by D. T. Kane
The man looked as if Valdin had just spit on his mother’s grave. Or, worse yet, Tragnè’s grave.
“Foolishness?” Shinzar said, nearly a shout. “Those who turn a blind eye to crime share the culpability of the perpetrators. So it is written in the Oral Histories. I insist we—”
“You insist?” Valdin drew the wind into his voice, causing the very ramparts to shudder. Shinzar’s mouth continued to move, but issued no sound. “Now you listen to me, Priest. I speak with the Lady’s authority. Not you. I am her mouthpiece in this world. The true shadow threat, that boy, is leagues from here, trying to flee into the North where he’ll be greeted with open arms by thousands of actual shadow sympathizers. And yet you mean to sit here playing with sticks and burning a bunch of folks who abhor the shadow as much as any Tragnè-loving Parent? Perhaps you ought to burn with them. Every second you refuse my orders is another you give that fifth for escape.”
Shinzar’s jaw snapped shut. For a moment, Valdin thought the man might actually lash out. Maybe even try to hex him. He couldn’t risk that. A subtle channel wrapped into the fibers of Shinzar’s mind wiped the glare of rebellion from his eyes.
“You three, spread the word,” Shinzar shouted to the other Parents, who were regarding him with suspicion after Valdin’s veiled accusation. “Break down the camp, we take the barges upriver within the hour. Grand Father’s orders.”
Shinzar marched away, barking orders. His failure to acknowledge Valdin’s authority, even under the influence of enchantment, wasn’t lost on him. Shinzar would be trouble if allowed to live much longer. Enchantment only went so far unless you wished the target transformed to little more than a shade. But perhaps that would be an improvement in Shinzar’s case.
“Thank you, Grand Father. Thank you.”
Valdin flinched at the tone of sincerity. He turned to the voice, eyes meeting the tear-streaked smile of a woman, face partly obscured by the bars of one of Shinzar’s cells. She clutched a babe to her breast. His face burned and he spun away without responding. He didn’t know what disgusted him more—that she still thought him worthy of thanks after he’d allowed Shinzar to persist so long, or that he’d given his order solely for haste’s sake, not out of any compassion for the Linears of Ral Mok. The Linears Shinzar had had every intention of executing for no crime at all.
Devan’s frowning face remained in his thoughts the rest of the afternoon.
31
Jenzara
From the ashes of tragedy often arise greatness. Take Agar and Tragnè. None would have judged them ill had the death of their young boy robbed them of their dedication to Agarsfar’s success. Yet they went on to build this nation. And save it.
-From the preface to the Millennial Printing of Tragnè’s Oral Histories, written by Rikar Bladesong
THEY WERE NEARING THE end of their fourth day of travel since they’d left the clearing. Erem was relentless; nothing seemed to tire him. Only a few hours into their journey he’d muttered to himself that he’d have been halfway to the Crossing already if not for them. She’d rolled her eyes then, but now she was beginning to wonder. It was as if they were children, stubby legs moving as fast as they could, but with no chance of keeping up with the man. He only allowed one break a day, and it was never long enough. He just kept pushing.
Not that she was complaining. At least, not much. She was tired, sure. But she shared Erem’s urgency. Just not his stamina.
To a casual observer, little if anything may have appeared wrong with Ferrin. He struggled same as she to keep pace with Erem, not complaining except for occasional glares at Erem’s back. She’d known Ferrin for a long time, though. He wasn’t himself. More reserved; often lost in his thoughts; few sarcastic comments. And though he tried to hide it, he’d often rub at his shoulder when he thought no one was looking. He needed aid. But at the meager pace they were moving, it would likely be several more days before they reached Corim’s Crossing, followed by still more days before approaching what remained of Riverdale.
She’d stopped asking him how he was; his response always the same—I’m fine, no need to worry. Pebble-brained lies, of course. If such needless stoicism made him feel better, she’d let Ferrin have it. But he couldn’t stop her from keeping an eye on him.
Despite Ferrin’s discomfort and Erem’s grueling pace, the trek was not without some pleasures. To her great relief, Ferrin had played down her treatment of him when she’d first learned he was a fifth, and things between them had largely returned to normal, or at least as normal as current circumstances allowed. She still wasn’t sure how she’d feel around others like him. Erem’s lecture about the history of shadow on the eve of their first day had left her with mixed feelings, particularly the more she thought about it. If what he said was true, then sure, nothing was inherently wrong with the shadow. But ever since the Great Chaos, or Cataclysm, whichever, he had said the element had become dangerous, tainted by the Seven. That meant there was some justification to fear the shadow.
Even so, she didn’t have the energy for a moral quandary, and certainly didn’t want to rip open the wounds between her and Ferrin after they’d just begun to scab over. So she’d set such thoughts aside. Besides, she didn’t need to like all shadow attuned. Just Ferrin.
And she and Ferrin had plenty of other things to talk about when they weren’t catching their breaths from hurrying after Erem. They’d recalled fond memories from their time growing up within the security of Ral Mok’s walls and shared a few laughs. In particular she’d remembered a time—they couldn’t have each been more than nine or ten—when they’d played a trick on one of the servers in the Great Hall during dinner. The man had always been intent on ensuring the children’s bread plates were full. Ferrin had decided to hide his rolls under the table, so that when the server came by he’d see an empty plate and go off to retrieve his bread basket. Once the server had turned away, Ferrin had replaced his bread on the plate, much to the server’s surprise on his return. Jenzara had soon caught on and joined the game. The poor man! They must have made him go back and forth to his breadbasket a half-dozen times before he’d caught on. It felt good to think of those simpler times and forget their present trials, if only for a short time.
The evenings hadn’t been without excitement either. After Erem’s grim revelation that Ferrin might be headed for a fate worse than death if they were unable to reach Mount Trimale, Ferrin had begun to press for every ounce of knowledge Erem possessed about the shadow. Each of the past two evenings he’d demanded lessons, which Erem gave in his reluctant, but thorough way.
On the second evening, Erem had walked Ferrin through a series of focusing exercises. He’d also insisted that she participate, which she did reluctantly. For Ferrin’s sake.
“A keen sense of focus is important whether you’re channeling shadow, some other element, or engaged in purely physical combat,” he’d said. While Ferrin had crossed his arms in impatience at this, she’d tried to take it seriously. She might not possess Ferrin’s talents, but she was still eager to better herself. And, much as she hoped otherwise, she may very well need to defend herself at some point in the coming days.
For the focus exercise, Erem had given Ferrin his ebon blade. To her, he’d given a well-used short bow. She still had her knives, but she saw no sense in interrupting his teaching to say she was already armed. Besides, he seemed to have packed a whole armory. He certainly wasn’t lacking for weapons, including that broadsword across his back. He never used it, though the steel shone with such brilliance it must have been elemental. In stark contrast to the splendor of the blade itself, Erem had the sword’s grip and cross guard wrapped in course strips of faded linen. “For grip,” he’d gruffed when Ferrin had asked.
With the weapons in hand, Erem directed them to clear their minds and concentrate solely on the tools they held. He insisted on that term. Tools.
“Feel the weight of them in your hands; the balance; how they move with you. You must know the weapon unti
l you cannot distinguish it from your own body. If I told you to poke me in the eye with your finger, could you?”
When they both nodded, he said, “You must possess the same control over these tools. Precision without hesitation. But not without forethought. Never forget that every time you take up a weapon you assume great responsibility. Any cretin can kill another. True skill lies not in killing, but in protecting yourself and those in your care without taking another’s life. Killing should be a last resort. Many deserve punishment, but few truly deserve death. And fewer still deserve it without first being adjudged guilty of a crime calling for it.”
She’d never thought of it that way before. The trainers at Ral Mok had always taught them to strike swiftly to disable, maim, or kill. A “you or them” attitude. But she found herself nodding in agreement with Erem’s philosophy. She’d never killed a man before and didn’t find the prospect particularly appealing. The thought of being unable to save father flashed in her mind, as it often did, but rather than let it drain her, she’d used it as fuel to grip the bow harder and listen more intently.
Ferrin, however, didn’t share her appreciation of Erem’s viewpoint.
“If someone threatens my life, I intend to end them before they end me,” he said with a degree of fervor that Jenzara found surprising, perhaps even a little upsetting.
“How many men have you killed, boy?” Erem replied quietly. For once, Jenzara had not interrupted to correct Erem’s failure to use Ferrin’s real name.
Ferrin’s silence supplied his answer.
“Once you’ve killed, you’ll realize it’s something you never want to do if it can be avoided. It’s a terrible permanence. Both for the slain and for you.” He stared into Ferrin’s eyes until he looked away.
“That said, I’m not telling you to fall on your own sword. Just that killing should be the exception, not the goal every time you draw your blade. You should be glad I believe as I do, or else you’d have died the first day we met. You threatened me, but did you deserve to die because you feared for Jenzara and stood to protect her?”
Ferrin actually had the audacity not to look totally convinced, though at least he remained silent. Jenzara felt her own face redden. She didn’t want to be seen as some sort of damsel in distress. Given the right circumstances she could certainly come to Ferrin’s rescue as well. And yet, at the same time, she found the thought of Ferrin feeling a need to protect her strangely satisfying.
They’d spent the rest of the evening working on the focus exercise, employing a variety of breathing methods and slow, choreographed movements that seemed more like dance than battle training. But at the end of it, Erem had instructed her to shoot for a target that had been easily 20 heights away. She’d laughed at his request, but dutifully gone through the techniques he’d shown them. And buried an arrow into the tree on her first attempt. Erem’s curt nod of approval had sent pride swelling through her, and Ferrin’s grin had sent a fresh wave of fire across her face.
Erem had ended that night’s lesson by giving Ferrin his ebon dagger. He’d told them it possessed an innate connection to the shadow. A “Link” he’d called it. A shadow attuned could use it to channel even if he was standing in the brightest sunlight at high noon. Ferrin, of course, couldn’t try any channeling while they were evading the Parents. Instead, Erem instructed him to try connecting with the Link—seek out its power but not channel. The Link lessened the lure of the Seven’s Call, acting as a sort of buffer, and thus made a good tool for growing accustomed to, and resisting, it.
The following evening, Erem had again led them through his focusing exercises. After that, he’d walked Ferrin through the basics of his unique blade-wielding stances. They were unlike anything Jenzara had seen taught at Ral Mok, though some were familiar from dreams of her mother. Not that she’d ever picked up a blade and tried any of them.
Ferrin had caught on quickly and before long the two men had been sparring back and forth across their camp. Ferrin had worked himself ragged until she’d worried he might hurt himself with the exertion, though she hadn’t minded the sight of his heavy breathing. When Erem had called a halt to the exercise, she’d been surprised to find herself disappointed over losing the excuse to openly stare at her friend. That frustration had stayed with her well into the night and she’d found herself wondering if Ferrin ever had similar thoughts about her. Whatever the answer, she thought she’d find it disconcerting.
But now, as they approached sunset of the fourth day, such thoughts were far out of mind. As had become the routine, they dropped exhausted to the forest floor as soon as Erem had deemed their travels done for the day. The sunset seemed redder than usual. In fact, she was certain it had been a deeper crimson each day since they’d left the cottage.
Erem joined them once he’d checked the supplies. As he did each night, he doled out meager provisions of bread and beans from the fields he’d tended at the clearing. They ate in silence, Erem straight backed against a tree, showing not a trace of fatigue. It was the same as the other nights; he spoke not a word, face showing he was lost in thought. And judging from the creases in his brow, they weren’t pleasant thoughts.
But too soon he broke from his reveries, insisting they begin their training. This night, he had Ferrin working on more focusing exercises. Channeling shadow remained out of the question, so he had Ferrin working with earth. Tiny flows, nothing to suggest that serious channeling was going on. He’d given Ferrin two rocks, one about twice the size of the other.
“Make the smaller the same size as the larger,” he directed, then walked away as if no further explanation were needed.
“I will not,” Ferrin replied. “That’s busy work given to children just learning to channel. Why don’t you teach me something useful?”
She expected Erem to retort with an equally biting remark. Instead, he turned slowly, regarded the rocks, then said, “There’s no sense working the blade stances now. There’s more for you to learn, sure. But I’d judge you’d already have passed the qualifying exams for master status under the old Symposium standards. From what I hear, they haven’t declared a single new blademaster in Tragnè City since the Disbanding. But perhaps you can go through the trials when we reach Trimale City. Several at Second Symposium remain qualified to give them.”
Ferrin’s brows rose, and there was more than the hint of a smile at his lips.
“So,” Erem continued, “blade lessons won’t be of much help if we need to defend ourselves before we reach the North. But you might improve your control over channeling if you practice what I tell... suggest over the next few days. So, please, work the rocks exercise.”
The smile left Ferrin’s face. He glared at Erem.
“Don’t think I’m fool enough not to see what you’re doing.” He frowned down at the pair of stones. “But fine. What else am I going to do out here besides sleep anyway?”
“Thank you,” Erem said. He gave her a nod, then turned to rummage in one of his bags.
Jenzara found her mouth still slightly agape when Erem walked back over to her.
“I’m not sure even father ever handled him that well,” she said, watching as the small rock suddenly expanded to the size of a hedgehog, much larger than the rock Ferrin was trying to match.
“Sometimes you must induce action without making demands,” Erem said. “The stubborn are more likely to do what you want if you allow them a justification for believing they want it too.”
“Did my father teach you that?”
Erem laughed. Actually laughed. It startled her, though once she overcame the initial shock of it, she discovered the sound brought a smile to her own face. It was rich, full of the pleasantries of a summer afternoon.
“That does sound like something Raldon would have said, doesn’t it? But no. That piece of wisdom is one I learned from Rikar Bladesong. He was a true leader of men.”
“Grand Master Keeper Bladesong? He taught you?”
Erem nodded, though the mirth began
to slide from his face.
That explained some things. Bladesong had been the last of the Grand Master Keepers before the Betrayer had come to power and tried to sell the South to the North. Bladesong had been revered for his kindness and skill with a blade in equal measure. His only short fall had been accepting Taul Bladesorrow into his family, treating him like a son and teaching him much of the ability he’d ultimately used to nearly destroy the South. Now, it was commonly accepted that Bladesorrow had murdered Bladesong to seize the power he needed to carry out his plot.
“What was he like? My father always spoke so highly of him, and he was never free with praise.”
Erem looked off into the distance, the softening of his face only partially ruined by grunts of frustration coming from Ferrin.
“He was the best mentor a young man could ask for.” Then, almost as if waking from a dream, he flinched, turning back to her. The unreadable granite veneer had returned to his features.
“But our purpose tonight is not to speak of Rikar. Here, we work with this tonight.”
He held out a sheathed short sword. The scabbard was plain, save for an engraving of a stalking lion near its throat. She just stared at it, heart racing. All she could think of were her dreams of mother flowing through the stances so beautifully, and that she would never come close to matching her. When she didn’t take it, Erem extended it further. She stumbled back a pace.
“This blade once belonged to someone I held dear.” He spoke low, but with a startling fervency. “But I’d like you to try working some of the basic forms with it.”
“No,” she mumbled at the ground. “I’ve never done well with anything larger than a knife.”
“Absurd,” Erem snorted. “Blades are in your blood.”
She gave a slight shake of her head, refusing to look at the weapon.
“My father didn’t even like swords. He always used staves.”
