further purpose in his designs.

  “I think not.” Between one heartbeat and the next, my dismay vanished. Some sleight of circumstance transferred it to her, and I was freed. “These quakes will cease as soon as Argoyne announces his champion.”

  I had already turned my fang to the challenge of the door.

  Now she noticed it. “Asper—” she gasped. “What’s happening? How did this—?”

  “Compose yourself,” I snapped, “and let me work.” Her questions, and my own, would answer themselves soon enough.

  I was nahia, a master of Circumvention. No mere door could hold me if I bent my will to escape. But could I bypass this obstacle quickly? That was another matter altogether. The more strictly the door had been secured, the more time and skill would be needed to open it.

  I did not care why Black Argoyne’s concealment of the door had failed. Rather, I wished to know how much trust he had placed in that concealment.

  “This changes everything, Asper,” Isla insisted at my back. “The White Lords must have beaten him. He can’t protect his keep. Why don’t they press their advantage? Why risk this war on a champion when they can tear his power stone from stone?”