The transformation took little time. Kings once more, the two of them began to dress.
Chapter 9
“HOLD,” BARKED SAYABIM, the sword mistress who’d been instructing Çeda in swordplay since she’d entered the House of Maidens. Sayabim wore her white Matron’s dress. The cowl, pulled up to shield her eyes from the morning sun, accentuated her dove-gray hair. Sayabim’s merciless ally, the simple white stick she used to correct Çeda’s errors, was held behind her back so that the tip of it peeked over one shoulder like the head of a curious snake.
As Sayabim had instructed, Çeda held her pose, her shamshir lifted high, right arm across her body at the end of a cross block. Sayabim knew the position was painful for Çeda—the welts on her back were only a few days old—but the sword mistress showed little compassion. “A Maiden fights in pain as well as in good health,” she’d said the morning after Çeda’s visit with Zaïde in the Matron’s tower. “There’s no excuse for poor form in either case.”
The barracks courtyard where they worked was largely empty. Sayabim and Çeda stood at one end. A group of four other Maidens practiced wrestling at the opposite end, beneath the shade of an acacia. One Maiden, a brute of a woman with massive arms, was shouting in one corner, breaking bricks with the palm of her hand. Around them, darkened windows and doorways stared down from the stark faces of the surrounding buildings.
With her stick, Sayabim tapped Çeda’s sword arm. When Çeda lowered it, she tapped the insides of her ankles, so she adjusted her stance. Sayabim breathed a snort of disgust. “Now begin again.”
“Yes, siyaf,” Çeda said, giving her the ancient word for sword master. As she stepped through the opening moves—blocking, thrusting, advancing, retreating—she spotted Zaïde and Yndris walking side by side toward the ring where she practiced. She ignored them as best she could, treating them as if they were but one more ache, one more thing to ignore. She spun, twisted, her blade a blur.
When she finished, Sayabim stood stock-still, her stick beneath one arm. She didn’t grunt. She merely nodded. “The lumbering oryx has found some small amount of grace, it seems. But you’re inconsistent. One moment you do it well, and the next you’re like wood.” She came and touched Çeda’s stomach with one hand, her back with the other. “You flow from here. Flow, always, like the Haddah just before she bursts her banks. Do you understand?”
“Yes, siyaf.”
Sayabim snorted. “I doubt it, but one day you might. Now begin again.” She motioned Yndris into the ring. “But this time with her.”
Çeda returned to the ready position. Yndris, eyes afire, fairly jumped into the ring and drew her ebon blade, the skirt of her black dress flowing in her wake. The two of them hadn’t spoken since her vigil five nights ago. The part of Çeda that thought it wise to draw as little attention as possible was tempted to apologize, but the rest of her refused to bend. What Yndris had done was inexcusable. There had been no need to end the asir’s life so callously.
What concerned Çeda more than Yndris, however, was Zaïde. She hadn’t spoken to Çeda since their conversation in Zaïde’s room. Çeda had meant what she’d said. She would leave the Maidens if she felt she would get nowhere, or progress so slowly that it made no difference. She’d make an attempt on the life of another King if she could, whoever she could manage, and then go to the desert. She would try to reach Nalamae and beg for her guidance. The need for secrecy was great, the goddess had said, but surely she would listen to reason. Surely she would know what might be done about the asirim. In truth, though, Çeda didn’t wish to take that step. If she left the House of Maidens, there would be no going back. But what was there to do about it now? She’d thrown down the gauntlet. It was left to Zaïde to pick it up or not.
When Çeda raised her sword, Yndris did the same. As the Maiden being trained, it was Çeda’s prerogative to choose when to begin, but Yndris cared little about such things. She was already moving, swinging her ebon blade from on high. Çeda had no choice but to respond, blocking and sliding out of Yndris’s center.
She slashed at Yndris’s midsection. Yndris blocked, a grin on her face as she moved easily through the form. Çeda made several mistakes in the opening sequence, but Sayabim said nothing, and the two of them continued, Yndris pressing harder than was necessary, Çeda doing all she could to keep up. Yndris was hoping to embarrass Çeda, to force her into improper form or hastily raised countermoves, but it was having the opposite effect. Instead of worrying so much about every movement, every position, Çeda fell into the movements as if she were separate from her body, as if she were the river Sayabim had spoken of, her body and sword mere currents in that greater flow. On and on they went through the sixty-six moves of the form, Çeda little more than sweeping arcs, sharp thrusts, ringing blocks, until they’d reached the very end. The two of them held their final move, waiting for Sayabim to order them to relax.
Yndris seemed disappointed, which was hardly a surprise. Çeda had done well. Zaïde’s expression, something like satisfaction, or even vindication, was more difficult to read. Sayabim, however, was plain as an open book. She had a pinched, almost angry face, as if she’d bitten her own lip and then sucked on a lime. She looked Çeda up and down like a caravan master at the slave blocks, willing to pay for goods but displeased with what she’d found. “If I’d known all it would take was a childish rivalry to make you concentrate, I would have pitted you against her months ago.”
As Sayabim stepped into the ring, Zaïde bowed her head. “Sword mistress, I believe it’s time that I took her.”
Sayabim’s eyes went wide with shock. “Who? Çedamihn?” When Zaïde nodded, her eyes widened even further. “Now?”
“Unless you’d rather I wait for the desert’s final days.”
Sayabim ignored the gibe as she appraised Çeda, shaking her head and clucking her tongue. “I’m nowhere near done with her.”
Zaïde stood straight, hands clasped behind her back. She looked regal before the churlish Sayabim. “You say that of everyone.”
“I say it because it’s true.”
“We cannot wait until she’s ready to take the Matron’s white for you to consider her ready. I asked if I may have her.”
“Seems to me you told me.”
Zaïde shrugged, her jaw set.
Sayabim considered, her mood darkening. “If you wish to take on an unbroken foal, so be it, but don’t come running to me when she throws you.”
Zaïde stretched her mouth into a forced smile. “Very well. In the meantime, I’d be pleased if you’d take Yndris beneath your wing.”
Yndris’s eyes widened. Her cheeks flushed. She opened her mouth to speak, but Sayabim talked over her. “Another rough plank needing sanding, hmm?” She tapped Yndris’s hips with her stick, then her shoulders. “Very well, very well.”
And Çeda saw in Sayabim a pride she hadn’t noticed before. She loved this, the honing of new blades, and even though Çeda had been hoping for it for months, it gave her pride that Sayabim approved of Çeda enough to let Zaïde take her.
“Coming?” Zaïde said, motioning Çeda out from the sparring circle.
Çeda glanced at Yndris, who stared back with her lips pressed into a thin line. Hiding a smile, Çeda sheathed her sword and bowed her head. “Of course, Matron.”
Zaïde led her to the largest building in the compound. It was where the Matrons and the wardens had their offices and where Maidens were trained in the softer arts of history and the written word, even in art and tattooing. It was where the library was kept and, if rumor were true, a special set of rooms deep below the earth that was said to house the annals of the Maidens—journals and other recorded histories of the campaigns and wars the Maidens had fought, including the silent campaigns elite Maidens undertook on behalf of their Kings. What Çeda wouldn’t give to dig through those records, but she’d had no opportunity to enter the building until now,
and she suspected that anyone who did came under closer scrutiny by Kings and Matrons both.
As they entered the building, the heat of late morning was replaced by a chill breeze. Çeda worried that her assumption had been wrong, that Zaïde was merely handing her off to another Matron to be trained in calligraphy or some such. “Matron, I would speak with you of—”
She stopped when Zaïde, without so much as looking Çeda’s way, grabbed her left hand and gripped it to the point of pain. The hall was empty, and Çeda heard no one near, but it seemed paramount to remain silent. Zaïde continued walking as if Çeda hadn’t spoken at all. The message was clear: speak of nothing, not now.
They soon came to a room with high windows that shed golden light onto the rich, wooden walls. Spaced around the room were racks brimming with different types of weapons—swords, staves, spears, shields, fighting sticks, chained weapons, and more. They were made for practice, but for all that they looked well made and well maintained. Well loved, as her mother used to say of the simple wooden shinai she’d given Çeda when she was young.
“Remove your shoes,” Zaïde said. After slipping her sandals off and setting them on a rope matt near the door, Zaïde took one step further into the room and then slapped her hands against her thighs and bowed. Çeda did the same, and only after did Zaïde step onto the padded canvas mat that dominated the space and kneel at its center. When she motioned to the space opposite her, Çeda mirrored her until the two of them faced one another, their knees almost touching.
“Do you know what this place is?” Zaïde asked.
“Zaïde, I—” But Çeda stopped, for Zaïde was shaking her head. “This is a savaşam,” Çeda replied. “A training hall.” She could only assume that Zaïde feared the King of Whispers, or perhaps King Yusam and his mere.
Zaïde nodded with a wry smile, as if nothing were the matter. “It is,” she said, looking to the walls, motioning to the weapons, “but there’s much more to it than what you see.” She paused a moment, gathering her thoughts, then nodded toward Çeda’s right hand. “Do you remember what I said to you when I revealed your tattoo?”
“That I must fight with my heart.”
“You must fight not with your heart, but from your heart.” Zaïde gestured to the room around them with a look of reverence. “Within these hallowed walls we are taught what it truly means to be a Maiden. I will continue to teach you how to use your sword properly, for Sayabim was right. There is work to do yet.” She leaned forward and pressed her hand over Çeda’s heart. “But I will also open doors that have been closed to you. Let’s begin with a simple exercise.” She stood, motioning for Çeda to do the same. “You must learn to look deeply into your own heart, and through that you will learn to see into the hearts of others.”
When the two of them stood opposite one another, Zaïde put out her right hand, palm open, fingers lax. It was the first position in open-hand sparring. Çeda mirrored her, shifting until the backs of their hands were touching. They were close enough that they could strike one another. Their knees were bent, their bodies loose.
“Using only your right hand, prevent me from touching your neck.”
When Çeda nodded, Zaïde remained stone still for long moments, the wrinkled skin around her eyes and mouth relaxed, and then her hand shot out and her fingers brushed the skin of Çeda’s neck.
Çeda’s head jerked back reflexively. The strike had been light, but she started coughing. It felt as if an olive were stuck in her throat. Gods, she’d hardly seen Zaïde move.
“Again,” Zaïde said.
Çeda cleared her throat and returned to the ready position. Again Zaïde was almost too fast to follow, and this time her fingers pressed deep into Çeda’s throat. Çeda coughed harder and backed away.
“You’re watching my hand,” Zaïde said. “Watch me. All of me. Again.”
Çeda tried. She was used to watching her opponents for any sign of an attack, but there was something about being in this room, waiting for only one strike, that was making her focus too narrowly. She had to remember that even though Zaïde was not out to harm her, this was as much a fight as the ones she’d waged in Osman’s pits.
As she stepped into the ready position again, she relaxed. She took a deep breath and felt the way the back of her hand touched Zaïde’s. She took in the Matron’s eyes, her face, her shoulders. She watched her stance. She tried, however imperfectly, to study the entirety of Zaïde’s form.
And then she saw it—the tightening of muscles along Zaïde’s neck and shoulder—and she reacted. She used the palm of her hand to swat away the first of Zaïde’s thrusts, then the back of her hand for the next. The third was a feint. Zaïde’s arm swung below Çeda’s following block and snaked in toward her throat, catching her with the brush of a butterfly’s wings.
Çeda had failed, but Zaïde was smiling. “A fair enough beginning, young dove, something we can build upon.”
“Zaïde, I’m grateful you’ve brought me here, but—”
Before Çeda knew what was happening, Zaïde was rushing in, grabbing the front of Çeda’s dress, and throwing her over her hip onto the canvas. Zaïde’s face was inches from Çeda’s, looking more intense than Çeda had ever seen her. “You will speak when spoken to, child. Do you understand?”
Çeda nodded.
“Good.” She released Çeda and came to a stand with a well-oiled ease that defied her many decades in the Shangazi. She reached down and offered her hand, which Çeda accepted, then Zaïde pulled her upright. She immediately lowered herself into the starting position again. “Now wipe that smile off your face.”
Was she smiling? She supposed she was, and it took her a moment to realize why. Things were moving at last. She would still need patience, but she was sure it would come. She put the back of her hand against Zaïde’s, lowered herself into the starting position, and managed, at last, to stop grinning like a fool.
“Now see if you can do it again,” Zaïde said, and struck for Çeda’s neck in a blur.
When Çeda returned to the barracks it was well past nightfall. She’d never felt more exhausted. She’d never felt more exhilarated, either. She went to her hand’s common room and poured herself some watered wine, grabbed a clutch of grapes from the bowl on the table, which was always filled with some fruit or another, and made ready to head to her room and pass out the very moment she’d wolfed down the grapes and finished the wine. The only other person in the room was Sümeya. She was sitting at a table, reading from a sheaf of papers. As Çeda waved and headed for her room, Sümeya said, “This arrived for you,” and shoved a small, oddly shaped bundle wrapped in fine linen and tied by a pale green ribbon.
“What is it?” Çeda asked.
“I’ve no idea, but it came from the Mirean embassy.” Sümeya eyed her more closely now. “Making friends, are we?”
Çeda smiled back, trying her best to hide the sudden nervousness blossoming inside her. “An admirer, perhaps.”
“Perhaps. Why don’t you open it?”
Çeda allowed her exhaustion to show through. “In the morning. I’m just off to bed.”
With little fanfare, Sümeya set down her reading and regarded Çeda. “Open it.”
An order. Çeda might refuse her, but it would arouse suspicion, which she couldn’t afford, not now that she was finally making headway. So instead of arguing, she stepped up to the desk and untied the ribbon, hoping Juvaan had not left anything to chance. She lay the linen back, revealing a short stack of reed paper, a bottle of ink, and a steel-nibbed pen. They were clearly Mirean in origin, and of the highest quality, the sort befit for a queen.
“An admirer, indeed!” Sümeya said. “But who?”
Çeda picked up the note:
For the Blade Maiden who’s stolen my heart, to use when your thoughts turn my way. Or if they don’t, perhaps to light a flame.
“A bit m
elodramatic, don’t you think?” Sümeya asked when Çeda showed it to her. She handed it back and returned to the papers she’d been reading. “Best get to sleep if you’re so very tired.”
“Yes, First Warden.” After stacking everything on the paper—her wine, the grapes, the ink and pen—Çeda cradled them all and headed back to her room. Once there, she lit a candle and sat at the small desk near the window. The wine and grapes all but forgotten, she stared at the paper, felt it between her fingers, smelled it.
To use when your thoughts turn my way, Juvaan had written. And then the mention of flame. They were instructions, of course. Though she wasn’t quite clear on it all, and had no idea how he might communicate back, she took up the pen, grabbed one of the papers and wrote:
Your gift received. What now? When to converse?
Then held it to the flame. The corner of the paper took to it, slowly at first, but then a blue flame rushed across the sheet with such speed Çeda dropped it onto the desktop with a small yelp of surprise. The paper hadn’t burned all the way through, however. A gossamer-thin layer remained, charcoal at the center, burning blue at the edges. The words she’d penned were gone, erased by the flames. A moment later, however, something new appeared on the burned surface: thin, blue-green flames lit along the upper portion. Like a pen with ink made of arcane flame, words appeared, flowing with a quick, confident script.
Name the place where I first saw you, and the man you faced.
The words remained for a moment, burning low, but then spread just as quickly as the first flame had. In a burst of blue flame, it was gone. All of it. No smoke. No soot. No ash from the paper itself on the desk.
“Gods,” Çeda whispered, and knocked back a long mouthful of wine.
She took another paper and wrote:
The Pits. Ramahd Amansir. A test for you as well: Name the occasion of our second meeting.
Then burned the page as she had the first.
With Blood Upon the Sand Page 12
