Sword of the Bright Lady

by M. C. Planck

  Apparently the daughter was not the only one with a juvenile assessment of the situation.

  “Thank you,” Christopher said with deep sincerity.

  “Clearly my authority is being circumscribed,” the Cardinal said with a sour look. “I must respect the will of the gods, assuming I can figure out what that is. It seems at least that I must not forbid this duel.

  “But I can demand that you reconsider it. Do you really wish to start your career as a priest with an act of aggression? Will you take up the sword, and perhaps perish by it? Can you see no other way forward? Yes, I know, you are a priest of a god of War. But this does not excuse you from justifying your violence.”

  “What other options do I have?” Christopher said.

  “Money, and letting Hobilar flog you until his arm falls off, should suffice. You can pay us back out of your stipend and heal yourself afterwards. I will swallow my objections to letting a priest be flogged, on account of your newness.”

  Having just discovered he would be getting paid, Christopher was in no mood to be robbed, despite the Cardinal’s noble sacrifice. “Aren’t you sending me to war? Then shouldn’t I get used to fighting?” The bravado died as soon as it was born, however. Christopher turned to Karl for support. “I can beat him, right? I mean, I did once. And now . . .” Christopher held the sword up to admire it. The others shrank back, save for Karl, who smiled his grim, flat shadow of a smile.

  “Not only that, but rank and magic as well.”

  “Priestly magic,” Svengusta objected.

  “Still more magic than Ser Hobilar commands,” Faren agreed. “And the appearance of the sword is a tangible sign of the favor of a god. Hobilar may yet be brought to his senses.”

  “If not,” Karl said, “it is unlikely either of them will actually die. They are only first ranks.”

  There was that, too. “You can just revive me, can’t you?” Christopher said.

  Faren looked truly sad. “I must be honest. I cannot say what Saint Krellyan will do, but my counsel will be to leave you in the ground, as a lesson to anyone else that would challenge Church policy. The political cost of reviving you may be greater than we can afford.”

  “Consider too,” Karl said, “that with death you lose a rank, and you have only one to lose. The Saint will not restore it, even if he returns your life, so you will serve out your draft as a common man, without the advantages of priesthood.”

  “Maybe we could fight until first blood?” Christopher asked hopefully.

  “With that?” Karl frowned at the heavy sword. Christopher looked at it again and was forced to concede the point.

  “When fools play with swords, accidents are never far behind,” the Cardinal warned. “Perhaps Marcius intends you to fight a duel, but surely you understand that the outcome is not decided. Even if it is the god’s will that you fight, you may not win . Thus, the choice must be yours.”

  The image of Hobilar’s arrogant, bullying face swam in Christopher’s vision. “I’ll take my chances.”

  Faren sighed. “Then you must take them alone. I will declare you of the Church of Marcius and thus not under my orders. Understand this means you are not under my protection, either.”

  “Whose orders would I be under?”

  The Cardinal smiled wanly. “I hesitate to answer that, because you are after all a relatively young man. You, as the sole priest of Marcius in the realm, would in yourself incorporate the entire Church.”

  The knowledge that he had joined a defunct religious order was not exactly comforting. “I can’t pretend I can survive without your help.”

  “You will still enjoy the same protections as any other citizen of the lands of the Lady,” the Cardinal admitted, “which I take great pride in saying are considerable. And you will still be subject to Krellyan’s orders, as he is the ranking priest of the Lady, whom you also serve.”

  “For the next three years you will be under the orders of the King,” Karl said. “As are all draftees.”

  The Cardinal took the sword from Christopher and handed it back to the smith. “Dereth, keep this until after the trial. Karl, reconvene the court. I shall continue to hatch my petty plans, despite the gods’ disdain.”

  Cardinal Faren glared at Hobilar, who studiously raised his bottle for another drink.

  “Ser Hobilar, as Pater Christopher serves the Consort Marcius, god of War, I cannot forbid him from accepting your challenge. But your honor also allows you to show mercy and understanding. Will you not set aside your quarrel for peace?”

  Hobilar stood up. “You priests must learn to respect the sword that keeps your borders safe.” He set the bottle aside and causally picked up his helmet. “Step outside, Pater. We have business to conduct.”

  Christopher felt a cold stab of fear. Before he could react, the Cardinal rescued him again.

  “Krellyan’s law requires that you delay your duel for a full day, which you must spend in reflection of your desire to commit violence. Return here tomorrow, at this time, if you must.”

  With a snort, Hobilar took his leave, pointing to the doorway and winking at Christopher on the way out.

  5.

  DUEL

  Faren had a coach-and-four, the most impressive vehicle Christopher had seen in this new world. He watched it rolling away, carrying Pater Svengusta and the Cardinal to town. Faren would return the next morning for the duel; Svengusta would return that night, with books borrowed from the head of Novices in Knockford, to teach Christopher what he needed to know of magic. A single evening seemed inadequate to master a field so entirely new, but Christopher was hardly in a position to object.

  They did not leave Christopher alone. Karl and a pair of soldiers stayed behind to stand guard over him in the chapel. The men had large wooden shields, which gave Christopher an idea.

  “Hobilar’s going to have one of these, right?” he asked Karl.

  “He is allowed three,” Karl said. “Should you succeed in breaking one, he can call for its replacement.”

  Hobilar’s shield was made of steel. He wouldn’t need to replace it.

  “I think I need some practice. Are you up for it?”

  “I am not ranked,” Karl said, his voice perfectly even.

  What the hell does that matter? thought Christopher. “So? You still know how to fight, right?”

  Karl gave him the most peculiar look, one that Christopher simply could not make any sense of. “Yes. I know how to fight.”

  “Then maybe you could give me a few pointers. For instance, I’ve never faced a shield before.”

  “Shields are not used in your land?” Karl showed a glimmer of surprise. So the ice-man had emotions, after all.

  “No,” Christopher replied honestly enough, “they’re not terribly fashionable anymore.”

  Karl borrowed a shield and a helmet, and armed himself with an ax handle from the woodpile. Christopher belatedly remembered there would be no protective gear or padded weapons. He would have to trust to the young soldier’s skill and discipline to not get hurt.

  When he performed the traditional half-bow between sparring partners, Karl hesitated before bowing back and raised his shield.

  Christopher stepped in for a basic men strike, his bokken held overhead and cutting straight down, putting his height to good use. Karl brought the shield up fast, faster than Christopher would have imagined possible, ducking under it and letting the bokken slide off.

  Then he clubbed Christopher solidly across the ribs.

  “Ow,” Christopher said, before he realized it didn’t hurt nearly as much as he had expected. The force of that blow should have broken his ribs. He looked down in perplexity, but he wasn’t even sore. The only injury was to his pride, as the chortling guards complimented Karl on his technique.

  “You are newly promoted,” Karl said by way of apology. “I did not think you depleted.”

  Apparently whatever effect protected Hobilar now protected Christopher too. That was a welcome development.<
br />
  “Let’s not deplete me any more than necessary,” Christopher said, and raised the bokken again.

  Karl hefted his shield, and for the next two hours they fenced, lunging and parrying. Or rather, Christopher parried while Karl lunged. The young man attacked relentlessly, taking every opportunity to strike regardless of how exposed it left him. This was completely opposite to Christopher’s training, which heavily emphasized the value of not getting killed.

  Although Karl pulled his blows after the first one, mistakes were inevitable. A number of serious hits left little more than bruises, but eventually a blow slipped through that left Christopher gasping through the pain and seeing stars. He sat down, almost collapsing, the anxiety that drove him burned out with the last of his strength. His muscles were sore, a few probably torn, and a dozen lumps were forming inside and out. Idly it occurred to him that he would not be in any condition to fight tomorrow, but he was no longer physically capable of being afraid.

  “Why do you always attack?” Christopher asked, dropping his bokken on the floor to signal surrender.

  Karl dropped his shield and club, squatting near him. He struggled out of the chain-mail tunic, letting it pool on the floor in a jangling mess. Christopher was embarrassingly gratified to see Karl had his own share of lumps, at least one of which was seeping blood.

  “The goal is to deplete the foe’s tael before he depletes yours. Defense is merely giving the enemy free attacks. As an unranked soldier, my only hope is to land one strike before being slain, and trust to my comrades to finish the task.” The other soldiers nodded their agreement. “Had we fought for real, you would have absorbed my first blow and then cut me down.”

  Helga timidly crept into the room, bearing a tray of bowls. Porridge again, but the soldiers dug into it without comment. With considerable relief Christopher observed that as long as Karl was in the room, Helga seemed to completely forget about flirting with him. Karl took this without comment, as well.

  One of the double doors creaked open, and Svengusta entered, covered in snow.

  “Still alive, I see,” the old man said. After dumping a bag on the floor and struggling out of his cloak, he took a closer look. “But only barely. What have you done to him, Karl?”

  “Provided an education,” Christopher said. “At my request.”

  “It’s likely to be the least painful of your lessons today,” Svengusta said, “and the easiest to repair.” He spoke a prayer and touched Christopher. Instantly the pains were gone, the bruises healed, and Christopher felt whole and rested again.

  “Wow.” The surge of good feeling could not be contained. “Can you fix Karl? He’s as beat up as I am.”

  “I don’t need him to be able to concentrate.” Svengusta went over to the young man anyway. Karl looked like he wanted to object, too, but Svengusta didn’t give him a chance.

  “Thank you, Pater,” Karl said after the prayer.

  “How many times can you do that?” Christopher asked. “More to the point, how many times can I do it?” If he could heal himself during his duel, that could turn the tide of battle.

  “All will be made clear.” Svengusta took a pair of heavy leather-bound books out his bag. “Though I need to wet my whistle before starting. It has been a while since I was expected to lecture to novices.”

  Christopher picked up one of the books and was not surprised to see that he could read the words without difficulty even while he recognized it was in a different language. He was so engrossed that it took him a minute to notice that Svengusta was staring at him.

  “What?”

  “You can read?” Svengusta said.

  They accepted magic and superhuman endurance as normal, but literacy made them stare?

  “No common soldier, then.” Karl spoke neutrally; nonetheless Christopher thought to detect the faintest tincture of acid in his tone.

  “Well, then.” Svengusta handed him the other book. “Read as much of this as you can before dinner. Then we will see.”

  He swam through the books, taking pleasure in the simple act of reading. It had been days since he had even seen writing. Or paper.

  The text was small, handprinted, and dense. One book was in the common tongue, and it taught him that the name of the prayer language was Celestial; the other was written completely in elaborate glyphs of Celestial. Disconcertingly, the glyphs were different every time he looked at them, although they kept the same meaning.

  Some of the content was the basics of a liberal education: analysis, logic, problem solving. Some of it was general wisdom: self-­discipline, ethics, diplomacy. At forty, with a black belt in a martial art and a college degree, Christopher felt comfortable with those topics.

  But what lost him was the context. He could relate to the rituals, like he could relate kata to the art of kendo. He could understand the effects of magic, having experienced it firsthand. But what he couldn’t make any sense of was how it all worked. The underlying basics seemed to be missing. There was no discussion of fundamental forces or principles. He couldn’t find any reference to a Newton, with his mathematical expressions, or even a Euclid and geometry. All the rules were semantic and contextual, instead of syntactic and formal. This whole attitude, of expecting you to either not care or already know about the underlying mechanics, was the kind of crap he expected from computer manuals, not scientific papers.

  Computer manuals. That’s exactly what he was reading. How to interface with an incredibly complex system that was largely the product of arbitrary decisions. But not completely artificial: it wasn’t law or philosophy. There were inflexible, if incomprehensible, rules that had to be followed.

  The rituals were like passwords and procedures, to run specific programs. Each program did its own thing, and in fact was often unrelated to the other programs, as if each one had been written by a programmer with little knowledge of or less concern for what others had done before.

  And tael—tael was bandwidth. Tael was how much giga-whack you could get from central computing before they cut you off for the day. The ability to instantly heal some damage was just a side benefit.

  Global dissemination, expensive bandwidth, no user-interface standards, and chaos for organization. He’d traveled God-knew-how-many miles from home and found the damn Internet all over again.

  There was a ritual for readying the rituals, which turned out to be meditation again. He was alone in the chapel at the moment, everyone else having retreated to the kitchen. Watching him read was apparently not as interesting as watching Helga wash dishes.

  He forced the noise of the kitchen out of his head, ignored the snatches of conversation and laughter, and went to his snowy childhood. The meditation was difficult, but the trance it brought on was more than just a state of mind. The hallucination was vivid and real.

  In front of him, on the white dark-bright moonlit street, stood an empty suit of armor. It addressed him in chill and hollow tones, although not unfriendly.

  “Greetings, Pater Christopher,” it said, or rather he, since it was clearly a male voice. “How will you serve the Marshall of Heaven today?”

  “I need a menu,” Christopher said. “Help? Where’s the help key?”

  The apparition was a little taken aback. “I cannot provide instruction. You should look to your elders for that. I can only provide you with spells.”

  “It’s my first time. Do you have any default settings? Preferably for a duel or just general fighting.”

  The suit paused, considering. Christopher couldn’t make up his mind if the suit of armor was a program or not. On the one hand, it seemed to interact like a real person, even displaying emotions despite a total lack of facial features or even a face. On the other hand, it felt a lot like talking to Siri on an iPhone.

  “The most commonly requested spells before a duel are these.”

  Pearly symbols appeared in the air next to the suit of armor. They were fantastically complex, like Chinese ideographs gone wild, subtly shifting shape wh
enever he stopped focusing on them. Yet he could divine their meanings as easily as reading a sentence. The suit took the symbols down and handed them to Christopher.

  “Okay, thanks. Anything else?”

  “No, young priest,” the apparition said with amusement, “you are charged with only this much of the Marshall’s power.”

  The suit of armor and the snowy background began to fade, and Christopher found himself concentrating fiercely on the mystical glowing pretzels in his hands. Keeping them intact and separate without dropping them drained his attention like an open spigot. The symbols slid through his fingers without sensation, and only pure thought kept them from drifting away. But it was a losing battle; eventually they faded like the afterimages of a bright light, and he felt saddened by the loss of beauty.

  When Christopher came to his physical surroundings again, Svengusta was watching him. “I intended to offer you advice on what spells to prepare, but I am glad you did not take it. An old village healer is perhaps the worst source of wisdom before a battle. I am not even sure of the rules for dueling.”

  “There are rules?”

  “Many,” Karl said, coming into the room, “as any village boy could tell you, no doubt in exacting detail. But in your case, you need only worry about surviving. What will you do for armor?”

  “Nothing,” Christopher said. “I don’t need armor.” Your armor is in your mind, his sensei used to say. Not getting hit was the key.

  Karl stared at him, as if the words were a challenge. Then he shook his head. “Shameful enough that we throw you to wolves with hardly a day’s rest. Must we send you defenseless?” He began unlacing his chain-mail tunic.

  “I don’t want it,” Christopher said, but Karl ignored him.

  To Christopher’s surprise, the heavy armor did not impede his movement. It also fit well; although he was taller than the younger man, he was no broader around the shoulders. The weight of it gave him confidence.

  “And how shall you perform your duties without it?” Svengusta asked Karl.