by J D Abbas
As Silvandir clasped her hand, Elena warned him, “I’m not very good at this. Your toes may be in grave danger.”
“I’m known to be reckless on the dance floor. It is a risk I’m willing to take. But I must warn you, I’ve been guilty of trampling a few toes myself, and my boots are much larger.”
That turned out to be an utter lie. Silvandir was smooth and flawless as they danced. He even managed to converse with her without breaking the flow.
Soon Shatur interrupted, asking for a turn. Elena noticed he had a glove covering his deformed hand, which he usually left exposed; it was that one she was supposed to grip. She hesitated, unsure what to do.
“Just grab hold of it,” Shatur said, his smile bright. “It won’t bite. I promise.”
Elena blushed at her own silliness and held his hand. Soon they were moving around the dance floor, and she forgot about his damaged limb, swept up in the joy of the moment. Shatur conversed easily and encouraged her to trust him as he added a few extra twirls into the dance. His hand on the small of her back guided her when she forgot which direction to move. “Trust the music and your body’s natural rhythm,” he said, when she stumbled. “Mistakes are part of the process.”
Elena had never had so much fun. She danced with each of Celdorn’s inner circle, with the exception of Mikaelin who never left his seat, though she saw him smiling at the others. No one outside her regular escorts dared to dance with her, though she did participate in several group dances, two done in a circle and the one in a line. By the time she returned to her adai, she was exhausted.
“Thank you, thank you,” she said, kissing each of their cheeks. “What a lovely night.”
Elena settled into her seat and took a sip of her wine. Soon, she became aware of three young women to her right, who were whispering to each other and glancing her direction. One looked familiar, and Elena realized it was the weaver’s daughter, a girl whose mother had often whisked her away whenever she encountered Elena in Rhamal. The mother would toss her nose in the air—much like the girls were doing now—and hurry away, as if she might catch some dreaded disease from Elena.
She wondered how many people in the village knew what she was and if any of them ever considered that she might not have been doing it by choice. One of the Guardians nudged the weaver’s daughter and another seemed to be rebuking the girls. When next they turned to look at her, their eyes were filled with pity, which was worse yet. Elena blushed and looked away, ready for the evening to be over.
Elbrion’s hand covered hers. “What’s troubling you, Sheyshon?” His near-colorless eyes studied her face with concern. When she felt him probing her mind, she set her guard.
“I’m just tired,” she lied. When he arched a disbelieving brow, she forced a smile. “I think I’m overwhelmed by all the attention.” And that was mostly true. “Being the daughter of the Lord Protector over all the Shalamhar and the daughter of the Prince of the Elrodanar is still a bit much to take in—and live up to.”
Elbrion broke into a broad grin. “We ask only that you be yourself. Nothing more. Grant yourself permission to let go of what was and be cherished for who you are now, the one you are choosing to be.”
But who was she, in truth? If she peeled back all the layers of roles she had played—lord’s daughter, adopted briochella, third-door visionary, empath, warrior-in-training, child-healer, whore, terrified girl—what would remain? Would there be anything left at her core?
And who was she choosing to be? Did she truly have a choice? Or was it all destined?
Elena glanced back at the village girls, and tears burned her eyes. Would others outside this small and protected community ever allow her to be anything other than the damaged tool they’d known and judged?
She looked away and clasped Elbrion’s hand, choosing to cling to his hope. He kissed the top of her head with a sad smile that said he understood.
Chapter 3
Elena swung Destiny with lethal force, spurred on by the clanging metal of the dozen practice bouts surrounding her, the air permeated with the odor of male sweat—Guardians in training, like her.
“I will be a warrior yet,” she murmured to herself as she moved through the warm-up drills with new determination. Her blade swished through the air, muscles taut with intent. “I’m not some helpless girl. I don’t need anyone’s pity.” She might be small, but she was growing stronger each day.
Elena was angry with herself. Last night’s festivities had been grand, and so much fun—apart from the voices in her head and the strange appearance of briochellai tossing about miniature stars—and she had allowed the pitying looks of a few village girls ruin it. All the old shame and self-doubt had assailed her throughout the night. Would she ever offer herself the grace that Elbrion had?
She swung Destiny in a two-handed sweep as if to slay the hated thoughts.
This sword will serve no other. The words etched on her blade suddenly echoed in her mind. According to Elbrion, it was a quote taken from some ancient prophecy. Elena stopped and held the blade flat, letting the light that filtered in through the high slits in the stone wall of the arena bounce off the blade. During the summer they kept few torches lit to minimize the heat in the training rooms, so it was difficult to see the tiny words etched in a beautiful Elnar script: Dhamarbria Elon Khletaeria atriomi du thador, The Swordbearer of Light, the Chosen, will rule this blade.
Elena tipped her head. She’d read it differently when she first received it from Celdorn, when she hadn’t yet studied Elnar. Atriomi can mean to serve or to rule, depending on the context. And the sentence, like so much of Elrodanar thought, could be taken two ways: the light’s chosen swordbearer will rule/serve this blade or this blade will rule/serve the light’s chosen swordbearer. Could either really apply to her? She’d only recently learned of the Jhadhela and the power of the light. The men around her had served it all of their lives, and collectively they held to being the fulfillment of the prophecy.
Her frown deepened, and she pulled the blade closer, running her fingers over the script. Both Dhamarbria and Khletaeria were in the feminine form. A chill skittered up her spine. You have more light in you than I will ever know. Yaelmargon’s words came back with a punch that knocked the breath from her. The master had been inside her mind, studied her inner world. Whatever he had seen or learned led to that statement and his abrupt departure from Kelach.
Elena gave her head a strong shake as the grief swelled again. This was too much for her. Her training, she could manage; these lofty thoughts and prophecies, she could not. She swung her blade again, feeling its weight and the power that surged as it moved. It strengthened something inside her. Maybe the internal warrior was near.
I will not be helpless. The sword swished. I will be no man’s victim—or woman’s. Even her thoughts growled as her mind focused on Anakh. “This is my Destiny,” she said aloud, thrusting the blade at her invisible nemesis.
A defiant smile spread across her face as she returned to her drills.
~
Elena leaned over, winded from her bouts with Braiden and Silvandir. It was a good feeling. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tobil moving toward her.
“Well done, Elena.” He patted her shoulder. “As I observed you just now, an idea occurred to me. Something I’d like you to attempt, if you’re willing.”
Tobil was a master trainer and still the most gifted of the Guardians in the use of weapons, in spite of the fact that since the battle with the Zakad in Rhamal he had only one functioning arm.
“I’ve noticed your skills surpass the other first-year students and many of the second. You have an animal-like instinct and clarity of focus they lack.” He headed toward one of the circles they used for practice bouts, blunted sword in hand, signaling for her to take her place opposite him. He held his blade up in the traditional starting position and nodded for her to do the same. “As we engage, I want you to close your eyes and envision your sword as an extension of yourself. Try
to sense my movements and respond intuitively.”
Elena didn’t move. Tobil had clearly lost his mind.
The weapons master laughed as if he’d heard her thoughts. “Let me show you.” He motioned to Silvandir. “Spar with me.”
Silvandir stepped forward, his broad form towering over Tobil. With swords in the ready position, Tobil closed his eyes. As Silvandir advanced, Tobil parried, blocking the swing of his blade. He then made a counterattack, which drove Silvandir back three steps. The two continued back and forth for several minutes though Tobil never once opened his eyes. It was as if he fought with his other senses. Fascinated, Elena wondered how that was possible.
Tobil lunged, surprising Elena, and brought his sword under and around Silvandir’s. With a sharp twist, he wrested Silvandir’s weapon from his grip.
As his blade clattered on the stone floor, Silvandir stepped back and rubbed his wrist. “I should know better than to allow you to use me as your foil. You find such joy in inflicting pain.”
Tobil grinned mischievously. “But you drove home my point, my behemoth friend.” He squeezed Silvandir’s shoulder then turned to Elena. “Are you willing to experiment with me?”
A smile tugged at her lips. “If you will treat me with more gentleness than you did Silvandir.”
Tobil dipped his chin, trying for a more sober expression, but the gleam didn’t fade from his eyes. Elena stepped into the ring, wiping her palms on her brown trousers. Tobil raised his blade, bringing it up and into the initial engagement position. He tipped his head toward her. “Close your eyes.” With a nervous breath, Elena readied her sword and did as instructed. “Feel the weapons interacting and let the sword lead you,” he explained. “Try not to plan the moves, but sense them.”
Elena thought it sounded ridiculous, impossible even, but she did her best to focus. When Tobil’s blade touched hers, she was surprised that the image was as strong in her mind as if her eyes were open. A vibration moved through Destiny, making her arms tingle. She saw a flash of metal and moved in anticipation, encountering Tobil’s blade exactly where she envisioned. Elena’s eyes popped open. “How did you do that?”
Tobil chuckled. “I didn’t; you did.” Her face scrunched up. “I’ve noticed you have a visionary ability, an intuitive sense, much like mine. It’s valuable in the use of weapons, even in hand-to-hand combat. Here, let me demonstrate.”
He put his sword down and motioned for her to do the same. “Close your eyes again. Now picture me in front of you, just like you did with the sword. Only this time there will be no point of contact to orient you. As I move my hand, try to sense its movement.”
In her mind’s eye, she saw his right hand swing toward her head, she lifted her arm and was surprised when she made contact, blocking his movement with her left wrist. A surge of energy burst between them in the brief touch. When she sensed him moving to grab her around the waist, she dove to the floor, ducking under his arm.
“Excellent. That’s exactly what I meant.”
Elena opened her eyes, rolled over, and let Tobil help her to her feet.
“You’re tired today, but we’ll practice more of this next time.”
“That was amazing. I had no idea.” She bowed toward him. “Thank you, Master Tobil.”
Laughing, he returned the gesture. “I look forward to watching your development.” Tobil stiffened suddenly. His face pinched with pain as he grabbed his left arm.
“What is it?” Elena studied the deathly pallor of his injured limb, something she usually avoided as it seemed to be a source of sorrow and embarrassment for this seasoned Guardian.
“There’s a strange prickling in my hand.” He shook his head, and his brow furrowed. “I’ve felt nothing in this arm since Rhamal.” During the attack on her brother Lavan’s home, a Zakad had nearly ripped the flesh from Tobil’s arm, crippling it.
Tobil massaged the deadened limb as the shadow of pain increased.
“Is it getting worse?”
He hugged his arm into his belly. “It feels as if my arm is on fire,” he said through clenched teeth. Turning his back to her, he cursed repeatedly. “Forgive me, Elena, I must leave.” He glanced briefly at her before hurrying out the side door.
She watched until he was out of sight, wondering what was happening to him. Then she turned to look for Silvandir and Braiden. They were busy sparring, so Elena stepped to the rear of the arena to wait. She laid her sword on a bench, removed the blade blunts from her dagger, and secured it in the sheath on her hip.
“You’re quite good with a sword, Giara.” The deep voice came from close behind her. “Would you like to sheathe mine, all the way to the quillons?”
Elena froze at the use of her old name. An icy finger of dread traced her neck and continued down her spine as she turned. “W-who are you?” She couldn’t breathe.
Standing before her was a short, fair-haired man with a wide, middle-aged belly.
“I’m surprised you don’t remember me.” His bloated face adopted a look of feigned insult. “We’ve known each other intimately on many occasions,” he said, his voice a low, seductive growl. “I’m a friend of your father’s.”
“M-my father is dead.”
The stranger moved toward Elena. His hot breath warmed her neck as he whispered in her ear. “You should know better than that, my dear. Your father’s very much alive, and he wants you back. He misses his little slut.” The last word hissed as his tongue flicked into her ear. “You always were a lot of fun.” He chuckled as he drew his finger down her neck, stopping between her breasts. “Your father is searching for you and will never rest until he has you safely back in his bed. We all miss you.” He ogled her up and down, undressing her with his eyes and salivating with unabashed lust.
His derision roused something in Elena, and she welcomed the sense of her internal warrior drawing near. “Is this what you miss?” She tugged at his belt, pulling him against her.
“So you haven’t forgotten your skills while you’ve been here with all these saints. Or maybe they’re not so saintly after all. Do they make good use of you in this place?”
A shadow passed over Elena, and a well-contained fury swelled. “I’ve learned many things here,” she murmured as she gave him a seductive grin, loosened the laces of his trousers, and reached inside. “Rogaran men are amazing teachers.”
The man tensed, obviously pleased as Elena stroked him with her left hand, her back to the rest of the arena, concealing her actions.
“I’m glad you know your place.”
“I do,” she whispered, biting his ear as she tightened her grip. “I’ve been practicing my skills for moments like this.” Still holding him firmly, Elena stepped back. Her right hand slashed downward with her dagger, severing his manhood.
The stranger’s smug grin vanished. A brief look of shock transformed to fury. He lunged at her, his hand going straight for her throat. Elena’s dagger met his palm before he could make contact, piercing it through. He screamed in pain and grabbed for her with his other hand. Elena yanked her dagger free then ducked as the man moved over and past her. He stumbled and fell to the floor.
By this time, Silvandir and Braiden were at her side. The stranger rose with a roar of rage, the front of his clothes soaked with blood. Silvandir’s sword was at his throat before he could straighten, stopping any further trouble. Elena stared toward them, breathless. The room tilted then straightened.
“El-Elena?” Braiden’s voice was quiet as he stepped next to her and removed the dagger from her hand. “Are y-you all right?”
“Is she all right? What about me?” The man swayed as he cradled his pierced hand close to his chest and clutched his groin with the other. Crimson puddles pooled around his feet. “That stupid whore attacked me!”
Silvandir backhanded him. “You will not speak of the lady in that manner.”
“Lady? She’s a worthless slut.”
Silvandir struck him again, knocking him to the ground. “The next
time it will be my sword that teaches you some manners.”
The other trainees, seeing Silvandir with his sword to the man’s throat, came at a run, ready to assist. Two of them dragged the man to his feet.
Her mind a foggy blur, Elena studied the blood covering her and the stranger, unable to make sense of what she perceived. Her troubled eyes sought Silvandir’s. His gaze shifted to her left hand; hers followed. She screamed when she saw the grisly mass clutched in her fist. Braiden moved to her left and gently pried her fingers loose. When the lump of flesh dropped to the ground, a collective gasp went through the small crowd and several men took a step back. Elena gaped at it, then Braiden, horrified.
“Who is this man?” Silvandir asked her.
Elena rubbed her forehead, massaging the pain that throbbed.
“H-here.” Braiden handed her a small cloth and nodded toward her brow.
She wiped it then studied the bloodied cloth and her hand, suddenly nauseous.
“Elena?” Silvandir’s voice made her jump. “We’ll get you out of here in a moment. Please answer my question. Who is this man, and what did he do to you?”
“He’s a friend of my father’s. H-he said my father is alive and searching for me.”
“Your father associates with Rogaran?”
She frowned at Silvandir. “He’s not Rogaran.”
“What are you seeing?” Silvandir’s tone was calm and steady, but he seemed worried.
“A-a Wallanard man, about forty and only inches taller than me,” she replied. “Why, what do you see?”
“I see a man six and a half feet tall and dark, in his twenties, and obviously Rogaran.”
“Th-that’s what I see as w-well,” Braiden said.
Still in a daze, Elena found herself moving forward. She touched the man’s arm before Silvandir realized what she was doing and could stop her. He pulled her back and placed his body between her and the stranger.
Exclamations of surprise filled the room.
