by Kim Falconer
Clay drank the last of his beer and stared at the empty glass. Tipping it slightly to the side, it caught the light from a candle, creating sparks of brilliance on the rim.
The punters were turning his way, eyebrows up, glasses raised. Their desires were clear and if he was to do well when he passed the hat, he’d best give them one last round of songs. He put down the glass and finished tuning his guitar. Soon he’d be playing and that would vanquish the torment from his mind, for a while. It was like shooing away a stray cat, though. As soon as he turned his back, it’d be there again, right beside him. Meow.
Rosette was always on his mind, and having to leave Treeon and dig into her past rankled Clay like no previous assignment. Why hadn’t he walked that first day? This had been the worst year of his life.
He laughed at himself. Who was he kidding? This had been the best year of his life. Besides, he couldn’t walk away from Rosette, not then, and certainly not now. Clay was living a paradox that haunted him—Rosette had become his love and his nemesis all in one. He wouldn’t dare cross the Sword Master, who insisted on the deception, and he could barely look Rosette in the eye because of it. It was like being trapped between a bear and a lion and he didn’t know how to free himself. He wasn’t even sure it was possible, and now here he was, in her home town—supposedly her home town—searching out her past and coming up with nothing.
‘Rosette de Santo? Nah. No girl of that name or description, but there are plenty of de Santos further east. Perhaps you are in the wrong seaport? Have you tried Flureon?’
He got the same story every time he asked, except from the girl he met today, the girl on the jetty. Sally. She had told him there had been someone here like he described, until about six years ago. She had lived on an estate with her family not far out of town. She matched his description right down to her slender arms, wide eyes, hawknose and flowing black hair, but her name was not Rosette. Her name was Kalindi Matosh, and she had been murdered, along with the rest of her family. Tragic, really. Assassins from Corsanon had done it. Never caught, though. Intuitively, he felt it was true and not just a fancy strategy to get his attention which she definitely wanted. But between the flirts and hints and innuendos he learned things about Rosette he’d wished he hadn’t. It could not be undone now and it would have to be reported to An’ Lawrence. What he would do with such news, Clay could only imagine. Meanwhile, he twisted alternately between feeling like the betrayer and the betrayed.
Clay pushed his chair back and walked towards the stage. He stumbled on the way up. This would be his last gig. He was heading home tomorrow, as soon as Sally was through with him and the hangover eased.
He’d sent a message back to Treeon earlier in the day via Clawdia, the Sword Master’s peregrine falcon. It unnerved him to call in the bird, but he swallowed hard, donned the red cap and walked out to the very end of the jetty to wait. The smell of fish and salt air had filled his lungs and the constant barking of sea lions had drowned out all other sounds. He’d pulled on the leather glove, stretched out his arm and closed his eyes until wind had swept across his face.
When he’d opened them, the falcon was back-winging onto his wrist. The huge talons, seemingly out of proportion to her delicate frame, wrapped around the leather gauntlet. They pinched through the glove and into his flesh. He shivered.
‘Welcome, beauty. We’re friends, remember?’ He found it hard to breathe. ‘It looks like you’ll be home long before me after all.’
The blue-black head tilted at Clay’s words. She blinked her eye once, as if to say, Of course.
‘Can I give you a message for An’ Lawrence?’
At the sound of the Sword Master’s name, Clawdia whistled loudly. She fanned the air, extending her wings to reveal creamy-white underparts.
Clay cringed, holding the message in the palm of his hand, a note tucked into a small leather scroll case. She rolled it over, her razor sharp beak surprisingly gentle against his skin. When she had it just right, she grabbed it with her talons, looking him straight in the eye.
‘Okay, gorgeous one. Go home!’ He launched her with a sudden lift of his arm and watched as she disappeared up into the clouds.
One more night’s work and he would follow her, back to Treeon and his mysterious girl Rosette.
The pastel hues of daybreak washed over Rosette. She sat sipping jasmine-flower tea and stirring a small pot of porridge. She ate in silence. Drayco’s whiskers twitched softly in his sleep where he lay curled like a living pillow in the middle of her bed, his black fur a stark contrast to the red velvet spread. She smiled, catching the dream image of a dusky she-lion giving him a nose touch in the night.
Dressing in dark leggings, sword-belt and leather bodice, she gazed into the mirror, braiding her hair. She skipped the silver bell charms, weaving in a strand of thin red leather instead. Her thoughts were on the challenge ahead. If she impressed the Sword Master straight up, she would have a better chance of gaining an apprenticeship. He chose only a handful of initiates each year and there had to be over fifty students clamouring for the position. They’d been practising formally all summer, which Rosette had not. The odds weren’t good, though she kept her spirits up, her intention clear.
I’m going to get this. I’m really happy I’m going to get this!
She took a moment to feel what it would be like to have the apprenticeship with An’ Lawrence and grinned. She looked forward to the physical exercise. It would be a welcome change from quiet meditations, extensive astral research and endless rituals. She put on a necklace of obsidian, for containment, secured her multiple braids in a high horse tail at the back of her head, and kissed the sleeping Drayco goodbye.
‘Wish me luck, my lovely,’ she whispered, quietly slipping out the door.
By noon, the sweat was pouring down her back, her cheeks were flushed and her mouth dry. How silly it was to have worried about impressing An’ Lawrence. The man was nowhere in sight. Even if he had been around, she’d not have made much of a mark on his memory. All her attention was directed towards staying on her feet and avoiding blows from her relentless opponent and his wooden practice sword.
He was a fourth-year apprentice, strong, supple and lightning fast, nicknamed Zero, which seemed to equate with the number of times she could actually strike him back. Offence was completely out of the question now. It was all she could do to keep him from cracking her ribs, snapping her arms and sweeping her off her feet. This wasn’t training. It was an exercise in sheer survival. It might have been better if she hadn’t said, with a boast, that she knew her way around the sword and staff. Zero seemed bent on proving otherwise.
Dozens of students had gathered to watch. Didn’t they have something better to do with their time? What could possibly be so interesting about a young woman being repeatedly thrashed by a superior opponent?
‘Break for lunch, Rosette?’ Zero suggested as their practice swords thudded together in a rare draw. ‘You’ve earned it.’
The jarring motion reverberated down her aching arm. She looked up at him, squinting to blink the perspiration out of her eyes. ‘Have I?’
‘Sure. No-one’s ever lasted this long on their first day.’ He had barely worked up a sweat. His breath was only a little uneven, though his smile remained broad. If nothing else, he seemed to be enjoying himself.
‘Lunch would be welcome.’ Rosette gasped for air as her chest rose and fell. She was beyond trying to conceal her exhaustion and frustration. Thank the goddess it was noon. If she hit the ground once more, she wouldn’t bother getting up.
They walked together to the canal that skirted the training grounds on its way to the crops and orchards. The fresh water coursed along to all the complexes at Treeon through an ancient system of aqueducts. Some drove a series of waterwheels and paddles that generated power, but mostly they were for bathing, heating and irrigation. Zero nodded for her to drink first.
Dropping to her knees, Rosette took a few tentative sips from the clear mount
ain water then immersed her entire head in the rapid stream. She kept it under as long as she could, drowning out the sound of laughter around her. The other students had followed them, unwilling to disperse.
Lifting her head, hands braced against the smooth granite sides of the trough, she wasn’t sure if the last of her breakfast would stay down. Inhaling deeply, she dunked her head again before flinging it up, spray flying through the air from her hair. A mix of sweat and dirt dripped from her shoulders and down her back, making tiny rain-dot patterns in the powdery dust. In this state, she cupped her hands delicately in the stream and drank her fill.
‘You seem a little ragged, Rosette de Santo.’
She spun around. What great timing for the Sword Master to appear. Her knees, which had barely kept her upright, were trembling. She swayed briefly when she stood.
He smiled. ‘It’s all right, Rosette. Everyone goes through this at the start. You’ll find yourself fit and strong in no time, though I did think you would have had more stamina.’
There it was again—criticism. Or was it a goad? She wondered how long he had been there—how long he had watched. She wanted to disappear, to vanish on the spot. Perhaps she could learn to weave a spell for such a thing.
I’ll bet Mistress Mara could have taught me that.
Too late. She had to face the Sword Master, and she planned to do it with grace and whatever dignity she could gather.
‘Master An’ Lawrence, I assure you I have more stamina than you can imagine.’ She had wanted to say just the right words, but these came out before she could bite them back. Not exactly the line she had hoped to deliver. What possessed her to utter such a challenge?
Everyone around them went suddenly still. This tête-à-tête was gathering even a larger audience than her activities in the training ring. She ignored their presence and focused on the man in front of her—the man she desperately wanted to train her.
‘So it’s my imagination that is in question now?’ His eyebrows went up, and he folded his arms across his bare chest.
‘Rosette,’ Zero cut in, ‘it is not appropriate to speak to the Sword Master as if…’
‘What’s not appropriate is the way you go about this indirect assessment…’ Rosette snapped her mouth shut, stopping the words before she dug herself in any deeper.
An’ Lawrence did not appear amused. ‘Eat something, Rosette. Rest. I’ll train with you myself at second call. We’ll test both our imaginations then, shall we?’
An’ Lawrence nodded to Zero, and gave Rosette a fleeting smile before walking away.
Rosette stared at his back. No-one was laughing now. Most of the glances she caught out of the corner of her eye had the flavour of pity in them. Her fellow students seemed to feel sympathy for her bad luck at having to match wits and skills with the Sword Master so soon. Well, bring it on. Second call was two hours away and she would have recovered by then.
Filling her waterbag, she watched the stream rush past her submerged hand. It tickled her fingers, cool and soothing against the bruised skin and bones. Pushing in the cork and shaking her hands dry, she took off her boots, freeing her aching feet. Her stomach growled.
Slinging her waterbag and boots over her shoulder, she replaced her practice sword on the rack and grabbed some bread, dried meat and fruit from the long table. It had been set out for the students to eat, converse and refresh themselves, but Rosette had no desire to join in. The last thing she wanted was to sit with others and chat or, worse yet, endure an equally confronting silence. She didn’t have the energy.
Only one place called to her and she headed there as fast as her tired legs could carry her. Down the path and over a short rise, she made her way to where the fruit trees grew. If she could rejuvenate anywhere, it was there—in the orchard.
Rosette strolled under rows of apple trees, feeling nothing but the gentle autumn breeze on her damp skin and the easy give of the grass beneath bare feet. Tossing her boots to the ground, she sat cross-legged in the shade of the largest. Stories were told of how this tree had arrived as a seed in the belly of a strange bird, perhaps from the lost Southern Continent. Dormant in the summer and lush with fruit in the spring, it certainly had its seasons back to front. Now and then, random blooms drifted down, a rain of pink and white petals.
Breathing in their scent, she revelled in the combination of apple buds, green wood and freshly cut grass. Heavenly! This was one of her favourite sanctuaries. It always rejuvenated her.
Drayco? Lunch with me in the orchard?
You sound tired.
I am.
I’ll come.
Unwrapping the bread and meat, she took a long drink from her waterbag. She was famished. Eyeing the sandwich after the first bite of sourdough and dried beef, she scanned the ground near the base of the tree, spotting fresh watercress. She plucked a few sprigs to add to her meal. Delicious.
While munching, she looked out between the near-bare branches of the other fruit trees to the distant horizon. The view to the south seemed so far away. The sky rushed down to meet the hills in a bright and cloudless cornflower blue. It was still, like a painting, peaceful and calm. She knew it was anything but.
That was where she had come from, the south. An agitated place, etched by the fierce and pounding Azul Sea, it was less than welcoming to her thoughts. The people of that land were as tough and harsh as the storms that shaped them and anything unique was shunned in their urge to conform and survive. Lividica had swallowed her family whole. She never wanted to go there again.
Then her thoughts turned to Jarrod. Was he still hunting in the forests, stripping off to swim in the protected coves, fishing from the jetty? Would he be working full-time for his father, shoeing horses and making wrought-iron gates? He’d been a skilled blacksmith at seventeen and his family would have pressured him to stay. Or would he have been accepted into Montava University to study the healing arts? That’s where his deeper talent lay. Rosette wished he was here now to heal her. She missed him fiercely still, though she seldom indulged in the memories any more.
Dreaming of him again?
Rosette looked up to see Drayco pacing towards her, a limp brown rabbit in his mouth. You brought your own lunch, I see.
And you look like you let the opponent win.
I did.
Any particular reason?
Yeah. He was superior.
Drayco lay down in the shade near her and tackled his lunch. You’ll improve.
I’m glad you think so.
She roughed his neck and turned to the east. There the Prieta Mountains jutted up like dragons’ teeth, sheer, majestic, treacherous. The sky was not so blue in that direction, more a cool mauve. It wasn’t the softest of views, yet it offered inspiration. She thought she must be less like the sea, more like the mountains—less thrashing, more impervious.
When she had finished eating, she meditated on those distant peaks, allowing the breeze and the sky and the blossoms and the sun to flow in and out of her with each breath. She let the magnitude of Gaela instil her with strength. Soon she felt ready to face An’ Lawrence, and for once she wasn’t thinking of impressing him. She was thinking of how she might survive his instruction when they sparred.
The Sword Master was like those mountains to the east: magnificent, imposing, untouchable. She knew she had no chance, physically, against him with a sword. That wasn’t the question, or the point. She would have to use her wits to avoid being hammered, and he would see if she could be even for a moment. She was there to learn and he to instruct. Perhaps if she did it subtly enough, she could augment her skills with a little help from the Elementals?
Risky, isn’t it, Maudi?
A bit.
It was taboo to boost with magic during training. People got hurt that way. It was taught to journeymen only after years of preparation. Rosette had learned it from Maka’ra, four summers ago, and she’d been sorely tempted to use the technique when sparring with Zero. She’d resisted.
&nbs
p; You coming to watch, Dray?
She asks me to stay clear of her grounds.
She?
The one who hides.
And you obey?
Of course.
Rosette laughed and kissed the top of his head.
Good luck, Maudi.
I’ll need it. How much more of this can I take?
Apparently much more.
Standing face to face, wooden swords gripped high above their heads in both hands, Rosette readied for attack. She had no intention of being intimidated. None. This was their fourth and final sparring round.
So far, after drilling her in a set of basic forms for over an hour, An’ Lawrence had dropped and pinned her within seconds, three times running. If she didn’t use some magic soon, she would have no face to save.
Rosette sprang. Lunging forward with her right leg, she dipped her sword in a flash and swung a wide arc towards the left side of the Sword Master’s chest. Too wide. Too slow. He countered effortlessly with a downward block. She swung again, this time to his right shoulder. Blocked again.
With each attack, she became more frustrated, swinging harder, wilder. Suddenly he turned his sword, flat of the blade towards her chest, and propelled her backwards off her feet. She felt it coming, that extra push. There was magic in it, not just brute force. Was he taunting her? Two could play that game.
Rosette let the momentum of his force drive her backwards. She tucked her chin, curled like a pill bug and hit the ground in a somersault. She was on her feet in an instant, blade fixed towards his heart as he bounded forward.
‘Well done,’ he said, loud enough for the gathered audience to hear.
Every sword student in Treeon, and more than a few teachers, had assembled to watch. Rosette ignored the cheers and stayed focused.
