by Joseph Lallo
“Did the devil on your shoulder say something?” Leo asked, shielding his face from the sea spray.
“She asked why anyone would do this.”
“Oh, well, there's the reason it needs to be done, and the reason we need to do it,” he said. “Here in Entwell, anything we can't grow needs to come from the sea or the lake. The wizards have rigged up these lines,” he said, indicating a network of ropes and pulleys that led all the way back to the top of the cliff, “and with them—and probably a fair amount more magic than they would care to admit—they can haul up more than enough fish to keep us fed. Sometimes, though, the ropes break, or the pulleys jam, or whatever enchantments they use to help things along fail, and someone needs to come down to fix them. And so there must be climbers. Of course, that didn't happen this time. In our case, it is a part of our training because we must learn to infiltrate, and frequently the best way to infiltrate is to use an approach that would normally be considered impossible. A castle wall, for instance, or an icy and precarious ocean cliff. We are tethered together to keep each other from falling. Weste feels it helps build trust, which I think we can both agree continues to be an area of weakness for our malthrope friend.”
“Well, it is the first bit besides the fighting that is no fun at all,” Fiora decreed.
“I must agree,” Leo said. “This is the second deadliest sort of training he's put together. I'm told half a dozen students have failed this particular test over the years.”
“What's the deadliest?” she asked.
“Say again?” Leo said, joining Shadow in hauling up the last bit of line necessary to tug the fish net ashore.
“She asked what the deadliest training is.”
“That would be the Lain Trial,” Leo said. “It also has claimed six lives, but it has only happened three times.”
“What is the Lain Trial,” Shadow asked. He did so more for Fiora's benefit than his own, but the name of the trial stirred some memories.
“It is a final exam—or, perhaps more accurately, a high honor for those wishing to become assassins. To be quite frank, one of us must kill one of the others. In each of the three prior trials, both combatants have managed to kill the other. The Lain Trial is entirely optional, and it only happens when at least two people seek the title. Right now, Sama is the only one of us who has expressed any interest. But enough of that. We’ve got to get these back up there so that we can call it a day.”
Contrary to expectations, the climb up was a good deal safer and easier than the climb down, if only because it was easier to see what was above than what was below. A few hours and they had reached the top again, tipping up the net of fish for it to be hauled away—mercifully, by others.
“I am not certain which is the more pressing need right now, a hot meal or a trip to the healers,” Leo said, holding up hands. They were raw and skinned from the climb. “These are going to be rather painful when the feeling returns.”
Shadow looked at his own hands, which were equally injured by the climb. Though it took a practiced eye to interpret the expressions on his usually stoic face, Fiora had managed to become an expert.
“Something bothering you, Mr. Malthrope, sir?”
He looked to her, then to his hands again. “I shouldn't go to the healer.”
“Why not?” Leo asked.
“Because when the time comes to leave this place, I won't be able to turn to healers.”
“You're still thinking of what you'll do when you leave this place?” Leo said, with smile.
“Of course. I came here to learn how best to serve my purpose. When I'm through, I'll return to it.”
“Well, I tip my hat to you. I honestly cannot remember the last time I thought about leaving this place.”
“I don't know if I ever thought about leaving,” Fiora added.
“That's a curious thing about Entwell,” Leo said.
“Mmm,” Fiora said. “Well, the mountain there—the one that the cave runs through—that's scattered through and through with fragments of casting stone, the crystal we use to focus magic. It makes it quite difficult to cast complex spells within the cave, and some of the other wizards suppose that it acts as a sort of dam, allowing mana to pool here in the village. Combined with the four major ley lines that meet here, it makes mystic manipulation very easy indeed. Perhaps that same quality has a focusing effect on the mind, increasing satisfaction and curiosity to the point that continuous study becomes an ideal for any who come here.” She turned the riddle over in her head. “The high levels of mana also make this place attractive to spirits, and spirits in turn have an affinity to the very strong of mind and single of focus. Perhaps they influence us to stay. Or perhaps it is simply that the very particular set of qualities that lead a person safely to this place are the same qualities that keep a person in this place. It could even be . . . why are you both staring at me? Doesn't the subject interest you?”
“I don't have the wizardly need to unravel the mysteries of the world. I was quite content to leave it at 'that's a curious thing about Entwell.' Now, if you'll excuse me, the throbbing is beginning to show its ugly head, and so I've decided that healer precedes meal. Will you be joining me? Or will you rely on time?”
“You could always learn a few healing spells,” Fiora suggested, “I understand it is one of the more frequent mystic disciplines that warriors like to add to their studies. And you are expected to add two mystic disciplines.”
“No.”
“Well, I suppose there is always the—oh, what is it called?” Fiora said.
“The Warrior's Sleep?” Leo supplied over his shoulder as he made his way toward the village. “I wouldn't recommend it if you want to keep your mind in once piece.”
“What is it?” Shadow asked.
“It is a sort of trance,” Fiora explained. “If you learn it properly, you can bring yourself very close to death, a sleep deeper than sleep, though your senses stay alert. It is enormously recuperative to the body. It does the work of hours of sleep, but in minutes. It speeds healing, too. We count it as a mystic discipline, but there is no real magic to it at all.”
Shadow considered her words for a moment. “Can you teach me?”
“Not me. You'd have to talk to Apprentice-to-the-Elder Ryala,” Fiora said with a yawn. “Sundown is still a few hours away. I'm going to have something to eat. I'll see you later for your lesson.”
As Fiora flitted away, Shadow hauled himself to his feet and coaxed his aching legs into taking him to the Elder's hut.
The inside of the hut, there was the same subdued chaos that always seemed to reign there. Today six heavily-armed warriors were in a very animated discussion. The Elder was listening quietly, leaving the keeping of order and civility in the hands of Ryala. She was speaking in a firm and authoritative voice, but things were quickly escalating. From what Shadow could determine with his growing understanding of the assortment of languages here, one of the masters of a very specific combat discipline had decided to pursue a new area of training; as such, his three top students would need to be assigned to a different master. The argument at hand was how precisely the hierarchy of apprentices would be adjusted. The current apprentices believed that the displaced ones should start at the bottom, while the displaced believed that they had earned top spots and should retain them. Presumably the discussion had begun with logic, but since then it had devolved through posturing, threats, and was now on the verge of violence.
“Warriors, you will comport yourself in a respectful and dignified manner, or you will forfeit the right to voice your grievance in the presence of the Elder,” Ryala stated.
The warning fell on deaf ears, and one by one the ring of steel could be heard, the two sets of apprentices taking up arms and selecting opponents. Their voices and weapons were raised. Ryala stepped between them, but they looked through her, eying their foes. With an almost imperceptible glance to her master, and a nod from him in return, she threw one hand to the side and opened her
fingers. A beautifully ornamented quarterstaff launched itself from a stand beside the Elder's seat and planted itself firmly in her hand. With a graceful twirl of the staff, she delivered a jolting blow to the fingers of the most agitated of the warriors, prompting a cry of pain and knocking his weapon to the ground. Five more blows, strung effortlessly together, struck skillfully selected weak points of each of the disgruntled fighters, sending some of them sprawling and others into hunched over fits of profanity. In the space of a few heartbeats, she was the only one armed and upright.
“As you are behaving as first-day apprentices, you shall be treated as them. You shall all approach your master and request apprenticeship. All earned titles and honors are stripped from you until the Elder sees fit to restore them. His will is spoken. Now go,” she decreed.
When the shock and sting of the attacks passed, the scolded apprentices filed out of the hut. Ryala huffed a breath and straightened her garb. Shadow approached her and received a respectful nod of acknowledgment.
“Do you require an audience with the Elder?” she asked, walking back to beside the Elder and replacing her staff, as though the previous act was of little concern.
“I was told you would be able to teach me something called the Warrior's Sleep.”
One of her thin eyebrows arched. “You wish to learn the Warrior's Sleep? For what reason?”
He held up his ravaged hands.
“I would recommend you see our healers. The Sleep is not to be undertaken lightly.”
“I will not always have healers. One day I will leave this place.”
“Then become a healer yourself.”
“I am told the Warrior's Sleep can refresh me more quickly than normal sleep, and without leaving me defenseless.”
“That is true, but it does not come without a price.”
“I am accustomed to paying a high price for the things I need.”
Ryala drew in a slow breath. “Come with me,” she said.
The stately elf excused herself from the Elder's presence and led Shadow out into the courtyard. They continued to walk with no clear destination. As they walked, she spoke.
“In the lives of all beings, there are moments, memories, feelings of which we wish we could rid ourselves. To live our lives, we push these things aside. We banish them to the darkest recesses of our mind and soul. For most of us, that is enough. These things may haunt us in our weakest moments, but they are suppressed. Controlled. The Warrior's Sleep works wonders, but in doing so, it drags the consciousness deep inside, to the shadows in which we exile our fears and sorrows. If you learn the Warrior's Sleep, you will be forced to face this part of yourself. You will see the unmasked truth within you. For many, it is more than their sanity can withstand.”
“I am willing to face such a risk.”
“Why? What about the mystic arts are so distasteful to you that you would sooner subject yourself to this trial by fire?”
“I don't want any more power. I don't want to rely upon things larger than myself. The outside is not like this place. I survive there only if I can vanish into the shadows. Power makes me more visible to people like you. To pull upon forces beyond me . . . it would be a curse, not a blessing. I must be able to rely upon myself alone.”
Ryala considered the words. “It is an enlightened view. Come, to your hut, then. It helps to be someplace you feel most at ease.”
The pair made their way to his home. In the time he had been in Entwell, he had done nothing to make it his. If not for the dismantled lamp that Fiora had been using in his education and the most recent book she'd been coaching him through, one scarcely would have known someone lived there at all. The only addition he had made was a small chest filled with a change of clothes and a rack containing the handful of weapons provided to him.
Ryala directed him to sit. He chose the floor. She sat in a chair behind him and spoke, her voice steady and deliberate. Over the course of many hours, she coached him, teaching him to clear his mind and withdraw it from the surface. He focused on the very most fundamental parts of himself—the rhythm of his heart, the coming and going of his breath. Session after session, she led him deeper, taught him to take control of these things, to slow them. Learning the sleep took time. It was no simple task.
Lessons became part of his routine, taking place after Fiora was through for the evening and lasting as long as Ryala was willing to remain. He pushed himself further each time, bringing his body closer to complete stillness, closer to death. As he did, he could feel the world around him drop away—yet, simultaneously, it became more vibrant and intense. He could hear every sound around him, smell every scent. He could feel the wind rustle his fur, and if he willed his eyes open, he could see as clearly as if he were fully awake.
In time, he began to feel the rejuvenation as well. The closer to death he pulled himself, the more quickly he felt the fatigue and injuries slip away. But, finally, there came the day that Ryala had warned about. He journeyed deep enough to find his demons.
Shadow had believed he was ready for what horrors might lurk in his mind when he was shut away deep within himself. He knew the images of his worst crimes. He had endured them in a dozen nightmares throughout his life. What awaited him, he reasoned, could not be worse. He was wrong. The sights, the sounds, the scents. They were all there for him, the horrid day on the plantation playing itself over . . . but with them came the feelings, the emotions that had been mercifully blotted from his mind by the intensity of the moment. He felt the anger, the hate at what had been done to him and those like him. But there was more. There was exhilaration, unbridled glee in delivering the justice so richly deserved.
He hadn't just performed these evils . . . he had enjoyed them.
When he pulled himself from the trance, Ryala was there with him. His eyes were wide, his breathing harsh. It felt as though his soul was on fire, his mind doused in scalding water. The Apprentice to the Elder looked into his eyes. With a knowing look, she placed a hand on his shoulder.
“I can see in your eyes that you have witnessed the worst of yourself. You are to be applauded for pulling yourself back from it. Many before you have been lost to such sights, ending themselves rather than enduring them. Are you prepared to face such things each time you choose to use the Warrior's Sleep?”
He looked down and slowly caught his breath. Outside, the sun had moved only slightly. Mere minutes had passed, but he felt more energized than he had upon first rising. Now he looked to his arm, where a poorly blocked blow with a training sword had left him swollen and bruised the day before. Now even the soreness was gone. Finally, he looked to her.
“I cannot change what I am. But I can become more. Thank you.”
“Do not thank me. I only hope you use it well, and you continue to rise above the things that it shows you.”
Ryala stood. Her work was done, and so she took her leave. For Shadow, it was only the beginning.
Chapter 27
In the blink of an eye, Shadow's training had been in progress for four years. In that time, he studied under more than a dozen of the masters. Foregoing proper sleep entirely in favor of the Warrior's Sleep, he gained hours a day, but it was agonizing. Each time he used it, his mind seemed to dredge up a new horror, a new truth best left a mystery. The reward, though, was considerable. He worked from sunrise to sunset, developing his skills in every type of weapon and every style of combat he could. He earned praise from masters for his progress with weapons ranging from the bow and arrow to whips, from axes to clubs. He had no interest in titles or honors, maintaining each apprenticeship only long enough to fully grasp the key elements of the style or weapon, then continuing his studies on his own. He honed his body, adding as much strength as he could to his already considerable stamina. To fulfill his second mystic requirement, he had runes tattooed to give him a measure of resistance and learned to suppress and hide the “powerful soul” that the other wizards seemed so keen to praise.
He spent more and more
of his time in or near his hut as the months crawled on, retreating from the others and isolating himself. He never socialized, and even after years in Entwell, he continued to take his meals at times when he could be assured he could do so alone.
The one discipline he never abandoned in favor of personal study was stealth. In their time working as partners, Shadow managed to become Leo's equal in nearly all aspects of the art. Likewise Leo had become one of only two people in all of Entwell who was ever able to sneak up on Shadow. The two climbed head and shoulders above their peers.
While the other masters had a small number of tactics and techniques, with their training focused on attaining perfection in these skills, Weste seemed to have an endless list of elements that he considered key to the stealth arts, parts of the art of assassination that had nothing to do with combat. He taught how to observe, to glimpse at a scene and learn every detail. He taught how to unlock doors, to use grappling hooks to scale walls.
Shadow excelled at most, but one continuously eluded him. It was a test that came rarely and suddenly, always with Weste uttering the same request.
“Show me Leo,” Weste said.
Shadow snapped an eye toward him. At the sound of his name, Leo turned as well, and upon realizing what was occurring he marched over and smiled wide, crossing his arms.
“Yes, my friend, show us Leo,” he said.
“I still fail to see the value that this skill could ever have to me,” Shadow objected.
“It is very simple, but I will restate it if I must. In the world of a spy or assassin, there will inevitably come a time when simple observation will not provide you with all of the information you seek. When such a time comes, you must interact. No disguise you can apply, not even a great one, will withstand face to face scrutiny for very long. You must thus learn to disguise yourself from within. Adopt the mannerisms of someone deserving of trust and respect.”
