by R. M Garino
“There’s much you do not know, Logan,” Arielle said, after she trusted her voice to work. “Much has changed. You would be wise to listen.”
He threw his head back and laughed, hooking his thumbs behind his belt. Her befuddlement was burned away beneath his derision. She composed herself, and pushed it aside as Angus and Trenton had taught her.
“Listen to you!” he said. “A few months at the Gates and you are worldly.”
Arielle did not respond.
“Please,” Logan said into the silence, “enlighten me as to these changes. What do I not know?”
“How to treat your lo’el, for one.”
His face darkened. He was not used to being rebuked, but limited his response to a dangerous glare.
“They do not respond well to physical abuse,” Arielle said. “They are our partners, not servants. You would do better to deepen your relationship, build the requisite trust, rather than commanding it and punishing it when it does not respond. Respect and trust are the keys to developing the relationship. Threats and abuse retard its growth.”
“So after, what, six months you are an expert?” he said. He didn’t try to hide his scorn.
“Abuse leads to aggression. Eventually he’ll turn on you. Did you really come all this way just to discuss stewardship of the lo’el?” she said.
“No,” he said, sliding a step closer with a leer. “I was thinking more along the lines of husbandry.” Myth reacted without prompting. She lunged half a step, fangs bared and snapping, warning him. Arielle waited.
Logan regarded Myth, and then his own. Dusk still had not moved from his prone position.
“No,” Logan said, focusing on Arielle. “I did not. There are other things we need to discuss. About us.”
She saw her former self reflected in him, felt the old familiar patterns trying to assert themselves and dictate her actions. She was tempted to agree, to open her arms to him the way he liked. Habit, she realized, was a powerful mistress.
“I’ve said all I needed to say to you on the matter.”
“You do not understand.” He brought out his smile. How often had she told him she loved it when he smiled? “In three days’ time I will walk the Sur. When I return I will be an Elc’atar Guard. Everything will be different then.”
“Yes,” she said. “It will. But not in the way you think.”
“What do you mean?”
She studied him, watching how the flux of his sin’del interacted with the world around him. Had she ever loved him? If she had, she didn’t feel it now. True, she realized, she had once been so blinded by his face and form that she did not bother to truly see him. She had also been so dead inside that she subsumed herself within his needs and desires, and thought herself complete. Now, however, she could see him for who and what he was. Her perceptions were sharpened, and her life was her own again. His sin’del spoke of his ambition, of his pride, his self-absorption: to the point where it folded back in upon itself, keeping him separate and apart from the world around him. She had expected to feel hostile upon meeting him. To feel conflicted and torn in her loyalties. She felt none of these things. There was only pity. For all his skill and perfection, he was still so very small, hiding behind his arrogance and scorn. She didn’t bother to hide her feelings, choosing instead to let them shine forth. He recoiled from the display in her sin’del.
“I will be your friend, Logan, if you wish it,” she said. She was unable to keep the disappointment from her voice. “But there can be nothing more between us. I told you as much already. And now, things are different.”
“Kal’Parev?” His anger was palpable, thickening his voice.
“Yes, Angus is a large part of it. But not all. Be grateful for the time we had, as I am, and leave it at that.”
“You expect me to just walk away?”
“I do not expect you to do anything. You will act as you see fit. I am simply telling you what is.”
“I do not accept this!” he shouted. He moved as if to grab her. Myth lunged again, jaws snapping. Logan danced backward, outrage warring with disbelief on his face. Dusk stood as well, this time facing Logan. He, too, was snarling. A chorus of low rumbling growls echoed from the edge of the forest, and sets of glittering eyes lit up within the darkness. Like ghosts they slipped from beneath the eves of the wood and approached the sunlight of the meadow.
“You should leave,” Arielle said without looking away from him. “Now.”
Logan stared at her, his fists clenching and unclenching. The menacing growls decided him. He stalked away, heading for the borders, tremendous shadows ghosted through the trees and field seeing him out.
Arielle watched until he crested the hill near the gate. Once he was out of sight, she sunk to her knees. Myth nuzzled against her. She buried her face in the pup’s fur, and cried.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
A Thousand Cuts
Logan’s rage grew with each step he took. How dare she! She had dismissed him, pushed him away before he had a chance to speak his piece. What had happened to her? She had once been the most placid and obedient of creatures. Now she was cold and distant, sounding more like a damned Magi than an Areth’kon Blade. She had even set the entire fecking A’gist against him, his own lo’el included! This was Kal’Parev’s doing. There was no other explanation for such a drastic change in her nature. The rumors he had been hearing for the past year were indeed true, after all. What he did not understand was how it had happened so soon. What had Kal’Parev done to usurp Arielle and turn her affections in so thorough a manner? It did not matter. He entered the Sur in three days. He had to retain his focus on that one fact alone. The plan for his revenge was already in place. He had but to begin, and when he returned, he’d crush them both, and all who aided them. He’d have them swear allegiance at his feet to House Fel’Mekrin.
By the time he left the mountain pass, his rage was a well-stoked fire, its heat fierce and deep. He stopped at the edge of the parade field, scanning the Blades and graduates practicing there. He was searching for a head of white hair that marked members of their ilk. It did not matter. Cavallo’s packet, containing the schedule and routine of the Third was sitting on his desk in his apartments, as he requested.
It was time to set the plan in motion.
Near the middle of the field a squad was practicing with swords, their golden hair shining in the late afternoon sun. Le’Manon. Just where Cavallo had said they would be. Kal’Parev was allied to Le’Manon, so word of today would reach the intended ears. The first step was to make them afraid. Terror would be his calling card, and they would stew in it until he was ready to strike.
Logan stalked across to where they practiced, and stood just outside their ring to watch for a moment. They were decent, nothing more. He doubted he’d break a sweat with the effort it would take to drop all seven. The instructor waved when he noticed Logan standing there. Puffing out his chest in imitation of the Elc’atar, Logan strutted over to stand beside him.
“How now, pup?” he said, appraising Logan.
“How now, Matias?” Logan said, offering the most modest of bows. In three days’ time, he would not have to bother with that particular gesture. It would be good to no longer have to debase himself to inferiors.
The instructor raised an eyebrow at the half salute, and released a small chuckle. “Yer here for the trials?”
Logan inclined his head.
“Thought so,” Matias said. “You can always tell when a pup is ready to test. You got that look about you.”
“How about a wager?” Logan said, changing the direction of the conversation.
“On yer trials? That would not be proper,” Matias said, shaking his head. “Bad luck for you, besides. No.”
“Not on the trials,” Logan said, staring in earnest at the Elc’atar. “With your squad here. The seven of them against me. I wager that I can take all seven down without them scoring a single strike against me.”
Matias thought the
proposal over, pursing his lips.
“Anyone else making that offer, and I’d be glad to take their money,” Matias said. “With you, I’m not so sure. I’ve seen you fight.”
“I enter the Sur in three days,” Logan said. “I want to make sure I’m not rusty.”
Matias roared with laughter. “Then you should find another group to spar with,” he said. “Yer sister’s maybe. This one is hopeless. Yer sister’s wiped the floor with them a few months back when they were still the Twelfth.”
“Then what is the harm?” Logan said. “Forget the wager, then. Just let me spar against them, same terms. It might do them some good.”
“Modesty was never your hallmark, Logan.” After a moment, he agreed. “Fine. Seven to one, they don’t score a single strike. They could use a good knock upside the head, and you want your confidence at its highest entering the Sur. Wait here.”
Matias called a halt to the drill.
“This is Logan Fel’Mekrin,” he said, waving behind him. “I’m sure you all know who he is. He has graciously offered to help with your training today. Your task is simple. Score a single hit upon his person. Just one. Do that, and I will relieve you of all duties tomorrow.”
The Ninth exchanged glances: at first revealing a cautious hesitation, only to be replaced by smiles of avarice. One by one they accepted. Logan’s smile was closer to a sneer at the greed beginning to shine in their sin’dels. He divested himself of his belt and shirt, walking bare-chested into the ring. If this was a way to improve his confidence, the admiring looks he received from the female members would have been enough. But he needed them for something more than stoking his ego.
Logan stopped a dozen paces from them as they formed up. He drew his tapered, leaf shaped sword from its elaborate sheath, tossed the scabbard to the side by Matais’ feet, and rolled his shoulders. He snapped his blade in the on guard position, flowed into the waiting stance, and gave the initiative to the scrubs to make the first move. They closed around him in a standard circular pattern, moving to flank him on all sides. They had no idea what was about to happen, so he allowed them to position themselves as they liked. They were eager, and it showed in their sloppy footwork. Well, he mused, it was not every day a greenie got to try and best a legend.
Two of them moved in at once, one from his left, and one from behind and to his right. They had announced their intentions in their movements, and Logan was ready for them. The tall one on his left was faster, more confident in himself, while the other was a trifle slower. Logan pivoted to his left, slashing the oncoming sword away from him, and raking the tip of his blade just under the eye of his opponent. He continued to turn, dropping lower as the second opponent moved into range. He stepped to the side and swept his left foot before him. The second attacker lost his balance, and his momentum carried him as he slid across the dirt. The rest were moving now, coming at him from different directions all at once. He danced between them, parrying swords and leaving small, biting strikes behind. None of the blows he had landed were crippling, but that was not the point. He wanted to bleed them, to cover them in a thousand tiny incisions that drained their life away. He danced between their strikes, using his fists, fingers, and feet as often as his blade to stun an arm or incapacitate a leg.
“Enough!” Matias said, stalking into the ring.
Logan was the only one standing. They lay littering the field, moaning from the numerous stings he’d inflicted. None had even come close to touching him. His breathing was even, and he felt no more exerted than if he’d just preformed the same maneuvers against the empty air.
Matias glowered at him, gripping the hilt of his sword.
Logan bowed to him, much deeper than he had before. “Thank you for this exercise, Elc’atar,” Logan said, pointing the tip of his sword into the dirt. “I will remember your generosity when I return from the Sur.”
Matias moved closer until the tip of his nose almost touched Logan’s. “If you come out, maybe you can try the same stunt with seven of us,” he said.
“I would be honored, Master,” Logan said. “Please allow me to help them to their feet. I believe they need medical assistance.”
Matias stared at him a moment more, unaffected by Logan’s posturing. Logan moved off to help the tall one who had attacked first. His coloring indicated that he was of Le’Manon blood. The youngster was covered with so many tiny cuts that the front and back of his uniform were stained red. Logan helped him regain his feet. He clapped the youngster’s shoulder, as if praising him for his efforts.
“This is a taste,” Logan said, whispering in his ear. “Tell Angus Kal’Parev that I am coming for him next. What I did to you all will seem kind in comparison.”
The youngster’s face drained of color as he processed the threat. Logan squeezed the shoulder, pressing on a pair of deep cuts.
“You will deliver the message, I trust?”
The graduate agreed, his apprehension evident in his sin’del.
“Good,” Logan said, louder now. “You will go far, I think. It has been a pleasure.”
True to his word, Logan helped each member, and made sure that they made it safely to the infirmary. Before he left them, he repeated his whispered request in each ear.
Later in the day, Logan felt much better as he headed to the mess for the evening meal. Kal’Parev would hear of this, of that he was sure, and his patience over the past year would be rewarded. Perhaps he would let Angus simmer in his anxiety even after he returned. As a newly risen Elc’atar, he could choose his assignment and he already decided that he would stay at the Gates. Logan was smiling openly as he entered the mess.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Three Days’ Time
Logan ate with relish, enjoying the atmosphere, and the attention. He had spent the better part of the last year out in the field, traveling from one backward corner of the Patresilen to the other. It was good to be among folk who appreciated him. The respect and deference they showed him stoked his pride, and he made a grand display of waving off their praise and requests for stories. No, he would tell them, one and all. He was testing in three days’ time. He needed to retain his focus. Their disappointment was universal, especially among the females. Somehow, they’d got it into their silly heads that he was unattached and available. As if he would sully himself with them and their emotional baggage. Besides, how could they hope to compare to Arielle. They were eager to hear the tales of his adventures, but there would be time for that later. Let their excitement grow to desperation, and then he might regale them. All things in their time.
His sister’s Twelfth entered the mess soon after he finished eating. Or rather, the Fifteenth, he thought with a sneer. Arielle was not with them. Her absence diminished his mood, and left a sour taste in his mouth. They had grown in number, almost doubled. One had the golden white hair of House Kal’Parev, which set Logan’s teeth on edge. They were quick to detect the excitement in the air, and spotted him without much effort. Gwendolyn spoke to the Kal’Parev, who nodded and touched her arm in an all too familiar fashion. The five extra members peeled off and retired to a distant table. Only then did his sister and her friends approach. They crowded around welcoming him back with genuine enthusiasm.
Gwendolyn threw her arms around him, and he gave her a tentative hug in return.
I am upset with you, the lack of enthusiasm told her, and as she drew away, the concern was clear in her dark eyes.
Logan made a slight sweeping gesture, telling her to put the matter aside in the sign language they’d developed so long ago. Telepathic communication had never come easy to him, so as children, they’d developed ways to “speak” without alerting the adults in the room.
Gwendolyn gestured that she was happy to see him.
He gestured back, telling her, Later.
As she had been trained to do, she stepped back, opening a space for others to fill.
Ba’ril pushed his way through the throng, trying to shake Logan’s hand. He
gave his cousin a blank stare, but did not move. To relieve the sting of the rebuke, however, he smiled, and told the young sycophant that he was pleased to see him.
They all talked in a rush, relating their feats of victory while at the Gates. He half listened to their boring stories, smiling where he thought it appropriate, and laughing for others. Every tale they told, however, included Arielle and the amazing progress she was making. Each reference to her made his mouth a touch tighter, and their blather strained his patience. She was training with the Mala’kar already, they gushed, and she was not even a Yearling yet. She was receiving personal lessons from Trenton himself, and he had never taken an apprentice.
So, that would explain the peculiar change in her behavior. No wonder she sounded like a Magi. Everyone was busy giving her ideas about rising above her station. His irritation was returning as he replayed their conversation, seeing it again in a new light. This was as much Trenton’s doing as Kal’Parev’s. He was trying to indoctrinate her, stuff her with ambition and convince her she could attain a rank Logan could never aspire to. Small wonder she thought herself too good for him now. He would have to do something about it. But with a Master of Trenton’s stature, he would have to be far more circumspect.
“Now that you’re here,” Ba’ril said, “do you think you’ll have the time to instruct our Pride? We’re on first tier, and no one is even close to us, but, you know, better to be safe than sorry.”
Logan focused on the conversation, picking up the thread he’d not been paying attention to.
“Your Pride,” he said, tasting the name on his tongue and coating it in derision.
“Yeah,” Ba’ril said, “our Pride. You’ve had to have seen the recordings captured by the comms during the Gauntlet by now.”
“The Immortals?” Caradoc prompted.
“No,” Logan lied. “I have been… preoccupied. I have heard rumors. It is said to have been . . . impressive.”
