by Dave Smeds
They fought their way around the low bales. Elenya paid close attention to her breathing. Troy understood far better than she how to conserve energy. Though she was fifteen and he nearly forty, stamina was his advantage. After half an hour of sparring, she was at the edge of losing her wind.
Yet, as they continued, the edge receded. Though using obstacles to simulate true battle conditions was one of the most difficult types of fencing, she had matched Troy blow for blow, strategy for strategy. She had two red marks on her tunic, and so did he. For the first time in four years of instruction, she stood within one point of winning against him.
Sweat dripped from Troy's eyebrows. He blew out a sharp breath between pursed lips. Elenya concentrated on his expression, as he had taught her to do whenever they fenced without masks. He glanced down. She thrust.
A sudden pain flared in her wrist. Her rapier careened through the air, landed with a hush against a loose bale, and slid to the ground. She gawked, not comprehending how he could have disarmed her. The boys above murmured in awe.
Troy calmly touched the tip of his weapon to her tunic. The paint was so dry from their long battle that it barely marked her. As she gathered her thoughts, she realized Troy suddenly seemed only slightly winded. He smoothly sheathed his blade, the corner of his lips curling upward in a familiar, self-satisfied smile.
He had tricked her. He had been far from his limit. He could have stepped up the pace and defeated her at almost any point. All the long months in which her confidence had grown, her plans been laid, her hopes constructed, had been rendered meaningless with one quick gesture.
"Another time," he said. "Maybe your luck will change." He chuckled as he opened the barn doors. The brightness of the day stabbed her eyes.
****
Her throat was dry from her weeping. Alemar poured water into her mouth. She choked, swallowed some, inhaled a bit, and lost the largest part down her neck. She was tired. She wanted to stop. The pain, however, had lessened. The tendrils had unravelled from the first junction, and were doing the same with the second, leaving the areas cool, green, and untainted.
She was in a sitting position, with Alemar wrapped closely around her. Wherever their skin touched, energy passed back and forth. She trusted him utterly, knew that he would guide her tenderly and well through the rest of it, but she doubted her own ability to continue. She felt like a cripple. But the more he touched her, the more her breathing calmed, the more her muscles relaxed. She drifted back into sleep as he drew her to the next junction.
****
The clop of her oeikani's hooves was crisp and sharp, like her mood. Ahead the great, green canopy of the forest yielded to blue sky, a sign that she was nearing Garthmorron Hold. Alemar rode at her side, engrossed in his own thoughts of homecoming.
"Look. There's the tree where we talked with father," he said, pointing to a trunk heavy with creeping vines. Keron had visited them only once in their memory, staying only two days. One afternoon he had walked along this road with his twins to have a private moment with them.
She nodded absently, still playing out in her mind what she would do after their arrival, once the homecoming celebration began and she could arrange an encounter with Troy. She imagined the scene:
"Learn anything in your year in the Old Kingdoms, my lady?" he would ask, politely but patronizingly, lifting a goblet of wine to his lips.
"The men of Numaron like their women fat," she would respond, sipping from her own goblet, "and the folk of Sirithrea are astonishingly rude."
"True, true."
"And," she would add casually, "the wizards of Acalon make fine rapiers."
Troy would pause, meet her eyes, remember he had wine in his mouth, and swallow. "That they do. Of the finest Antoth ores. But they don't let go of them easily."
"I know." Her eyes would sparkle. "Nevertheless, I happened to obtain one. Would you like to see it?"
Troy would try to seem nonchalant, mildly interested. Perhaps he would even decline her initial invitation, but eventually she would open the polished hardwood case, revealing her prize. He would hold it reverently up to the light, check its balance, examine the swordmaker's signature on the pommel. "Seth of Tsiris. They say no one has ever broken one of his blades." He would betray a hint of envy, for though he had two Acalon swords, neither had been made by such a famous craftsman. "How did you get it?"
"He made it especially for me, for a price no higher than a common smith would charge. He was impressed by my fencing." And she would smile.
Perhaps she would mention the training she had received from other swordmasters, hinting at the new tricks she had learned, or perhaps she would surprise him. Sooner or later he would want to discover for himself why his pupil, still a mere eighteen years old, had merited such a trophy. Perhaps she would even use her Acalon rapier, for they were both at such a level that they could dispense with the precaution of practice blades.
Then they would see who was the best.
She and Alemar rode through the flowered archway that led to the main hold, and saw an animated gathering of people on the broad stone steps. Their mother, Lerina, and the rest of the party with whom they had toured the capitals of the Calinin Empire had preceded them by half an hour, and by now most of the residents had turned out to welcome the travellers. The twins eased through a crowd of servants and friends, touching hands, smiling, offering greetings. Elenya was surprised to see her mother leave Lord Dran's company and thread her way through the celebrants. Elenya had to lean over in the saddle to hear her somber words.
"Swordmaster Troy caught the ague and died two months ago," Lerina said.
All at once, the grounds and the people around her became shadowy and unreal. So deep was her shock that she did not hear her mother's next words.
"It's so sad. He was so proud of you."
****
This time, as Alemar focussed the memory, she heard the comment, and finally understood that over the years, Troy had come to respect her. She had been so anxious for overt acceptance that she had missed the small, subtle signs that he had given, indications that a perceptive observer like Lerina had recognized. Elenya had pushed for total acknowledgment, not seeing that Troy's pride would never let himself stand revealed so openly. His death had meant to her that she could never prove herself, never resolve the matter between them, not knowing that it had already been resolved.
She no longer resisted the journey along the filaments. The suffering was tolerable now. She stalled at only two places. The first was when she looked back at her life in Zyraii, and realized how much her unhappiness there had been exacerbated by her own character. Another woman would not have had as great a problem with the sexual inequality of the desert society. The second was when she remembered Milec, and realized that part of the reason she had failed to fall in love with him was that he, in turn, could not measure up to the other men she had known, from Alemar to Troy to Lonal.
The strands unravelled, releasing the pain. Alemar had been right; she had never suspected the ills hidden within. Though she had never concealed the memories from herself, she had forgotten and denied the depth of the emotions associated with them.
She opened her eyes. She could see almost nothing, only the dark backdrop of the ceiling, the dim shape of Alemar asleep beside her, and the murky glow of Motherworld leaking in at the edge of the tent flap. Her throat smarted, dry as dust. Caked perspiration clung to her like a shroud, moist only at her waist, where Alemar's arm was draped. She lifted his limb away and set it gently on the blanket. He did not stir. In fact, he was so lifeless it frightened her, until she made out the steady rise and fall of his chest.
She swayed as she sat up, and decided not to stand. She crawled to the water bags and, ignoring the cups, put the spout to her lips and did not remove it until her stomach felt like it would burst. The dizziness faded. She tore off a tiny hunk of bread, put it in her mouth, and held it, her tongue and cheeks pressed against it, finding more comfort in t
he possession of the food than in the actual consumption. When she trusted herself not to fall, she crawled outside, closed the flap, and stood up.
The cold breath of night greeted her, stiffening her nipples and raising the hair on her legs. The valley was still with the promise of dawn; she saw no sign of activity across the meadow, in the camp. She considered fetching a shawl, but decided against it. The cold felt good. Her nudity felt good. The world would not harm her this night.
The dew brushed her ankles as she walked. She scooped her hand across the grass and wiped her forehead, delighting in the wet caress. Warm in spite of the air, she was strong, contented, free.
It felt good to be herself.
She stretched, vigor increasing by the second. She was ready to stalk the grass like a great cat. She felt a victory more profound than that at Old Stump, or in the Eastern Deserts.
The horizon paled to violet before she thought of Alemar. She had been healed, but what of him? She could not guide him through the corridors of his inner being as he had her. She had neither the training nor the innate talent. What had Gast meant?
Alemar would know.
She smiled. Concerned though she was, nothing could spoil her mood. The answers would come. In the meantime, she would need to sleep, as would he. She started back toward the tent.
XXIII
THE OEIKANI'S WITHERS stood nearly as high as Toren's chin. He and Geim watched the buck canter across the corral. Despite his lack of experience with the animals, Toren knew what a fine specimen he viewed. Its legs were sleek and sturdy from its thighs to its cloven feet. It wielded the knot of hair at the tip of its tail as if it were a mace, slapping the flies off its hindquarters. Toren had never seen such massive antlers; he was relieved that their shape was blunt and knobby, rather than pointed as was the case in the south.
In spite of the buck's intimidating size and grace, Toren felt completely unthreatened. When the trainer brought the animal over to them, it nuzzled Toren's cheek, accepted a sweet, and stood contentedly while the Vanihr stroked its mane.
"The perfect temperament for a new rider," the trainer stated. The oeikani seemed to incline its head at the compliment. "He'll never throw you."
"He's big," Toren said.
"You'll want a sturdy beast like this on the trip to Cilendrodel," Geim declared.
"If I go," Toren said absently, putting off thoughts of the actual journey until he had made his decision. "In any event, this is a fine animal." He could not believe he had mistrusted the breed as recently as his arrival at the temple of Struth only two months earlier.
"I thought you'd agree with the choice," Geim said. "Would you like to ride him back to the temple?"
"I can try."
Geim paid the owner and the two Vanihr mounted, Toren on his new prize and Geim on an equally handsome, though strong-willed, individual. As they rode off, Toren marvelled at the ease with which his animal responded to his commands, anticipating turns and changes in speed. Toren knew only the bare rudiments of riding, yet the oeikani tolerated his hesitant guidance with no sign of nervousness. The modhiv commented on this as they rode past the stables and pens that filled this section of Headwater.
"He's a smart buck, that's true, but give yourself credit. You must have picked up something during those riding lessons Deena's been giving you." Geim grinned suddenly. "Or do you mean to say that you and she did something else with all that time?"
Toren restrained his smile. "Nothing you and Yari wouldn't do."
"That covers a wide range."
Toren chuckled. "I'm sure it does."
They let the mounts go at their own pace, and took advantage of the chance to view the city's hubbub of activity from a height. "You didn't seem tempted by Deena's interest during the journey from the Wood," Geim added as they approached a public fountain. Girls walked to and from it with incredibly large urns balanced on their heads.
"Was she interested then?" Toren asked.
"I think so. I'm not the best judge, and she's not the type to say much. Did she ever tell you why she alone, of all her family, survived the Dragon's pillage of eastern Mirien?"
"No."
"Thought not. She killed two of the Dragon's mercenaries. Unassisted. There's a great deal hiding under that quiet demeanor of hers."
"Yes, there is," Toren said firmly. "I suppose during the trip I was too preoccupied with other concerns to notice."
"Obviously you're feeling better about yourself now."
Toren shrugged. "I can do things that my shaman could not have imagined. I can't deny I'm proud of that, and the training has been invigorating, in spite of the demands. Certainly I wasn't as happy in the Wood, not even as a child. I was a fourth son." He scarcely noticed that he had slipped out of the High Speech into the Vanihr tongue.
Geim smiled ironically. "So was I."
They reached the broad avenue that would take them to the temple district. Toren deliberately stepped up his mount's pace, just to see if he could do it correctly. The oeikani snorted happily as it obeyed. Geim's animal trotted along with matching strides.
****
As the two Vanihr threaded their way through the temple grounds, walking their mounts to the frog god's stable, Toren noticed a pair of men in the shadow of a trellised walkway next to the main building. One was Obo. The wizard conversed with a short, lithe man in riding garments. The latter's dark hair showed strands of grey, though he seemed no more than forty years old. Heavy dust and flecks of dried mud covered the surface of his very plain cloak, but beneath, visible between the unbuttoned lapels, a tunic of freshly laundered fine brocade peeked out. An aura of sorcery hovered about him, nearly as strong as that emitted by Obo. Something about the man's features haunted Toren.
"Who is that with Obo?" he asked Geim.
Geim studied the stranger's features. "I saw him once last year. That is Keron, the king of Elandris."
A jolt of nostalgia darted out of the recesses of Toren's mind. Obo had served Keron many years; though most of the memories of the wizard's life had long since drained out of Toren's conscious recall, feelings lingered. Toren experienced a sense of deja vu each time he visited a place that Obo frequented, or read a piece of literature the old man favored.
Obo turned and saw the Vanihr. He motioned for them to wait, and with Keron, walked into the sunlight to meet them.
"May I present His Royal Highness, Keron the First of Elandris," Obo said.
"So this is the candidate," Keron said, acknowledging their bows. "I've waited three long years for Struth to find you, while the Dragon swallowed my kingdom and chased me across three nations."
"Sorry to inconvenience you, Your Majesty."
Keron chuckled wryly. "It was mutual, so I understand. Obo was right. You have the impudence of the Dragonslayer. A good sign."
Toren smiled. "I seem to remember bantering with you in decades past," he said, glancing meaningfully at Obo. "Perhaps your wizard afflicted me with impolite habits."
"I did nothing of the sort," Obo quipped. "I simply taught you the language of the Calinin."
Probably true, Toren thought. He certainly could not remember details of any such conversations; only a faint impression had led to his comment. Self-reflection told him he had been testing Keron, to see what kind of person led the resistance against Gloroc. The latter's sense of humor met with the modhiv's approval.
"I was not told you would be coming," Toren said.
"The fewer who know I'm here, the better," the king replied. "I have just come from Xais, where I petitioned the emperor of the Calinin Empire to lend me his army. If your mission is successful, the Dragon will be dead, but his human minions may seize power in the wake of his death. As soon as Gloroc dies, I must march in great force. Or did you think you were going to save Elandris single-handedly?"
"At times I've had that impression."
"I would be happy to leave it all to you if it were possible," Keron said blithely. "But it is not that easy. Rather the
opposite, in fact." His faint smile vanished. "If you take up the gauntlets and succeed in killing Gloroc, your part will be done. You can rest, reap whatever rewards we can provide, return to your home. My work will just be starting." He turned back toward the walkway. "I am due for an audience with Struth. I leave in the morning for Tazh Tah, in Simorilia, where my son and my army are camped, but perhaps we can talk this evening."
The larger picture of the war against Gloroc, though it had been explained to Toren several times, had, at least until that moment, remained remote. Lost in contemplation, the Vanihr answered belatedly, "Of course, Your Majesty. I would be honored."
"Good," Keron said. "In the meantime, there is something I would like you to do." He unbuckled his belt, a strap of dragon hide embroidered with gold, set with rubies in the shape of a dragon in flight. He handed it to Toren. The smell of magic exuded from it.
"That is the belt of Alemar Dragonslayer," the king said. "It multiplies the strength of the wearer. My son and I are the only living men who can activate it. If you are all that Struth hopes, it will work for you. You may give it back to me tonight."
King and wizard walked away, resuming their conversation. The belt, lying in Toren's palm, already tickled. He strapped it on. It rode on his waist like air-no weight at all-but otherwise he felt nothing out of the ordinary. He waited for the energies to stir within him.
"Well," Geim said, "Try something."
"Like what?"
Geim scratched his head. "Perhaps you could lift your oeikani."
"Don't be foolish," Toren said. Obviously the belt did not work. And even if it did, the oeikani weighed far too much. But for the sake of the experiment, he braced himself under his mount and lifted.
The animal, much to its surprise, rose completely off the ground. Toren set it down quickly, huffing. Geim stroked the buck's neck to soothe it. True to its nature, it regained its composure immediately.
