Diamond Stained

by J M D Reid

Fingers spat. “Fine. Guess it’s better than snorin’ in the guard shack or listenin’ to Smiles prattle on and on ‘bout his perfect wife.”

  “She is perfect,” Smiles said, his grin growing. “Got me this ‘ere job, you know. Wanted us out of the city. ‘Not raisin’ your children in these slums,’ she said to me. And she’s right. Better here.”

  Bran caught up before they were halfway there, puffing from his run, cheeks flushed. Ōbhin shook his head. That had to change. They needed to be in better shape. Despite eating, the headache lingered. It made running them through calisthenics a chore. Bran and Smiles kept up, but Fingers glared murder as he huffed and puffed, sweat pouring down his back.

  “You tryin’ to kill us?” spat Fingers as he jumped in place, alternating kicking out and bringing in his legs together with each hop, arms pumping up and down.

  “Just training,” Ōbhin grunted, sweat pooling across his body, his leather jerkin sticking to his chest. His boots felt heavy. He was panting by the end. He hadn’t realized how soft he’d become in the last two years. “You can quit. City full of men to hire.”

  Fingers scowled. “And go . . . back to my wife . . . and the saffron fields?” He spat. “Rather split . . . my side here.”

  Ōbhin grinned at him.

  After warm-ups, he had them fetch their weapons. They didn’t have swords but metal cudgels. Or so Ōbhin thought until he noticed a glint at the butt. He frowned. “Jewelchines?”

  “Binders,” said Smiles. He turned it over to show an amethyst set in a small hollow in the weapon’s butt. “Dualayn’s invention. Sold the patent to the city guard. Great for dealin’ with sneak thieves.”

  “Yeah?” Ōbhin asked. “Lethal?”

  “Well, you could brain a man.” Fingers hefted the thick rod of metal. It was as long as Ōbhin’s forearm and he could sense the weight as Fingers swung it. “But the jewelchine ain’t lethal. It binds.”

  “Hence, binder,” said Ōbhin. “How do they bind?”

  “Well . . .” Fingers lunged forward, swinging his cudgel at Ōbhin’s arm.

  The man’s footwork was decent, the attack coming fast and with skill. Ōbhin resisted the urge to dodge, only turning to let the binder strike the meat of his upper arm covered by the sleeve of his leather jerkin.

  The rod hit with a thud and a burst of purple light from the butt. Pain throbbed through his arm as the light wrapped about his arm and torso, creating a field of energy that binded his limb tight to his side.

  “Raleth’s revealing Truth!” he cursed in Qothian, shocked by the squeezing band. It was hard to breathe.

  “See? Binder,” said Smiles, grinning. “Good to hit ‘em in the legs. Tangles ‘em up.”

  “I imagine,” Ōbhin said.

  Bran chortled, swinging his own about before him in wild, untrained sweeps. “No thief dares sneak up on us, or we’ll bind ‘em up ‘n drag them to the magistrate.”

  “How long does it last?” Ōbhin asked, his breath short. The pressure on his ribs made them creak.

  “Long enough. ‘Bout a quarter-hour.” Fingers shrugged. “You wanted to see how they worked.” He spat even as he smiled.

  “Makes me the fool,” Ōbhin said. His fingers flexed. “You had good form. What about you, Fingers?”

  “Wot, want me to hit you?” asked the older man. He tightened his grip, swollen knuckles going white.

  “Can you?” Ōbhin asked.

  Fingers swung a hard blow at Ōbhin. His arm was bound, but not his legs. He was ready now, in a fighting stance. He backpedaled out of the way, the binder hissing through the air. Fingers frowned then growled and lumbered after, swiping a reversed, upward swing.

  Ōbhin twisted his body, letting it swing by him. His free hand lashed out, grabbing Fingers’s wrist. With a hook of his right leg, he swept out the older man’s foot and sent his bulk crashing to the grass. He landed with a loud, wheezing thump.

  “That’s why we need training,” Ōbhin said. “First thing’s first: footwork. Yours was abysmal, Fingers. Almost tripped yourself trying to hit me. Smiles, yours was good. Help me whip them up.”

  “Well, don’t got a whip, but I can give ‘em a few taps of the binder.” He smiled. “Give ‘em some motivation.”

  Ōbhin nodded. “Okay, line up. We’ll . . .”

  His words trailed off as a pale-faced Avena stepped up beside Bran, her skirts rustling. Dark bags drooped beneath her blood-shot eyes. His brow furrowed as Fingers grunted to his feet, his breath wheezing.

  Ōbhin gave her a questioning look.

  “You said I didn’t know how to use a knife,” she said, hands planted on her hips.

  He opened his mouth to send her back to the house when he noticed the look in her eyes. It was fierce, almost reckless, determination mixed with something haunted. Something that had kept her from finding any rest. He remembered how she’d wielded the shaky dagger during the ambush in the woods.

  Without training, that sort of passion would get her head bashed in. In Qoth, the men fought and mined and cut mountain timbers. They braved the snows to hunt and tilled the soils to farm. Women cared for home, to work their crafts indoors, and managed estates while raising children. Training Avena to fight set an itch between his shoulders, but . . .

  Those eyes begged for it. She needed this for her own reasons. He’d promised to do all he could to protect these people, to make up for his crimes. He couldn’t let her reckless passion end her life early if he could do something to stop it.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll teach you to use a binder.”

  “Really?” she demanded. Suspicion entered her eyes. “No objection? No telling me I’ll break a nail or bruise my face?”

  “You’ll just do it anyway. Least this way, you won’t immediately get brained.”

  She gave a fierce nod.

  “Find some trousers. You can’t fight like that. Skirts will trip you up.”

  Avena whirled around and hiked skirts to race back to the manor house.

  Fingers spat. “Tethyrians are all backward.”

  “I’m Qothian,” Ōbhin muttered. “Not a low-lander degenerate.”

  *

  As a maid, Avena knew the Dashvin household well. Over the years, things had piled up in various storerooms, clothes included. Her cheeks warmed as she doffed her skirts despite the chest she’d dragged before the door to prevent anyone from barging in upon her in only her slip.

  She found a pair of leather pants that were probably Bran’s, ones he’d outgrown years back but would fit her shorter legs. She worked on the trousers swiftly, the pants tight in some places and loose in others. She had to wrap a man’s belt twice around her waist to get it to fit. She gathered up her skirt and petticoats, raced out of the room, and almost collided with Jilly.

  “Avena?” Jilly gasped. The woman, a few years Avena’s senior, took a step back in surprise. “What are you wearing?”

  “Father’s orders,” Avena said, cheeks warming at the little lie. A small fib wouldn’t add too much dark to her soul, not enough to weigh her down for eternity. She would work extra hard at doing something nice to polish it from her soul.

  Fabrication was easier than explaining the truth.

  “Oh,” Jilly said. She shook her head. “Nothing he does makes sense. Going to haunted woods. Coming back with bandits. My sweet Phelep was held out to all hours by that Tethyrian.” Jilly sniffed. “Trying to corrupt him. You know what a gentle soul he is.”

  “Doesn’t Fingers take your husband to the pub most nights after supper?”

  “For a quick nosh, not a drunken night of foreign debauchery.” Jilly leaned in. “I have my eye on that Ōbhin. If I find he’s got any of them illicit intoxicants, I’ll make sure Master Dashvin knows.”

  “He’s not Tethyrian,” Avena said, her back stiffening. “I wouldn’t be worried about him.”

  “He killed Ni’mod.”

  “Did you even like Ni’mod?”

  “Well . . .” Jilly shook her h
ead. “Doesn’t matter. Me and the maids will keep our eye on him. I suggest you do the same.” The maid’s brow furrowed. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

  “Bad dreams,” muttered Avena, trembling at the memory of the presence on the hill. Just night fears playing tricks on my mind. No darklings there. Or him! The memory of the dark sorcerer sent a shiver down her spine.

  “You should rest. You were gone so long in that dangerous place.”

  The words reminded Avena that they’d brought a danger back with them. Ōbhin worked for the head of the Brotherhood. Now he worked here after having that conversation with Grey. The “boss” had seemed genial, not the sort of ruffian who controlled half the illicit activities that festered in Kash. She couldn’t trust appearances.

  What if they want someone to keep an eye on Dualayn?

  It was another reason to learn to fight. “I have to go. Father wants me to receive lessons from Ōbhin. Fighting and stuff.”

  Jilly shook her head. “Black’s stained his mind. I hear he’s locked in his lab again. The sign’s out. I had to clean it out the last time he spent a week locked in there. The stench . . . The room should have a window to air it out.”

  “He found something. Something that could change everything. Even fix his wife.”

  Jilly blinked. “Elohm’s Colours, truly? Well . . .” She shook her head. “Still, making you learn something as undignified as fighting. You spoil him, Avena. I know Chames was a good man, and you honor his memory, but you don’t have to cater to Dualayn’s every mad whim.”

  Is that why I’m still here? Avena wondered. Honoring Chames? If I knew as much of healing now as then . . . The emptiness in her yawned. A shiver ran through her.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Bright afternoon, Jilly,” Avena said and darted away from Jilly to join the practice, her heeled boots ringing on the wooden flooring. She dropped off her skirt and petticoats in her room then raced back down them. By the time she reached Ōbhin watching the men running circles around the flat portion of the lawn, her cheeks were rosy and she was puffing breath.

  He glanced at her then his eyes slid away. He didn’t think I was coming back!

  “Okay, I’m ready. Give me a sword. Let’s start.”

  “A sword?” He arched an eyebrow. “I’m not teaching you fencing. I’m teaching you how not to get your head brained in by the first tough guy with a cudgel you decide is in your way.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That you resonate with all the stubbornness of Vatsim. I’ll train you to use the binder.”

  “Fine.” She glanced and spotted one lying on the ground by Bran’s jacket. She snatched up the metal rod. She activated it with ease, pressing on the gem in the right spot. She felt the hum of it working, the faint aura of purple that wreathed it almost washed out by the sun. “Let’s go.”

  “First, I’ll teach you to stand.”

  “I know how to stand.” She stamped her feet. “See. Standing.”

  A wry smile crossed his lips. “See? Vatsim. His Tone fills your body.”

  “No pagan god resonates through me. I stand in the light of Elohm. It shines around me.”

  “If you’re hoping it blinds your enemies, then you will be in trouble. You need to stand.”

  “Why?”

  His hand shot out in a blur. She squeaked, struggling to swing the binder at his attacking arm. Before she could hit him, his open palm planted on her shoulder. He didn’t strike her but shoved her. She stumbled back, tripping over her own foot, and landed on the grass with a heavy thud.

  “See, you need to learn to stand.”

  She scrambled to her feet. “You’re just stronger than me. That’s all.”

  “Remember that. It’ll be a rare man you fight who isn’t taller, stronger, and with greater reach than you. You can’t afford to be sloppy. You can’t afford to have any deficiency in skill. You will have to disable him fast, or be nimble. And you can’t do either if you don’t know how to stand.”

  Avena glanced down at her feet planted on the ground side by side. She frowned. “What am I doing wrong?”

  He arched an eyebrow, flicking down.

  She glanced at his feet. Both were planted on the ground, though only his right foot was pointed to the side. His stance was also wide, his knees bent, unlike hers which were locked stiff. Her brow furrowed, struggling to understand why he did that.

  “Push me,” he said. “And not with the binder.”

  “Okay.” She deactivated the binder and slipped it into her pants back pocket. Behind her, the three guards thudded by, Fingers wheezing.

  She thrust both her hands at him, lunging forward with all her weight. She struck him squarely on his sternum. He grunted and shifted, leaning back on his left foot, his body hardly moving at all.

  “Good push. You see how I can do that without moving my feet. They’re spread out and my legs are bent. This gives me more balance and greater stability. That’s important in fighting.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I guess that makes sense. You don’t want to fall.” She nodded to his right foot. “Why is that bent in a different direction?”

  “It’s aimed in the direction of my attack,” he said. He suddenly lunged forward, kicking out with his right foot while pushing with his left leg. He set his foot down before him then brought his left foot closer, moving twice her stride in a blink. “By moving with my side facing the enemy, I present a smaller cross-section. Less of a target to hit. Plus, I am transmitting all the force of my body through my line of attack at the same time. This is how you want to stand as much as possible. You don’t want to cross your feet if you can avoid it. That’s when you trip.”

  Avena shifted her stance. She felt the tension in her thigh muscles as she bent her legs. It felt strange to point her right foot in a different direction. It felt awkward. But she had it. She drew the binder now.

  “Okay, let’s practice. How do I swing it?”

  He rolled his eyes then threw a punch at her face.

  She squeaked again and recoiled out of shock. Her arms swung before her. She tried to move both her feet in retreat, but the awkward stance defeated her. She toppled over and hit the ground again, his fist swinging over her.

  He shook his head. “Why are you so eager to learn to fight?”

  “Because of people like you,” she muttered. “What went wrong? I had your stance.”

  “After you learn to stand, you have to move. You have to train your body until it is second nature. If you have to think about your feet, then you can’t think about your opponent. What he’s going to do. What you have to do to counter it. Fighting isn’t just swinging your weapon ahead of you blindly. It’s intellect.”

  “I’ve seen boys fight. They just grunt and swing and roll around on the ground.”

  “Brawling isn’t trained fighting. Your every movement should be with purpose. It should be elegant, requiring the least amount of power to deliver the most amount of devastation upon your enemy. It’s calculation. That’s hard to do when fear is squeezing your vision to pinholes. When you feel clammy terror gripping your heart and your bowels become liquid.”

  A shiver rippled through her. She glanced at the hill. Saw nothing.

  He crouched down, his leather trousers creaking. His black-gloved hands gripped his knees. “What? Did you see something up there?”

  “Did you?” she asked. “Last night? I thought . . . But it was just my imagination playing tricks on me.”

  Ōbhin worked his jaw. His eyes flicked to the hill then back to her. “You understand fear, yes?”

  She nodded. Last night wasn’t the first time terror had gripped her. That day with the whitewash . . . The emptiness beckoned. “We are acquainted.”

  “Then you need to train your body to move without thought. When shock is on you, it will save your life until you can start thinking. Now, up. Let’s practice moving. Once you have that down, I’ll teach you how to hit with the binder.”

/>   “You’re different,” Avena said.

  “I’m remembering who I used to be.” He rose, towering over her. “On your feet and adopt the stance.”

  She scrambled upright with eagerness. She wasn’t sure if Ōbhin was here to watch over Dualayn or not, but she felt a sincerity from him. A willingness to teach her, and she wanted to learn. She didn’t want that helplessness to ever grip her again. Too many times she’d felt it. No longer.

  “Okay,” she said, right toe pointing to the side, weight spread between her parted feet.

  “See that bush?” Ōbhin pointed across the lawn. The other guards were running past it.

  “The rhododendron?”

  “Move to it as fast as you can while keeping your feet in this position. Push with the left, step with the right. Push with the left, step with the right. There and back.”

  It wasn’t nearly as easy as he made it seem when he lunged. Her legs wanted to swing past each other. That was the natural way of walking. She shuffled her right foot forward and almost lost her balance. She held her arms out at her sides to catch herself. She wouldn’t be defeated.

  Call me stubborn? He should meet Daughter Heana. She smiled. That woman could teach stubbornness to a mountain.

  She worked across the grass. It grew easier. Push with the left, step with the right, then draw her left foot in.

  Push. Step. Step.

  Push. Step. Step.

  She felt her confidence grow as she approached the rhododendron. Her thighs burned from the strange motion. Sweat broke across her brow, cooling her face as a wind blew in from the lake. The sweet scent of rhododendron flowers brought her closer and closer.

  She reached the bush and . . . had no idea how to turn around. He pivoted on his foot when I knocked him off-balance.

  She shifted her weight on her left leg and turned herself around, falling into the stance and smiling at her own triumph.

  Ōbhin stared at the hill.

  A chill raced through her.

  “What are you doing?” Miguil asked.

  She squeaked and whirled around, regaining her stance as she came face to face with her promised. The handsome groom had a perplexed look on his face. Heat blushed across her cheeks as that excited flutter billowed through her.