One of the men stepped forward and placed the skin of a shroud cat onto his back. It must have been a juvenile for the fur of a full-sized cat would have completely engulfed him. A strange thought to have while men held him down. Two armored men quickly strapped the fur onto his limbs as he howled in frustration and confusion.
“You are a shroud cat, proud and strong,” the tallest of the three said his face appearing to change shapes as he spoke. “You have the strength and stamina of the powerful animal, but beware for you are hunted!”
Kirin glanced down at his arm to see it was covered in fur. His hands had claws. His head pounded in confusion as thoughts slipped away like pollen in the wind. He growled fiercely and ran into the woods, the trees twisting in his vision smelling much like mother’s milk.
Chapter 6
“Reality is the thin veil that shades the world in a thousand hues of gray.” Testament of Khein 3:22
For twenty days Kirin was kept in a drug induced state. His days and nights bled together in a hyper-aware amalgam of emotion, color, and sensory overload. The normal distinction between the senses simply did not exist. Colors held scent, shapes were in constant flux, sounds held color, and all sense of self was lost in the agitate froth that had become his reality.
Kirin at times was the wind, whispering through the trees, feeling and seeing everything. At times he became the earth, still, slow, and cold, yet humming with a quiet unseen rhythm. He ran and he hid. He jumped and he played. He sat and he stared. The hours were nothing more than a distant thought created by an illusive mind. Time held no sway in his state. There were moments that lasted an eternity. At one point a butterfly held his unwavering interest. The next moment he watched as the clouds took on an infinite number of hues transforming into ever moving geometric patterns.
It was on the twentieth day that the three men watching him began to reduce his dosage as per the instructions of the Medicine Man. For an entire week they continued to feed him lessening amounts of the potent plant that forged a new reality in his mind. It was during this week that the Medicine Man stood nearby watching Kirin as he convulsed, vomited, and struggled with the shape of reality.
Each passing day brought greater moments of lucidity. The world as he knew it and the world as he had come to know it were colliding and his mind was struggling to cope. Flittering images of a fragmented past invaded his long moments of wonder and awe. Crisp thoughts of a tangible nature tugged at him with greater intensity. Despite this flurry of mental activity, who he was had been lost to the wind.
Eventually Kirin was brought back to the village escorted by three tall warriors and the Medicine Man. He was unable to form words for it seemed he had forgotten how to speak. His eyes were alert bordering on paranoia. He could walk on his own and was able to distinguish between sights, sounds, and tastes to varying degree.
His father visited him briefly but no record of that visit exists. He mostly recovered under the watchful eye of the Medicine Man for the next thirty days. It was on the cycle of the new moon that Kirin finally spoke.
Chapter 7
“Experience defines the man.” Proverb of the Thane Sagan
“Tell me of your experience,” the Kovor asked, facing the young white-haired Kirin.
“There are few words to describe it and I have gaps in what I can recall,” he replied, his voice sounded strange to his own ears, his mind, however, was strangely calm and devoid of emotion.
“Nevertheless, I want to know what you learned.”
Kirin glanced about the room. Candles were lit and cast pools of yellow light on heavy stones. Carpets from the faraway D’seart Kingdom to the south graced the floor providing a vivid splash of color. Furs lined the chairs lending a sense of warmth and comfort. It was the private quarters of the kovor; few others were afforded such luxuries.
Kirin’s eyes focused off into the distance. For a moment he debated refusing, but he was tired and not in the mood for a beating. A lie would be transparent and stupid, which left the truth. The truth was often heavier, more outlandish, and more layered than any lie could conceive of being.
With a small inhalation and feeling older than his thirteen years of age he began, “The Shrine of Patience made me acutely aware of the passage of time despite being unaware of the passing of the sun and moon. I had time for idle speculation, excessive thought and self-reflection. This last trial was different.” He paused as he attempted to assemble the fragmented memories of the last couple of months. “It tore me apart and spread me across the expanse of heaven and earth. I felt there was no separation between things. I couldn’t remember the names of common objects, yet could somehow recall the names of things I have never seen nor understood.”
The kovor was leaning forward listening intently. Kirin looked toward the wooden beams bracing the ceiling. “Time had no meaning, only the moment held me.”
Kirin then stopped, watching his father nodding in approval. It was a rare sight. Normally he would have flushed with pride or been filled with an anxious excitement, but not today. Today he noted the emotion and remained silent.
“You have shaken loose the ancestor that clung to your mind and plagued you with incessant thoughts. You have shown that patience and time can be used for introspection and awareness. You have assumed the form and taken the strength of the shroud cat.”
Kirin reflected on his father’s words. He gazed upon his face for a moment and searched for any emotion. To his surprise he found pride upon his features and sadness lurking in his eyes. It was not the usual mask of displeasure he normally wore.
“What ancestor did I shake loose?” Kirin asked.
His father’s face paled slightly but otherwise remained unchanged.
“That is for another time. Perhaps you should ask the thirteen,” he said gravely.
Kirin was not placated by his response. He knew there was something more the kovor was withholding.
“You blame me for mother’s death and think she lingers,” Kirin stated flatly still looking intently upon his father.
The kovor’s expression changed into one of surprise followed by anger.
“How dare you disrespect me? I’m your father, I’m the kovor. Never in a thousand thousand years would I have thought to do such a thing to my own father.”
“Did your father ignore you, give you away? Did he poison you and make you nearly lose your mind?” Kirin responded, emotion starting to well up from a hidden pit in his heart.
The kovor faltered for a moment some of the anger leaving his eyes. Eyes that now looked heavy and tired. Silence hung thickly between them for a span of heartbeats, as heavy as a sodden blanket. He then spoke quietly and calmly.
“You were a twin, the only surviving twin. Your mother had passed through the gates long ago, although, you possess many of her strengths and some of her weaknesses.”
He fell silent for a moment. It was the most the kovor had revealed about Kirin’s mother in his young life. His father’s eyes were momentarily filled with emotion. The moment passed and a hardened resolve fixed itself onto his chiseled features.
“It was your sister that lingered,” he said finally. “She was the ancestor clinging to you, forcing her child-like qualities upon your mind.”
The news shocked Kirin into silence. He was born with a twin sister. She too had died upon birth. It was believed that twins were the mark of a god’s interference. One baby had been graced by divine intervention, leaving the parents with a miracle and with disruption. Two mouths to feed were always harder than one when food was carefully rationed and calculated for. Yet he was the one who had survived, that would mark him as the child of a god, not the kovor’s true son. That would explain the kovor giving him away at a young age, the additional training, and the trials.
“I’ve tried to be a father to you Kirin,” was all he said after a lull, his voice barely a whisper.
Kirin remained silent and motionless as if any movement would startle the moment to flight. His fat
her cared. He could see it in the set of his shoulders, the unshed tears in his eyes, and the stern look upon his face. The trials were his hopes of helping Kirin see the world for what it was. Perhaps he had succeeded.
“I know,” Kirin responded.
He thought of saying more, of telling him he loved him, he forgave him, he understood the pain he felt, but he didn’t. Instead he looked to the ground and gave his father a moment to compose himself.
In a deep and clear voice and after a moment of silence the kovor spoke. His words were careful, yet warm.
“You will one day have a son, lead our people, and bury my ashes beside your mother. It is my hope you’ll be a better father and a better kovor than I’ve been. That is why you must finish your trials. Only one final trial remains, and this last is specifically for you, Kirin, as the son of the kovor.”
Kirin remained silent but sat forward in his chair. The last trial was the only one he had been aware of as a necessity. The previous two trials now made greater sense. Despite this knowledge he sat and waited for his father to continue.
His father glanced at the flickering candles; their yellow flames cast his features in shadow and light.
“There is little else to say. You know what must be done. I suggest you pack only what you need, lighter is better. Several seasons may pass before you find what you’re looking for. I guarantee Sumor will be done and the cool of Hearvest will roll in, but more than likely Hearvest will pass and Vintas will fall before you accomplish your task.”
Kirin looked at his father and could see a hint of pride, a touch of nostalgia, and the merest sign of concern upon the corners of his eyes. His father caught his eye for a moment before speaking again.
“There is a strongbox in the back where we chronicle the events of our people. When you come back it will be your duty to improve your reading and writing so you can carry on the tradition of maintaining the record of our lineage.”
The kovor leaned back in his chair. He placed his steepled fingers near his chin as if in thought. Silence filled the air as Kirin glanced back toward the trunk in the corner. A heavy weight began to settle upon his chest as he realized the burden his father carried, a burden that would one day fall upon his young shoulders. He didn’t want it.
“Behind the strongbox is a small room, the armory of the kovor lineage. I want you to pick out a bladed weapon and a long range weapon. Listen to your heart, for those weapons will become an extension of you.”
Kirin nodded as he listened to his father. He waited a moment longer, waiting to see if he had anything else to say. He did not. Kirin pushed back his chair and stood. He crossed the room passing the heavy gold and silver leaf covered chest and paused at the threshold of the Kovor Lineage Armory. He glanced back, his father nodded to him. That was all the approval Kirin needed.
He entered the small room. His skin prickled as he felt the weight of history and death upon the stagnant air. It was the subtle feel of the smell of turning leaves in Hearvest.
A wooden rack stood to his left holding a series of long swords. They looked heavy, strong, and too big for him to easily handle. Above them mounted to the wall were knives of all shapes and sizes. On the adjacent wall were longbows leaning against the cool stone side, their wood was the sandy color of the yew tree. Above them hung two medium-sized bodark bows distinguished by their yellow-orange hue. He reached for one and took it down. The well-oiled wood felt light and strong. He tested the bow and placed it to the side.
Strangely the other bodark was strung. It seemed highly unlikely his father would have forgotten to unstring a bow. A strung bow would warp the wood and weaken the bow string. He tested it and was surprised to see it felt as supple as the first, despite clearly being older. Faded runes were carved lightly into its frame. Kirin liked the runes and set the bow aside.
On the right wall were traps, spears, and blades of various sorts. It was a bladed weapon he was after. From his training he knew he wanted something with enough reach to hurt someone without it being a burden to carry. It needed to be sharp and well balanced.
He reached for a medium-length straight sword and paused. Above it was the sword of Sagas. It was his father’s sword, before that it was his father’s father’s weapon, dating all the way back to the First Kovor. Was this a test? Did his father leave his sword in the armory to see if Kirin was bold enough to claim it? Somehow Kirin doubted that. He admired its lines. It was a large sword, too big for him to properly wield anyhow and certainly not conducive to carrying around for days on end.
He let his eyes slip from the magnificent blade and looked once more upon the simple spathe. It looked almost ugly in comparison, drab and gray. Most training was done with a straight-blade sword. They trained with a wooden version of the spathe; it was what he was familiar with. He swung the weapon a few times. It felt strong and solid. He set it aside as a possibility.
His eyes gazed over a few other similar scythes towards axes he had trained with but was less familiar with until they paused on a type of sword he had never seen before. It was simple yet elegant. The blade had a gentle curve to it as was evidenced by the curved scabbard. The scabbard and the handle were of the darkest black, likely why he hadn’t seen it at first, as if it were trying to remain hidden in the shadows.
He had to move a small stool in order to reach it. Kirin stood atop the stool and ran a finger along the scabbard. It was as smooth as fire-hardened glass. His fingers tingled at the touch and a deep-seated curiosity tugged at his innards.
Kirin grabbed the sword. It was lighter than he had expected. Perhaps it wasn’t of good quality or the metal wouldn’t hold against a standard spathe. He unsheathed it; the gentle note of steel rang lightly in the air. The leather grip felt solid. The balance was excellent as though they had folded the blade into the tang for that very purpose. The steel had the deep undulating pattern of metal that had been heated, folded, and forged to remove all imperfections, with the most perfect hamon he’d ever seen. A subtle pattern of blue lent an aura of beauty.
Kirin knew the blue was from the process of heating and rapidly cooling the blade by quenching it in a bath of special salts and water. He’d apprenticed briefly with the blacksmith and asked enough questions to understand hot bluing, but he was too small at the time to weld the heavy forging hammer to be of much use.
With a few quick swings he fell in love. He ran a finger gently across the oiled edge and drew a drop of bright crimson from his finger. It was far sharper than he would have thought. He sheathed the sword, grabbed the bodark bow and stepped out.
His father was still seated where he had left him. He was leaning back in his chair with his eyes partially closed. Without opening them he spoke.
“So you made your choices?”
“Yes,” Kirin responded.
The kovor opened his eyes and leaned forward his eyes bright and interested. All hints of sadness were gone. He reached forward for the bow. Kirin handed it to him. The kovor traced a finger over the fine-grain wood, lightly pausing on the runes.
“You have chosen a fine bow, but I’m curious. This bow is nearly twice as old as the other bodark, why chose this over the other?”
Kirin shrugged, “I liked the runes.”
His father grunted, “Either you’ve a good eye or you’re lazy. This bow never needs to be unstrung; it was touched by the hands of the divine.”
The kovor handed the bow back to him. His eyes then froze on the black sword Kirin had chosen. They narrowed as his brow furrowed.
“Where did you find that?” He asked.
“It was above the other weapons hidden in shadow.”
His father’s eyes widened briefly before a mask of composure settled over his features. He reached out as if to touch the sword then paused and retracted his hand.
“This is a very old sword indeed. I had almost forgotten it was ever there.”
Kirin waited for him to say more, but he didn’t.
“Where’s it from?” Kirin
asked.
“Templas.”
Kirin looked at the sword more carefully, eyeing the detail and craftsmanship.
“Do you think I should choose another?” He asked.
“No.” The kovor’s voice was firm. “The sword chooses the owner, not the other way around. There is a reason you picked that sword, let’s only hope it’s an honorable one,” he paused and then whispered so quietly that Kirin could barely make out the words, “Let’s hope you’ve not been touched by Kurat’s devious hand.”
His father paused long enough to look at Kirin carefully and placed a strong hand onto his shoulder. It was the most affection he had received from the man in a dozen years, and it felt good.
“Go now and pack, for tomorrow you will leave.”
With those final words Kirin gathered the bodark bow and Templas sword and left to pack. His shoulder still felt warm from where his father had touched him. With a faint smile and a loose grip on his sword he crossed the room.
“Kirin,” his father’s voice reached out to him as he stood at the doorway. “There is a secret tied to that blade, one I cannot tell you until you’ve passed your final trial and become a man. Perhaps, upon your return we shall share a drink together as father and son and discuss its true name.”
Kirin’s eyes searched the kovor’s for a moment, probing for any hint of amusement or jest. There was none. His father, as usual, was gravely pensive.
Kirin nodded his understanding and walked out into the cool night. He wasn’t sure if he was more startled by the revelation that he had chosen a sword with a secret or that his father had treated him more like a son than he ever had.
Kirin only took a few steps before stopping, thoughts stirring up a mental storm. Kirin had uncovered the mystery of his final trial. He learned he’d become the keeper of records and upon his return would be groomed to take over as the kovor. He learned that he once had a twin sister that died during birth, marking him as touched by a god, and not just any god, but possibly Kurat, the god of the arkein. Despite all of these revelations, it was the kind words, gentle touch, and temporary pride he saw in his father’s eyes that affected him most.
Tears of a Heart Page 4
