“But if we force him to confront us in many places at once,” the Choiron said, “then whatever strength he has gathered about him will wilt.”
“Please, Choiron, speak plainly,” Evolyn said, weariness threatening to creep into her words.
“This Allystaire will move against anything that threatens the peasantry. If villages burn, the paladin surely must ride to their aid. If towns are sacked and coastal villages are put to the sword, surely he must look to answer for it. If Gravekling and Islandmen come down in droves upon the Baronies, called to a crusade by Braech Himself, the paladin and the rabble who follow him will exhaust themselves in a noble, heroic, and tragic response.”
“A crusade?” Evolyn felt a ball of fear in the pit of her stomach. Fear, yes, but also a sense of opportunity. Braech favored the bold. And how bold is it to torch villages full of innocents in the hopes of drawing out one man? “You would unleash devastation to destroy one man.”
“To destroy the greatest threat the Sea Dragon has ever known, I will empty our arsenal, employ every tool at our disposal,” Symod replied.
“Every tool?”
Symod whirled back to her, his face practically set in a snarl. “Would you question me, Marynth? You who have failed, not once, not twice, but thrice, to bring this man to account, would suggest there are means we ought not employ? Your band of marauders discrediting his faith failed. Your assassin failed. Your battle failed. I will destroy the Baronies entirely if I must, as one might cut off a limb to purge a rot from the body. I will purge you if I hear even the tiniest whisper of mutiny from your lips. Go now. Pray. Devise for yourself a suitable penance for your failure; report it to me. If it is not sufficient, I will amend it.”
The catalogue of her failures shamed her, but not because they came from the Choiron, or because she feared a penance. What shamed her were the words the paladin had spoken to her in this very temple, months ago. Such courage, such boldness. Braech must be so proud of His Church—cravens and employers of assassins, he had said, the words falling contemptuously from his homely features.
She turned and left, making no obeisance. As she sought out the altar, the paladin’s words echoing in her head, she wondered how many epithets Symod would be adding to the list in the coming months.
CHAPTER 13
Squirehood
Allystaire started every morning, the rest of the winter, by pushing himself out of bed before the sun rose, shouldering two large stones, and running from one end of the village to the other.
On the second day, he stopped by the village’s armory—a storage shed near Torvul’s small house and forge—in order to appropriate a chain shirt, which he wore as he ran. The weight of the stones pushed the impression of chain links into his shoulders rubbed the skin raw, but it was pain. He ignored it.
On the third day, Cerisia watched him return to the Inn, steam billowing off of him, before most other folk were yet awake. Gentle mockery was forming on her lips as he stripped off his outer garments. Her words, whatever they were about to be, faded into a flat disbelief.
“Even that,” she said, extending a finger towards the lightly clinking vest.
“Even this,” he said. “When I said I had a squirehood to relive, I meant it.”
“Who are you reliving it for, exactly? I heard your pronouncement of a new Order. Just where do you expect the knights to come from?”
“For myself,” Allystaire said, pushing wet hair back from his face as he walked to stand in front of the fire. Timmar hadn’t built it up for the day yet, but it still threw enough heat to appreciate after a turn in the morning cold. “For the people I need to defend. For the Goddess. For no reason other than that I need to do something to occupy myself on these mornings. As to your second question?” Allystaire shrugged. “I can only hope that they will.”
“There are surely other ways to occupy your time in the morning, Allystaire,” Cerisia suggested.
“True. I could be waking Torvul or trying to teach Gideon something new, or being corrected by Idgen Marte. I could be visiting the Temple, praying, going among the people and hearing their grievances and problems. I will do all of these things, but I will do this first. And now, I am going to get Ardent out of his stable and have whatever kind of ride I can manage in this weather.”
“You’re determined to make yourself miserable,” Cerisia replied, her lips curling downward into a disapproving frown.
“No, Archioness. I am determined to do the opposite,” Allystaire replied as he threw open the door.
It hadn’t snowed for three days, but much of the ground remained frozen. Allystaire had forbidden Gideon expending any more energy on clearing the roads. With a half sigh, Allystaire pushed himself back into a run as he made for the stables.
The cold seared his lungs. The hauberk weighed on his shoulders, and his boots, ill-suited for the wear he was putting on them, were rubbing his feet raw through two thick pairs of socks.
The pain melted away when he got to the stables and saw Ardent, saddled and waiting, Mol standing at his side. The hooded top of the girl’s head barely made the huge grey’s shoulder. The destrier gave his mane a toss, eyed Allystaire as if to ask, What took so long?
Instinct had Allystaire looking askance at Mol’s bare feet and hands, but he shook it away as he reached out for the lead. “How?”
Mol smiled and lowered her hood. Much of the girlishness had melted out of her face, replaced with something ageless, something powerful. “Does it matter?”
Allystaire swung into the saddle. “I suppose it does not, but you must be cold, lass.”
“I am,” Mol replied, “and I’m not. No natural movement of the world or phase of the seasons can harm me here, near Her holiest place. I feel the cold, yes, as a natural part of the world and one of the challenges of our existence.”
“Mol, are you telling me that within the village you cannot be hurt?”
The girl laughed. “Of course not. A blade or an arrow would do the same grievous harm to me as it would anyone. Just not the weather.” She shook her head and then addressed the horse. “I know you told me all that time ago that he was slow. You were right.” She made a shooing motion with one hand. “Go, ride. Enough metaphysics for one day.”
Allystaire shrugged and nudged Ardent into a trot with his knees. The horse snorted and tugged on the reins, blowing out a cloud of vapor from his nostrils.
“He wants to run,” Mol called out, from a few paces away. “Let him. It’ll do you good.”
“A moment.” Allystaire turned in the saddle to look down at the girl. “Mol, am I making a fool of myself? The Order of the Arm, carrying on like a squire?”
“In the time I’ve known you, you’ve hardly been given to self doubt,” Mol replied flatly, her mouth drawing from its smile into a line.
“That could not be further from the truth,” Allystaire replied. “I have hardly been given to voicing it. I simply wonder. What if I found an Order and no novices, no squires, petition to join?”
“You know well it is not novices or squires you want or need, Allystaire Stillbright,” Mol replied, her voice resonant with just a hint of power beneath it. “The people you need will come. Guided like ships into harbor by a beacon light, they will find you. Some may have already.”
Allystaire nodded, then walked Ardent a few more steps before giving the horse his head.
The sudden forward surge shook Allystaire in his saddle. Ardent needed several moments of running to truly gather speed, but once he did, the sensation was like no other. The cold of the air was like a whip to the flesh of his face, but the pain and discomfort of it was easy to ignore in the exhilaration of speed.
He lowered himself over Ardent’s neck, letting the horse run as he would, leaving doubt behind.
* * *
On the fourth day a tall figure was waiting for him out in front of th
e Inn, bundled up well and stamping his feet against the cold, a scarf wound around his face and a shapeless wool cap pulled down tightly over his brows.
A deep frown creased Allystaire’s features. “Go home, Norbert. Go back to bed. You have earned a rest.”
“How’d you know it was me?” The pitch of the lad’s voice rose in protest. He cleared his throat and pulled his scarf down.
Allystaire eyed him, pulling his mouth into a flat line. “How? Boy, you are the only man in the village who is that tall and that skinny to boot.”
Norbert grunted and finished pulling the scarf away from his face, swiping at the sweat it had gathered on his cheeks with the back of his sleeve. “Haven’t I got a right to try and…follow you?”
Allystaire lowered his head. “Norbert, you have narrowly avoided a path that ends in tragedy. I understand why you left your home. You have more than earned a new one here. Yet now you have seen up close the blood and pain and misery that will follow me wherever I go. Is that what you want for the rest of your life?”
“No,” Norbert answered, shaking his head. “But—”
“But nothing, lad,” Allystaire replied, shaking his head. “Stay here, find a lass, marry her, raise your children. Tell them stories of the battle you fought, be proud of yourself, and thank the Mother you never saw but the one.”
Norbert opened his mouth to protest, but Allystaire cut him off sharply, took a few steps towards him, his breath a steaming cloud of vapor in the air between them as he began to shout. “How do you want to die, Norbert? At the end of a Battle-Wight’s bladed arm? On a sorcerer’s table, your innards hung about the walls? In the mud of a far off Barony, crushed under the hooves of some brigand’s horse? Or here, in your own bed, surrounded by children and grandchildren?”
The boy’s eyes were wide, but something settled his jaw square. “I don’t want to die at all. But I’ve got no choice o’that, right? It’ll happen someday to us all. You, me, Renard. Don’t I have the right t’make the same choice as him?”
“Go. Home.” Allystaire poked Norbert hard in the chest with two fingers.
With that, Allystaire turned on his heel and walked to the barrel of water at the corner of the Inn’s wall. He grabbed the barrel’s edge with his left hand, drew back his right, rocked upwards on his feet, drawing power into his torso, and shattered the ice that had grown over the top of the water with one blow.
Norbert stood a few paces away, watching carefully. If he felt any fear at Allystaire’s reproach, at the sudden display of violence, he didn’t show it.
Next to the barrel was the stack of stones Allystaire had gathered. He knelt down, grabbed one and levered it onto his left shoulder, then reached down and heaved a second onto his right.
Pushing off of one knee and one heel, Allystaire stood, and without a backwards glance, began running up the path.
Norbert watched him for a moment, then darted over to the pile of stones and gathered one himself. He tried shoving it to one shoulder or the other, mimicking Allystaire, but couldn’t manage the knack of it, so cradling it against his stomach, he ran after the paladin with long, ground-eating strides.
* * *
With Norbert dogging his heels, Allystaire decided to make it two lengths of the village that morning. Norbert puffed and stumbled and almost dropped his stone many times.
Almost.
As Allystaire bent down to lower the stones from his shoulders to the ground, trying not to groan as the weight vanished, he stole a glance at the gangly young man. Red-faced, sweating, steam coming off of him.
Looks about as I feel, Allystaire thought, but did not say. Instead, he said, “I aim to take a ride now, Norbert. You have not got a horse, and surely there are tasks that will need your attention. Go home.”
Without waiting for the boy to answer, Allystaire started walking.
Norbert, still puffing for breath, hurried behind him. “I know how to handle a horse. I’m no lancer, but the reavers taught me some. Renard did too, a little. I could ride his horse.”
“Not without Leah’s permission, for it is her animal and her tack,” Allystaire replied. “And I forbid you to disturb her with such a request,” he added, lowering his voice and darkening his tone.
Norbert said nothing, only continued to follow him.
While Allystaire saddled and rubbed Ardent, Norbert watched from the entrance to the stables. He darted away when Allystaire led the destrier out. Without looking back, Allystaire let Ardent trot. With enough distance, he flicked the reins and let the huge grey gallop for several moments. Only then did he chance a look back.
Long legs pumping furiously, Norbert ran behind him. He lost distance as the horse sped up, but he followed doggedly.
Allystaire slowed the horse, pulled it to a stop, wheeled it around. With several dozen yards distance between them, Norbert surely saw him stop, but kept running at the best speed he could manage.
Allystaire turned his horse again and let him run.
* * *
With his ride finished and his mount seen to, Allystaire made his way to the tiny armory. From it, he borrowed a sword roughly of a size with his broken one, buckled it around his back. The armory also contained a battered dummy Renard had cobbled together out of hardwood and broken bits of armor.
Carefully, he dragged it outside, threw off his outer coat and scarf. His skin already warmed with the morning’s exertions, he barely felt the cold until a stiff breeze caught some droplets of sweat on his neck. He ignored it, drew the sword, holding it with his left near the pommel and his right stacked above it.
He shifted his feet, held the blade out long, edge towards his opponent’s weapon, or where it would be. He measured the distance, imagining the opponent holding a blade as long as his. He stepped, slowly at first, swinging the blade forward at half speed, controlling the weight of it carefully.
Moving in a semi-circle around the dummy, Allystaire tried variations of every attack. Slashing, chopping, swinging, high-line, low-line, middle, edge, flat, even stepping forward to strike with the pommel. Each blow stopped just short of the dummy.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Norbert holding a shorter blade, clumsily mimicking every move.
Allystaire did his best to ignore him, as he began to repeat his circuit of the dummy, and each and every attack, at a slightly faster pace. Once again, each blow still stopped as close to the dummy as he could manage to pull the strike. Once or twice the edge of the blade nicked off the wood, sending a splinter flying, uncomfortably jarring Allystaire’s arms.
When he stepped back after the second circuit, Norbert was nearly tripping over his own feet, the tip of his sword dragging in the snow. Allystaire spat in disgust, stepped back, and carefully sheathed his borrowed sword.
“Dammit, Norbert!” He didn’t quite bellow, but he put enough force into his words to startle the lad, who jumped a few inches clear of the ground. “You are going to stab yourself, or me, by accident.”
Norbert lowered the sword, holding it limply in one hand. Allystaire stepped quickly forward, seized his bony wrist, and pulled the sword away easily. “You have no idea how little you know about using a sword.” Allystaire’s face was grim, his eyes narrowed and cold.
“Then teach me,” Norbert protested.
“It would take years that I do not have,” Allystaire said, shaking his head slowly. “You have not got the wrists and arms for it, nor do you understand the footwork, the distances, the angles.”
Norbert’s jaw tightened in defiance, his eyes opening wide in what Allystaire supposed might be anger. “Teach me one thing then,” he said. “One. How do I make my wrists and my arms stronger?”
Allystaire frowned. “Work them. Rest the weight of your body on the palms of your hands and the tips of your feet, lower yourself as close to the ground as you can manage, hold there as long as you can stand,
then push yourself back up. Then do it again. And again.”
“How many times?”
“Till your arms tremble and then burn. Till your chest heaves and your vision darkens,” Allystaire spat. “Till you decide that you will die if you attempt another, and that you would rather die than give up.” He held out a hand. “Give me the scabbard.”
Norbert fumbled with the swordbelt he’d buckled on, got the scabbard tangled between his legs, but eventually handed it over. Allystaire slammed the sword home, then tossed it aside, where it settled with a light puff of snow.
“Go home, Norbert. Or at least give me space.”
With that, he drew his sword again, held it in a cross-body guard with his hands low by his left hip. Allystaire let his eyes focus on the last few inches of blade, watching for any wavering, any movement. He kept his arms still, his fingers firmly wrapping about the hilt, not pressing too hard.
He held it till he saw the slightest movement of the blade’s tip, long enough that his arms were burning by the time it came. Then he launched into motion, careful to keep his feet under him, his balance spread unevenly between his feet, his blade moving at full speed, contacting the dummy now more often than not.
In truth, he didn’t have to think of these things, only decide to do them. The movements were ingrained into his feet, his ankles, his shoulders and arms and wrists. Thousands of practices, years of training, all condensed into a few seconds of sudden movement.
Allystaire repeated the circuit again and again. Sweat steamed off his forehead. When he couldn’t hold the sword straight in guard any longer, he sheathed it. Anticipating questions from Norbert, he’d assumed the boy had left.
When he turned from the dummy, he saw him a few yards away, a long, lean figure pressed against the snow, arms trembling as he pushed himself off the ground, slowly and with difficulty. A space in the snow had cleared beneath him from the repeated impressions of his body.
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