Both fighters bowed to the Prince, then to each other. As they straightened, Chyrut bared his blade and tossed the scabbard aside. He roared and slashed the air. People at the edge of the circle withdrew, and one man fainted. Hatred twisted the Turasynd’s face, and even the Prince’s breath caught in his throat for a moment.
Moraven Tolo did nothing. He did not draw his sword. He did not smile. But the Prince could see this was not the same as ignoring his foe. While he did not move, his blue eyes studied the barbarian—measuring him, judging him.
The Turasynd sailed in, aiming a slashing blow at the smaller man’s head. Had it landed, it would have trimmed Moraven’s skull at the level of his ears, but it never came close. The smaller man ducked his head and drove forward, passing beneath the cut. Had he drawn his sword and pivoted on his right foot, he would have been able to slash through the barbarian’s middle, from back to front.
Chyrut flipped his right wrist and pivoted on his right foot. Feathers lifted on his right shoulder, aiding him in the turn. He brought the blade around in a backhanded cut that should have split Tolo’s spine. But Moraven had, by that point, drawn his sword and thrust it down behind himself, blocking the slash. The swords clanged and the smaller man flew forward, tucking into a roll and coming up at the edge of the circle furthest from where he had started. He turned quickly, his blade coming up in a guard that covered him from navel to crown.
Again the barbarian roared and charged, but Moraven did not wait for him. They met in the center of the circle, not standing to exchange blows, but flowing through an intricate series of exchanges. The Prince’s scalp tingled and the hair stood on his arms as the two combatants lunged, cut, blocked, parried, spun, and leaped. The fighters’ forms blurred and their blades became silver-grey phantoms, appearing and disappearing almost faster than the eye could follow.
The Prince had, as was to be expected, studied the way of the sword. And while never as good as his brother, he knew enough to be able to unravel some of what he was witnessing. The two of them were master swordsmen—and perhaps even more. Their actions required more skill than he had ever seen. They seemed to anticipate each other, with Moraven Tolo again and again turning a blade or sidestepping a cut a heartbeat before it would have opened him.
As Cyron watched, he became aware of one other factor in the battle that made it all the more spectacular. The Turasynd, mindful of the fact that this was just a demonstration of skill, fought without fear that his enemy might actually hurt him. Both of them had such control that the only way blood would be drawn would be by accident, and Chyrut left himself open over and over again to speed cuts at Moraven. The smaller man parried, blocked, and evaded, but never riposted no matter how vulnerable Chyrut left himself.
Frustration boiled in the Turasynd. He snarled and redoubled his efforts. His blade screamed through the air, and metal rang with a peal that would have drowned out a signal gong. Sparks flew as he attempted to batter his way through Moraven’s guard. His size, the weight of his blade, and the pure fury of his attacks threatened to overwhelm his foe.
Moraven gave ground, but this only seemed to further antagonize the Turasynd. His slashes became more wild and determined, and came close to wounding a few spectators who had crowded back close to the circle. The blades twisted through the air, seeming to have lost all rigidity.
The barbarian cried out in triumph as he whipped his blade through a diagonal slash. A triangular tidbit of cloth hung in the air for a second, then fluttered to the floor. It had come from Moraven’s right sleeve, and the Turasynd roared as if it had been the xidantzu’s heart that had been pricked.
No one moved. All eyes studied the ragged piece of cloth. It lay there, slightly rumpled, dark against the light wood. For everyone in the room, save the Turasynd, it seemed a dire prediction of a return of the hordes, and the destruction of life as they knew it.
Then the tip of a single feather floated down to land on the cloth.
The Prince rapped his knuckles on the arm of his chair. His protocol minister looked at him, caught his nod, then clapped his hands. “The entertainment is ended.”
If the Turasynd had been able to hear him above the din of applause, he did not heed the command. Moraven Tolo leaped above a low slash that shaved curls from the floor, then blocked the return cut. He fell back, slowly arcing around the edge of the circle. The Turasynd followed, then slowed beside the protocol minister.
The minister again announced that the entertainment had ended.
Chyrut’s left hand came around in a backhanded slap that spun the minister full circle before dropping him. As his body hit, the Turasynd drove at Moraven Tolo again. His saber came up in a two-handed strike designed to cut the man in half, yet left his belly open.
The Prince squinted, not really wishing to see the aftermath of Moraven’s obvious avenue of attack. While he didn’t object to the Turasynd’s death, having him kneeling there keening as he tried to stuff entrails back into his stomach really would put a damper on any festivities. Still, Moraven Tolo really had no choice. It is just a matter of how he chooses to do it.
The Turasynd’s sword began to fall. Moraven Tolo reversed his grip on his sword, letting the blade rest along his forearm and extend past his elbow. He danced forward, inside the arc of Chyrut’s blow. Another step in and a sidestep to the left would let him slash right across the barbarian’s stomach. Tolo’s body would even shield much of the audience from the spectacle. Had I his skill, that’s how I would do it.
Even the loud thud of Chyrut’s sword chopping into the wooden floor could not completely disguise the sharp crack of Moraven’s pommel smashing into the barbarian’s jaw. The larger man’s head snapped back, then his knees buckled. Moraven Tolo spun outside the circle of his foe’s arms and brought his blade up high at his left shoulder. The Turasynd wavered for a moment, almost holding himself up on his hands, and with the flick of an arm Moraven could have taken his head off easily.
Chyrut tried to say something, but his misshapen jaw did not function well. He pitched forward onto his face, the feathers on his back rippling briefly. The Turasynd’s breathing was labored, but the smaller man seemed barely winded.
A young man came from outside the circle and lifted the barbarian’s blade from the floor. Moraven frowned for a moment, then dropped to a knee and laid his sword on the ground before the Prince’s dais.
“The entertainment is ended, Highness.”
Cyron stood and nodded down at the man. “Was he a worthy foe?”
“One of the best I have ever been given the opportunity to fight.”
“Were you ever really in danger?”
The swordsman canted his head slightly. “In the circle, one is always in danger. Your foe can only hurt you as much as you allow him to. And any mistake can be your last.”
The Prince smiled. “Thank you, dicaiserr Moraven Tolo. Before you leave Moriande, I would appreciate your calling on me at Wentokikun.”
“You honor me.” Moraven Tolo turned and glanced at the younger man who was fiddling with Chyrut’s sword. “If my aide learns manners by then, might I present him to you, Highness?”
“Indeed, yes.”
Moraven’s words brought his aide’s head up. The man quickly knelt and laid the sword on the ground. He bowed, but did not raise himself until Moraven lifted his heel as a signal. The younger man then straightened, but did not leave his knees.
The Prince opened his arms. “I thank you all for being so attentive during our entertainments. I would have you continue to enjoy the bounty this harvest has brought our nation. You have seen heroes here tonight, and from them we can all learn. First, we know that our best effort can only be produced through dedication and practice. Second, that to fail to do our best means we have been defeated before we begin to act.”
Chapter Twenty
6th day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
162nd Year of the Komyr
Dynasty
736th year since the Cataclysm
Kojaikun, Moriande
Nalenyr
At the Prince’s word, the musicians struck up a tune, and the circle that had contained the night’s entertainment slowly filled with people dancing. Keru came and took both swords and the Turasynd swordsman away. Moraven Tolo allowed himself to smile at the congratulations offered, then melted into the crowd with Ciras in his wake.
When Moraven stopped, Ciras moved around in front of him, bowing deeply. “I beg your pardon, Master. I did not mean to be an embarrassment.”
“This I understand. You may be able to redeem yourself.” Moraven kept his voice low, then pointed toward an unoccupied corner. Without a word, Ciras preceded him there. When the youth positioned himself to watch the room, Moraven took him by the shoulders and turned the younger man to face him, reversing their positions.
“Forgive me, Serrcai Moraven Tolo.”
“Perhaps. Tell me what you are to be forgiven for and why you did it.”
The younger man’s brows tightened. “I was presumptuous enough to assume you would present me to the Prince.”
“Why?”
“I am of the nobility of Tirat. I assumed you would present me, as I would be presented to nobility.” Ciras’ head came up. “And this is a contravention of the lesson you taught me in the graveyard. Here I am nothing.”
Moraven smiled. “That is all well and good, from your point of view, but you must see it from mine. Do you think me so poorly mannered that I would not have presented you to the Prince?”
“No, Master, but—”
An upheld hand cut off Ciras’ reply. “Then what reason would I have for not presenting you?”
The young man’s brow furrowed with concentration. “I am at a loss, Master.”
“I do not think you are.” Moraven allowed himself to lean back against the wall. “You saw everything you needed to, and you know all you need to puzzle this out. Concentrate. What did you see?”
“You defeated the Turasynd monster, but that was not a question even from the beginning.”
“Why not?”
Ciras’ eyes widened. “How could you have had a moment’s doubt? The man was strong and fast and big, but he had no classical training. He showed no recognized forms, he did not flow from attack and defense. He just attacked relentlessly. As you said, he knew you would defend yourself and not kill him, so he did not have to worry.”
“But was he trying to kill me?”
“No. Wait . . . was he?”
Moraven nodded slowly. “That was his intent. The Black Eagles and xidantzu have little love for each other.”
Ciras smiled. “That’s a known fact even in Tirat.”
“Usually their conflicts occur in the provinces. I’ve not fought them, but I’ve talked to those who have. You might think him an undisciplined fighter”—Moraven held his right hand out to display where his sleeve had been trimmed—“but he was good. Better than most.”
“If you say so, Master.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“It is not that. He was good, but not good enough to have done as well as he did.”
“That is also true. What does this tell you?”
Ciras wrapped his left hand around his right fist and pressed both hands against his mouth as he thought. Moraven watched his eyes narrow and widen again as he reviewed the fight in his head. A realization began to dawn on Ciras’ face, then several more things fell into place.
“Oh, Master, I am truly sorry.”
“Tell me.”
“The sword. It must be one of those which has been enhanced by a gyanridin. I touched it, you feared it might affect me, so you had me put it down and used my breach of etiquette to draw attention away from the weapon.” He rubbed his hands against his robe as if to rid them of the weapon’s taint. “Is that not it, Master?”
“Very close, Ciras, very close indeed.” Moraven pressed his hands together, fingertip to fingertip. “Many fine warriors followed the Empress into the Wastes to destroy the Turasynd. Their skill led to the Cataclysm. They were all slain.”
“You do not believe that the Empress and her surviving guards will return when we need them?”
“Perhaps, but if they have not returned in seven centuries, why would they return now?” Moraven did not allow his apprentice to answer. “While a weapon does not improve when wielded by the best swordsman, one that has been used by a superior swordsman can make it easier for another to attain higher levels of skill. It is an aid to the obtaining of jaedunto.”
“I know, Master. I used such a blade for some of my training.”
“Excellent. Then you will understand the importance of what we saw here. There has been a rumor, which Master Jatan shared with me, that, in the Wastes, certain caches of such weapons have been found. I saw enough of the Turasynd’s weapon to know it dates from before the Cataclysm. Someone has been seeking these weapons out.”
“The Desei?”
“Perhaps, or others. But what of that I have just told you does not make sense?”
Ciras thought for a moment. “There should be no vast caches of such weapons. They would have been entombed with their owners or sent back to their families. They would not just have been piled up.”
“And this means?”
“Any number of things.” Ciras frowned. “At the very least, someone is out there digging up graves. And that means—”
“Go ahead.”
Ciras shook his head. “It is foul beyond imagining.”
Vrilxingna, the darkest of arts, and most dangerous. While it was common knowledge that even the most skilled magician could not raise the dead, it did not mean the dead were wholly useless. Vrilxingnaridin made a practice of locating and despoiling the graves of those known for great virtue or skill. They would take a corpse, grind it down into a powder, and sell that powder to be inhaled. It was believed that the corpse powder would grant one the skills of the deceased. Other vrilxingna practices were still more unspeakable, but the idea that the corpses of the world’s greatest heroes could be made into a powder that could be given to an army was enough to strike terror into the hearts of any who heard it.
“The Deathbreathers are foul, but think on what you have seen here. A lord of the underworld has announced to all present that the means to manufacture heroes are available. Helosundians would desire such wares to help reconquer their nation. Inland Naleni nobles could see this as a way to raise an army that could overthrow their prince.”
“It is a good thing the Desei prince was not here.”
Another voice, light, replied to Ciras’ comment. “Do you not think, Lirserrdin Dejote, that Prince Pyrust has been given his own showing of what is for sale?”
Moraven turned to his right and bowed in her direction. “You honor us, my lady.”
The Lady of Jet and Jade smiled easily, yet not without restraint. “You are the one who has honored me by acting as my gift. I trust you did not find my offer presumptuous?”
“It was yet another honor.”
She held her left hand out to him, and he took it in his right. “Let us walk. You will be entertained, Lirserrdin.” At her word two of her aides each took Ciras by an arm and steered him toward the dancers, while others created a circle around Moraven and their Mistress.
“Should I be angered that you have not come to see me, or shall I assume that you thought, with your new name, I would not recognize you?” Her words came sweetly and softly, wrapping in jest the hurt they conveyed. “I have often wondered if you have stayed away from Moriande because of me.”
Moraven slid her hand to the crook of his elbow and led her through a set of double doors to the small courtyard garden. Strains of music followed them. The garden, dark and empty, carried the scent of night-blooming flowers. Their perfume complemented the scent she had chosen to wear.
“Not because of you, but because of the tragedy of my last visit. Whenever I thought I would return
, an omen reminded me of it.” He smiled at her. “I have thought the gods strove to keep us apart.”
“And so fearing the gods is why you have spent nights at the House of Three Pearls after you did arrive?”
“Do not affect that hurt tone with me, my lady.”
“So formal and cold.”
“And now you seek to deflect me.” He closed his eyes. “Is there a familiar name you wish me to use?”
“For you there is always one.” Her hand came up and she delicately caressed his cheek. “You are never far from my thoughts. I do like your new name. I shall use it, Moraven. It suits you much better. It bespeaks more deliberation, a passion that is subsumed but available.”
“And your name, Paryssa, has always meant passion to me.” Moraven looked down into her perfect face, with its pale, infinite eyes. Thousands had looked into those eyes over the years, but how many of them had seen what he had? Beguiled by her beauty, seduced by her certain movements, the skills she employed with the same facility as he did a sword.
He shivered, the memory of their first union bringing a flush to his cheeks. He had been young yet—not as young as Ciras, but young, and so was she. He had fought a duel over her honor—less because he was concerned for it than that the man he fought deserved death. It was not the first time he’d felt the magic of the sword, but it was the first time he remembered its remaining with him so long, and the first time he was certain it would not leave him.
She had reached that same place as they coupled. Together they attained a height neither had known before, and it thrilled them. And each time after, it came faster and harder, shaking them. For any two people who had stumbled upon it accidentally, the ecstasy would have been addictive. It would have consumed them utterly, but the two of them had the discipline of their art to fall back on. In the same way as it opened them to the possibilities, it dictated how they were to avoid consumption.
A Secret Atlas Page 17
