by Brian Fuller
“I understand.”
“But tell me. . . I must confess that I expected a Tolnorian peasant to be less keen of speech and mind than you appear to be. You are, I assume, apprenticed after the tradition of your people?”
“Yes. I am apprenticed to be a bard.”
Mena smiled. “Wonderful! That explains much. You know how to read, then. And you are of the age to be betrothed come spring?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have someone special, then?” She motioned for Gen to come to the balcony and sit with her on comfortable chairs.
“No and yes,” he said, summarizing Regina’s betrothal to Hubert. Her eyes were riveted on his, and she absorbed every detail.
“You discourage me, Gen,” Mena commented after Gen finished. “I understood that marriages in Tolnor were of a kinder nature than ours. Most young women in my country are herded into a room where those our fathers deem worthy can choose whom they like, often in exchange for something. I thought that in Tolnor there was more consideration for the feelings of the couple.”
“It is more likely among peasants than nobility, but you can see that Regina’s parents hoped to elevate her, which is done as often as possible, however wrong I may see their choices to be. But why should our customs discourage you?”
“I am to marry one of your Princes.”
“Really? Who?” Arranged marriages were customary when alliances were sought between nations, but Aughmere and Tolnor had not exchanged sons and daughters in marriage for ages. Perhaps, he thought, the coming of the Ha’Ulrich would change that.
“Come,” she invited, and they returned inside, crossing to the wall where the portraits of the Kildan family hung. Duke and Lady Kildan were placed side by side, their male children beneath. Dason, one of the Chalaine’s personal Protectors, was to the side of his brother, Gerand. The difference in their demeanors was striking.
She pointed to Gerand. “It is him.”
Both Gerand and Dason were handsome men with blue eyes and dark hair. Dason’s face was rounder, jovial, and inviting, while Gerand’s long hair, sharper features, and thin goatee gave him a more serious aspect. Gen congratulated her.
“They are so different,” she remarked thoughtfully, as if she had known them a long time. “Dason is handsome and happy, confident and innocent, obviously having lived a life full of praise and encouragement. Gerand has known challenge and disappointment. No doubt he is burdened with the weight of living up to the reputation of a famous older brother.”
She removed Gerand’s portrait from the wall to study it more closely. “But look at his eyes! There is such determination and goodness there. He lives without the praise but doesn’t need it. There is a fire within him, a deep will to be the best of men as he sees it in his own mind. And, as he is Tolnorian and a gentleman, even if he weren’t generous—which I think he is—he would act it anyway.”
“When was the wedding arranged?” Gen inquired.
“It hasn’t been. Father says he will give me to Gerand when he has conquered Tolnor.”
Gen’s eyes widened. Give a prince to his daughter?
“What is wrong?” Mena asked, brows furrowed.
“Gerand isn’t likely to accept, even if ordered to do so,” Gen told her, not wanting to think about a Tolnor under Aughmerian rule. “The war will put him in great peril, as well.” She frowned, eyes nearly tearing, and Gen wished he could retract his comment. She steeled herself quickly.
“Gerand is to try for the Dark Guard next spring. Father has already let his Warlords know to leave him unharmed and not to hinder his travel to Rhugoth.” Gen’s mind reeled. Mena was indeed favored. She said, “But tell me, am I so undesirable that he would have nothing to do with me? I am not a stupid slave girl, and I have studied court manners!” Her vehemence caught Gen off guard.
“Listen, Mena, I meant no offense,” Gen said, hoping the Shadan wouldn’t show up and find that he had upset his dearest treasure. “You are beautiful, and I am sure you would make a wonderful wife, even in Tolnorian society. But you must understand that for a Tolnorian noble, weddings are about aligning yourself with another family. It may be hard for you to grasp, but by marrying you, Gerand would be allying himself with the family that overthrew his nation. He would lose his honor in the sight of his peers.”
This information struck her hard, her hand going to her heart as if Gen had just inserted a dagger there. Again, she composed herself, turning away. Gen had the unpleasant feeling of one who has murdered the dream of another.
“But if I can make him love me. . .” she countered. “If he loves me, then there can be no objections.”
Gen nodded, not wanting to reveal the problem with her reasoning. In Tolnor honor and duty superseded love, from King to peasant. An uncomfortable silence ensued. Mena crossed to the window, and Gen busied himself studying portraits, seeing for the first time the nobility of his homeland.
Putting faces to names proved entertaining, though Mena brooding nearby kept him edgy. The Shadan might return any moment to find his daughter upset, and if she was upset, Gen could only imagine what brutality the Shadan would deal to him as punishment.
A thought struck him. “Mena, do the paintings work with something like hair?”
“Yes,” she said, turning around, face still downcast. Gen reached into his pocket and removed the braided lock of hair that Regina had given him.
A smile returned to Mena’s face. “Is that Regina’s? Come, I would like to see her.”
She took down the portrait of Duke Sothbranne again and he touched the braid to the canvas. The painting swirled, revealing Regina’s beautiful face framed by curly blonde locks. Gen smiled to see it, as did Mena, though Regina’s soft blue eyes were tainted by fear and sadness.
“She is lovely,” Mena commented, “though she doesn’t carry the typical marks of Tolnorian peasantry, either.”
“Her father is a freeman and her mother is the daughter of a minor baron.”
“You are perfect for her, then. Similar in looks, and I can tell by her eyes that she must be intelligent. I am sorry that she was betrothed to another.”
“I don’t think it will matter,” Gen added sadly. “I doubt she or I will survive past winter.”
Shadan Khairn’s voice behind them surprised them both. “Such a pathetic tale, Gen,” Torbrand mocked.
“Please don’t kill her, father,” Mena said, stepping toward him. “And spare Gen, as well. Please.”
Torbrand laughed. With a tender smile he reached out and stroked her hair. “I see Gen has won your pity, which I should have expected. I will not kill the girl. As for Gen, I have something special in store. I cannot say he will not die, but I will promise that he will have a better chance than most of surviving.” Mena frowned but nodded her acceptance. Torbrand continued, “Follow me, both of you. There is food waiting for us.”
They took dinner on one of the balconies facing the sea. There Gen learned another Aughmerian custom—the women did not eat until after the men and then not in their presence. Mena, however, sitting uncomfortably to Gen’s left, was an exception. Several girls and one woman saw to their needs, refilling plates and cups the instant they neared empty.
“The woman is the Shadan’s first wife, Joselin,” Mena whispered to Gen as they sat. First wives managed the running of the mundane affairs of the estate. Despite her veil, Gen could feel the contempt the older woman and the other young women held for Mena.
Two of Khairn’s sons, Lodan and Horan, joined them. Gen guessed they were a little older than he was. They dressed as their father, all in black, and came armed with swords even to dinner. Lodan was fair-complected, Hodan dark, and both carried themselves with a confident air, swaggering to their seats. The meal proceeded in silence, Torbrand deep in some thought of his own.
The sun set on the opposite side of the house, and the slosh of the waves on the beach and the caressing breezes of the water relaxed Gen as he engaged in small talk with Mena. She
impressed him with her poise and knowledge. Lodan and Horan standing to leave distracted them.
“Lodan, come here,” the Shadan said. “Horan, you may go.”
Mena closed her eyes and shook her head.
Lodan turned toward his father, face composed. “Your will, father.”
“Mena, come.” Mena rose and crossed to Torbrand. “Now turn, dear.” Mena’s back faced Lodan. The Shadan lifted her hair, revealing deep bruises on the back of her neck.
“How did these get here, Lodan?” the Shadan demanded, face angry.
“Mena and I were just sporting with each other, father.” Lodan explained, fear overspreading his words. “I did not mean to harm her.”
“It was an accident, father,” Mena pleaded.
“You are kind to defend him, Mena, but you must understand that I know something of injuries.” The Shadan concentrated and the bruises faded. “I know what happened, Lodan. You tried to force her to eat a meal from the floor to amuse your sisters while I was gone. That you would try to cover it up only reveals your cowardice. You have harmed property that is not rightfully your own and I invoke the Challenge of Justice and demand you duel with me to first blood over the matter. If I win, you will become a slave and I will sell you into the care of another master.”
“You have no one to second! The testimony of women doesn’t count!” Lodan yelled anxiously.
“You are right. What you did was in the presence of women only, a further evidence of your weakness. But you seem to forget that I am the Shadan of Aughmere. I’ll just kill you because I am angry.”
Lodan dove away from his father and leaped over the side of the balcony. The Shadan’s sword flashed out and sliced Lodan across his legs before he fell two stories, flattening one of the many thick bushes surrounding the house. Mena ran to the balustrade and Gen followed. Lodan pulled himself from the tangle of branches and struggled to his feet, limping off in the direction of the high hill.
“I’ll catch him later,” Torbrand stated unconcernedly. “There aren’t many places to hide here.” He turned to a pale, shocked Mena. “Mena, dear, do not conceal these things from me. I will not take you to Tolnor with me, and I will not leave you in danger. I am sending you to Ironkeep for the rest of the winter. The soldiers there will have better sense than your own family, it seems.”
“Your will, father,” Mena acquiesced, though the idea was clearly distasteful to her.
“Now go pack your things. You leave at first light.” Mena left, and Torbrand ordered everyone else away after a slave lit a lantern against the dark.
Gen fidgeted nervously as the Shadan stared out at the calm sea, lost in thought. After several minutes, Torbrand’s eyes cleared and he stood up.
“Come here, Gen.” Gen crossed to where the Shadan stood near the balcony. “Eyes up, boy.” Khairn ordered. Gen stared over the Shadan’s shoulder. Khairn stood and took his sword from the mantle above the fireplace. Gen braced himself.
“Have you ever held a sword in your hands?” Khairn asked, fingers running along the ornate scabbard. “I know peasants in Tolnor are forbidden them.”
“Just an old sword Rafael has.”
“Did you like it?”
“I guess so.”
Khairn smacked him across the cheek with his open palm. Gen managed to keep his balance, but his face stung and he fought hard to keep the tears out of his eyes.
“Never answer me with ‘I guess so’ or ‘maybe’ or ‘perhaps.’ Those are words of the weak-willed and weak-minded. Did you like the feel of the sword?”
“Yes, I did, sir.”
“Good. Have you ever wanted to learn to use one?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is there anyone you want to kill? That buffoon that’s betrothed to Regina, perhaps?”
Gen was silent for a time, but Torbrand’s look warned him he was taking too long to respond.
“No, sir.”
This time the blow came with a fist, and it sent Gen to the floor, mouth bleeding. Tears stung his eyes, but he managed to stand again despite his reeling vision.
“Don’t lie to me again or I’ll kill you where you stand. Is there anyone you want to kill?”
“Yes, sir,” Gen replied, blood dripping off his lip and onto the floor.
Khairn returned to his seat. “Excellent.” For several moments he sat, running his finger affectionately along the blade. “Then learn to kill, you will. I wanted to teach my son the sword, but he being the ‘Blessed One’, the ‘Savior of the World’, somehow exempted him from my training. The crotchety old Churchmen and Magicians took him from me and decreed he should never touch a blade for fear he might hurt himself with it!” The range and insanity rose in the Shadan’s eyes. “So they raised him! How can a man be a Shadan and not know the sword? Can you imagine a King in your country not knowing the sword? It would be a disgrace! No one would even consider him a man. Now my son is a pathetic, spoiled peacock and I can hardly stand the sight of him! All he wants is to eat and dally and sleep. If he wants anyone killed, he orders Cormith to do it so he won’t soil his clothes! Damn Churchmen, Magicians, and scholars all!”
Khairn slapped the table, half-coming out of his seat. Gen stood still and silent, trying to rein in knees that wanted to knock against each other.
“Well,” Torbrand continued after calming himself, “you will keep me from spending this winter clawing the furniture and hearing the same songs over and over until I know them better than you.”
Gen wondered what he meant. He couldn’t quite believe that Shadan Khairn would actually expend the effort to teach him swordplay, but he soon found it to be true. The Shadan excused himself from the room for a few minutes and returned holding three necklaces, each with a transparent crystal. One was tinged white, one black, and the third blue. They were cut into pyramid shapes, and each had a hole drilled in the top through which a thin piece of leather had been strung.
“These are old, Gen,” the Shadan said, fingering them thoughtfully. “I used them to train Cormith and Omar. They were used to train me. In times long past, before the face of Trys was fully hidden, there were years of war and bloodshed the likes of which Ki’Hal has never known nor should hope to know again. It was during the first war with the creatures of Mikkik that the prophecy of the Blessed One was given. Pontiff Ethelion the Second, like many at the time, thought the advent of the Blessed One was to come soon, in a matter of years, and thus he sought zealously for the child among women. He also searched out the best warriors to serve to protect the Holy Child once he arrived.
“But the years stretched on and the Blessed One never came. In an act of unsurpassed devotion, during the Middle Peace, three of the most renowned warriors allowed the Pontiff to encase their minds and souls into these stones so that the knowledge these fighters possessed could be passed on to generations after. The Second Mikkikian War began not long after, and many soldiers were trained by the masters within these stones.
“You will find the language they speak to be foreign, but, despite not understanding their words, you will learn a great deal from them, often more than you’d care to.”
Khairn came forward and placed the necklaces around Gen’s neck.
“Usually only one is worn at a time, but we’ve no time for that. It won’t be easy for you at night. The stones awaken when you rest and will change you. Tonight I only have time to teach you two important lessons.”
He unsheathed his sword and handed it to a disbelieving Gen. Thoughts of killing Shadan Khairn flashed through his mind, though he knew he had little chance of even laying a scratch on the man.
“Attack me, Gen. I know you want to. Try it.”
Gen jumped at the invitation, and he thought he could muster up a swing both quick and strong. But even as the thought of harming Torbrand came to him, he found he couldn’t move his arms. They felt as numb as they had during his trip through the Whitewind shard.
Torbrand retrieved the sword. “That is the first lesson.
The virtue of the magic in the stones prevents the apprentice from harming the master during the lessons, though if you are a good pupil, I promise I will remove the stones and give you the chance.”
This last was said with a twinkle of anticipation in the Shadan’s eye. Now Gen understood what the Shadan was about. I’m to be the Torbrand’s little bit of fun before he gets around to slaughtering more hapless peasants.
“Now for lesson two. Run away. Get as far from this room as you think you can.”
Gen obeyed, though he recognized this would be another lesson in futility. He went into the hall, several of the young women there moving aside as he approached. With every step his legs grew weaker until he could hardly stand up without support. The women giggled, and only as he turned around and headed back toward Shadan Khairn did his strength trickle back into him.
“I can let you go as far as I wish,” Torbrand explained. “It’s not really a matter of distance but of whether I want to incapacitate you or not. We start back for your desolate town early tomorrow. Enjoy the comfort and the warmth while you can.”
Torbrand left Gen alone the rest of the night. He hoped to encounter Mena to ask her more questions about Ironkeep—the capital of Aughmere—before retiring but had no luck. Although it seemed the Shadan had given him the run of the place, Gen didn’t venture far, fearing he would do something wrong and incur his new master’s wrath. The room appointed for his use was sumptuously furnished with a large, comfortable bed, rugs woven in warm tones, and cushions everywhere.
Despite these luxurious arrangements, Gen had difficulty falling asleep, feeling an uneasy anticipation about the lessons Torbrand said the stones were to teach. As all boys did, he had fancied learning the sword, wielding sticks in pitched battles with youthful friends in the woods. Peasants weren’t allowed the weapons of nobility, however, and Rafael’s rapier was the only experience he had with swords—which was more than most in Tell. If a deadly encounter didn’t await the end of his training, he supposed learning from Torbrand Khairn, acknowledged as the finest swordsman anywhere, would be an opportunity beyond his imagining.
