Mirror Sight

by Kristen Britain

  He fumbled with the simple but elegant Deer Hunt form in such a way that he was inviting an opponent to impale him. Karigan decided to oblige. With a single swift thrust of the bonewood, she knocked the sword out of his hand, then jabbed him in the belly. The clang of steel on the wooden floor echoed through the vast room. He staggered back, hunched over and clutching his belly, gasping for air, while simultaneously shaking out his sword hand. Karigan watched faintly amused while he tried to regain enough breath to swear.

  “What in damnation was that for?” he roared.

  It was a pleasant surprise to see the usually stoic Cade show some anger. “Your sloppy technique provoked me.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “Enough to disarm you, evidently.”

  “You could have caused me to injure you by interfering like that.”

  “You’re more likely to injure yourself,” Karigan observed.

  Cade’s face reddened as he fought to stifle his anger. He swiped his sword off the floor. “How do you know? Girls may have played at carrying swords back in your day, but they could hardly fight men.”

  His pronouncement irked her, but she could hardly blame him for the teachings of his world. The empire had reduced the roles of women significantly from what she’d been accustomed to in her own. Women couldn’t even bare their faces in public and were relegated to passivity, systematically made powerless by the rules of the empire. If this was all Cade had ever known, she could not expect to change his attitude about “girls” in one evening, but she could try.

  “Apparently you do not have all the facts of your history correct.” The bonewood hummed toward his face and he barely blocked it in time. The blood now drained from his cheeks. If she’d the use of her dominant hand, she might very well have bashed in his face had she so desired. As it was, she easily disarmed him again by catching the crossguard of his sword with the bonewood and yanking it right out of his hand.

  He bent once again to retrieve his sword, rage building in his expression, but she stepped on the blade and jabbed the tip of the bonewood into his neck. He stilled. “I’m a swordmaster initiate,” she said, “as were other girls of my time, as were so many who came before me over the generations. You forget that the armies of the Long War were filled with females because so many of the men had died, and many were children when they took up arms. You forget that girls were swordmasters and Weapons. Even female Green Riders, who never trained for swordmastery as I have, are very handy with swords and are taught to fight men as well as other girls. If this bonewood were a sword, and we were enemies, I’d have killed you at least three times already.”

  She removed her foot from his sword blade and withdrew the bonewood from his neck. It left a red mark on his skin. He stood, sword in hand, once again trying to master his anger. “We don’t fight with swords here,” he snapped. “We use other weapons.”

  “Like your guns?” She gestured at the cabinet with several of the objects displayed behind glass.

  “Like the guns,” he replied with a curt nod.

  She still did not understand exactly what the guns did, but she understood swords. “If you don’t use swords, why bother to train with them?”

  “For discipline. To master the techniques of . . . of the past. Of the Bl—swordmasters.”

  Karigan narrowed her eyes at him. It had sounded like he almost said, “Black Shields.” His demeanor had reminded her of the Weapons she knew. Her suspicions were roused, but she chose not to pursue them at the moment. “If you are going to work with swords, even if just for discipline, you should do so correctly to properly honor those who perfected the techniques. To do otherwise shows disrespect.”

  Cade started to protest, but the professor cleared his throat, startling Karigan who had been so intent on Cade that she hadn’t heard his approach.

  “You would do well to listen to her, Cade,” the professor said. “The king would not have anointed her a knight without cause, especially since there had been no knights for two hundred years previous.” To Karigan he explained, “I train Cade in the techniques as they were handed down to me, and as they’ve been handed down in secret since the rise of the empire, but as you can see, we’ve remembered them imperfectly. Cade, I believe you have a new teacher.”

  Cade’s mouth dropped open. It would be, Karigan thought, a huge challenge for him to accept her as a teacher, but she relished the thought of actual arms practice and not just sneaking through forms with the bonewood in her bedroom.

  “I am returning to the house now,” the professor said. “See that Miss Goodgrave is also returned before dawn.”

  Cade nodded.

  “Good night, then,” the professor said, and he strolled away from them across the mill floor.

  Karigan and Cade watched him until he disappeared through the door, and then they glanced uncertainly at one another. Unable to hold her gaze, Cade paced restlessly, testing the heft of his sword. Would he accept her instruction, even when told to do so by the professor? Or would he prove obstinate, too stuck in the ways of the empire?

  He paused, and without looking at her, he said, “This all seems very improper. Females do not teach. They bear children and keep the home. They certainly do not teach sword fighting.”

  Karigan sighed, thinking that any discussion between them would deteriorate rapidly into philosophical arguments, but Cade continued, “However, I know things were once different, and if we are to defeat the emperor, we must shed the ways of thinking he has shackled us with. Teach me what you can.”

  She nodded, guessing how humbling a concession this was for Cade to make. With renewed respect, she said, “Why don’t you show me all the forms the professor has taught you, one at a time, beginning with the most basic.”

  Cade complied, and as he performed one form after another, Karigan commented and corrected as necessary. When she had to, she stopped him to demonstrate the proper execution of a form, using her bonewood as her sword. Occasionally she had to position Cade, placing her hands on him, to move his shoulders or arms or legs. Initially he flinched at her touch, but as they went on, he relaxed. She could only imagine what Arms Master Drent would think of his least-favored student teaching another.

  “I want to show you that Crayman’s Circle into Aspen Leaf you had trouble with before,” she said, “so you know what it’s supposed to look like.”

  Cade rested his sword tip on the floor and placed his other hand on his hip, waiting as if he were simply indulging her. Karigan dropped her shawl to the floor and pushed it aside with her foot. She inhaled deeply and settled into her starting stance, but unlike Cade, she allowed no time to pass. She released her breath and began.

  Although she was not in top form and relying on her left hand did not come as naturally to her, the movement felt good. So good that she did not stop with Aspen Leaf, but flowed into a series of forms that was one continuous progression, a dance ascending and falling to accompaniment of the silent tempo so ingrained in her that it beat through her whole being. She twisted and turned, the bonewood carving the air. Unleashed from her burdens, unhindered by the fear of someone discovering her secret practices, she lost herself in the freedom of motion. Her body awoke to the dance stretching, flexing, blood surging, her hair flowing about her shoulders, her nightgown billowing. Her slippers flew off as she leaped and whirled, shoulders rotating and hips following. She landed lightly on bare feet only to surge seamlessly into the next form.

  She became unconscious of her surroundings, of her exile here from her own time, of Cade’s gaze. Though most forms demanded restraint and minimal movement, she felt as though she soared, choosing to repeat those forms that required the big leaps, the long-reaching strokes. Then showing the utmost control, she stopped. Simply came to a standstill, back erect, the point of the bonewood coming to rest on the floor. Her hair brushed across her shoulders and settled. She panted a lit
tle, felt how her nightgown clung to the perspiration on her skin. Cade just stared. She could not read him. She shrugged and slid her feet back into her discarded slippers, and retrieved her shawl. And still he stared.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  “You—you are a swordmaster . . . ?”

  “No,” she replied acerbically, thinking he was going to launch into criticism. “I am a swordmaster initiate. I may never make swordmaster.” She definitely would not if she couldn’t find her way home to resume training. “Swordmasters are the best of the best.”

  “I—I can’t believe there are any better than what you just showed me.”

  A tart reply formed on Karigan’s tongue, accustomed as she was to the criticism and sarcasm that she always received from Drent and her fellow trainees, but then she saw the awe forming in Cade’s eyes.

  “I have never seen anything like that,” he said. “Such beauty . . .”

  Taken aback, she did not know what to say, especially when Cade knelt before her as if in obeisance.

  “You can teach me how to . . . how to do as you did?” he asked.

  “Um . . .” His tone was so humble, his reaction so unexpected that it took her a moment to regain equilibrium. “I think so. It’ll take some work though.” She smiled tentatively.

  Cade seemed to collect himself then. “Good. I had no idea what . . . I just had no idea.” He bowed his head, then stood.

  Karigan wasn’t sure whether he meant he’d had no idea of what she was capable, or what the forms were supposed to look like when executed properly.

  “It’s fortunate you are left handed,” he said, indicating her right wrist in its cast.

  “I’m not. I’m right handed.”

  Cade stared once again.

  His discomfiture both pleased and amused Karigan. “I was made to train my left side after a previous injury to my right elbow. Swordmasters, especially those who become Weapons, are trained to be capable fighters using their whole bodies.”

  Cade shook himself. “Seems I’ve a ways to go.” He turned and placed his sword on its wall mount, and stood there in silence for a moment before striding over to the closest window. Behind the drapes it was boarded over, but there was a minute crack he peered through. “It is nearly dawn,” he announced, “so we’d better head back.”

  As he dressed, she glanced at the cabinet of guns once more.

  “Tell you what,” she said, “if I help you with the sword work, you can teach me how to fight with your gun weapons.”

  Cade cocked an eyebrow. “I will have to ask the professor, but I will do so if he permits it.”

  “Good,” Karigan said. It occurred to her that if she learned the use of advanced weaponry from this time, she might be able to reproduce and use it in her own, bringing Sacoridia an advantage over its enemies. It could change everything.

  A CAT, THE GHOST, AND RAVEN

  On their return journey to the house, Cade rarely spoke, but treated Karigan with deference. She caught him stealing surreptitious glances at her as they walked through the underground. His awe made her uncomfortable enough to wish he’d go back to his former dismissive self. What would he have thought of her performance if she’d been in top form?

  Before they entered the library, he lightly touched her arm as if to reassure himself she was real. “You will teach me more?” he whispered.

  “Yes. Of course.”

  He nodded gravely, and then they emerged into the library, as the shelves that concealed the secret passage closed behind them. They made their way to the foyer, and Cade quietly let himself out through the front door. She wondered where he lived that he could sneak around at odd hours. Then she shrugged and returned to her bedroom. The first thing she noticed when she got there was that the window was open, the curtains billowing in a cool breeze that curled into the room.

  “What . . . ?”

  She hurried over to the window wondering who had opened it and how it had been done without rousing Mirriam. She inspected the window finding nothing amiss, but when she touched the inner edges of the frame, her fingers came away greasy. Someone had oiled the window so it wouldn’t screech when opened. It was not entirely the cool air that gave her a chill.

  The second thing she noticed in the pre-dawn dusk filtering into her room was a cat sitting on her bed, watching her. It was the stray that had come to her window before.

  “Hello,” Karigan said, glancing around her room to make sure there were no other surprises awaiting her. “Did you open the window?”

  The cat just yawned and flopped, rolling from side to side, rubbing his whole body into the comforter. Lorine had referred to the stray as a “he,” and Karigan saw she’d gotten his gender correct. Karigan sat beside him and stroked his cheek. Before she knew it, he was bumping against her and purring so loudly she was sure it would cause Mirriam to come storming into her room.

  “You’re a nice kitty, very friendly,” Karigan murmured. He certainly wasn’t skittish as many strays were. “Maybe you’re not a stray at all, but just like to visit other houses.”

  She lay down on the bed, spreading her shawl over her like a throw, and the cat walked up her legs, sat on her belly, and started kneading her chest. “Ow!” she said as claws pricked her skin.

  A short time later he curled up on her stomach, his purrs vibrating through her body as she petted him.

  “Nice kitty,” she murmured, fading into sleep. “I think I’ll call you Cloudy.” His white and light gray fur made the name apt, and without worrying about who had opened the window, and content with a soft purring cat to soothe her, she fell into a deep slumber.

  • • •

  Pat-pat. Pat-pat.

  Karigan groaned. Despite her efforts to keep in condition, sword practice with Cade had left her whole body aching, and there was an uncomfortable weight on her chest.

  Pat-pat.

  She fluttered her eyes open to find the cat staring into her face, his paw raised to tap her cheek again.

  “Oh, Cloudy,” she murmured, remembering. She stroked his head, but he turned away and walked down her body, tail twitching. He crouched at the foot of the bed and stared off into the darkness of the far corner. His tail thumped on the comforter.

  Gray morning cast irregular shadows in the room and the curtains rustled listlessly. Karigan rose up on her elbows to see what the cat watched. At first she saw nothing, then she detected movement. Disregarding her aches and pains, she sat all the way up and stared. A filmy figure was seated in her chair facing away from her, seeming to write or draw on something on its lap. Faintly she could hear the scritching of its—his—pen.

  She swung her legs off the bed and stood. She took halting steps forward and paused just behind chair and ghost. He was still filmy, translucent, but better defined this time. His garb appeared familiar, looked like . . . looked like the uniform of a Green Rider. Who? she wondered. Someone she’d known? She could not see his face from behind, so she slowly started to circle around him fearing that any sudden move would cause him to vanish. She glanced at his drawing.

  It was a drawing of himself, from the same perspective she’d had of seeing him from behind. As he drew, his ghostly shape grew more solid, more defined, as if the act of drawing himself helped him materialize more fully. Faint green began to tint his uniform.

  As Karigan circled him, his profile grew more familiar. She knelt before him, now able to look into his face that was so intent on the drawing, and she knew.

  “Yates!” It came out as a throttled cry.

  He paused his sketching, and without looking at her, raised his forefinger to his lips. And vanished.

  A faint green afterglow wavered where he had sat, and then dissipated. Karigan knelt there hugging herself, fresh tears washing down her face, grief that she’d been unable to express before. She grieved for Yates, she grieved for all
those who she’d known and were now dead. From the perspective of this time, all of them were gone.

  The cat came to her with a questioning Prrrt? and then rubbed against her leg. It quieted her enough to hear the strains of a distressed whinny come through her open window.

  “Oh, no!” She swiped tears from her face with her sleeve, feeling Raven’s urgency, his need, ringing through her. She ran from her room with neither her shawl nor slippers. She pelted down the corridor, one door opening in her wake. Mirriam called after her. Karigan ignored her and charged down the stairs, and then to the back of the house past bleary-eyed servants just beginning their day.

  She threw open the back door and raced across the yard toward the stables, her healing leg hindering her not at all. Raven’s sharp whinnies called to her, and when she entered the stables, she found him rearing in the center aisle, only one cross-tie secured to his halter, and she had no doubt he’d rip it out of the wall, bolt and all, at any moment. Standing before him, with a carriage whip in her hand, was Arhys, a small figure in contrast to the huge stallion. Trapped beyond Raven, just out of range of deadly hooves, stood Luke and his stable boys still in night dress, unable to get around the horse to stop Arhys.

  What did the girl think she was doing? Did she have no sense of the danger she placed herself in?

  Arhys laid the whip back, preparing to lash Raven. “Stupid horse!” she cried.

  Raven reared again, bellowing, hooves thrashing. He would kill Arhys.

  “No!” Karigan cried, and she lunged forward and grabbed Arhys. The danger of the moment gave her the surge of strength she needed to heave the girl out of the way. Karigan, however, lost her footing and fell prone beneath descending hooves. She scrunched her eyes closed and gritted her teeth against the pummeling that could crush her.

  And felt a whiffling against her ear instead. She rolled to her side and saw that by some miracle, or quick reflex and wit of Raven’s, that his front legs had not crushed her, but straddled her body instead. He nickered at her questioningly. She reached with a shaking hand to pat his nose.