by Carol Berg
The slave reached out for my arm. “Are you quite all right, Eda?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Pressing my fingers to my lips, I fought back tears and terror until I could speak again. “I was just so surprised . . . that Kargetha didn’t know. She’ll want to know where he’s gone. And for how long.” Everything depended on Gerick being in Zhev’Na.
“Five days ago the young Lord rode off with a Zhid officer. I was not told when or if to expect him back.” His gaze held mine. “Tell Kargetha that I will be here taking care of matters as I have done these past weeks: the house, the kitchen, the fencing yard . . .” He smiled and raised his eyebrows, as if asking me whether I understood. Gerick’s wounded young sparring partner . . . I smiled weakly. I could not rejoice in anything.
For my first weeks in Zhev’Na, I had considered my true life as something apart and my existence as Eda the sewing Drudge only a moment’s aberration. But now this soul-deadening monotony encompassed my entire existence. The sewing women had lived this way for so long that I could find no tinder in them to answer what spark remained in me. They were uninterested in ideas or stories and called my attempts at conversation odd. When I suggested that we take a few moments before sleeping to clean the dormitory, so that perhaps the mice might find it less hospitable, I got only the blank stares and shrugs that might have followed an invitation to take wing and fly across the desert.
One afternoon, after I had tried to interest the sewing women in a simple game that might enliven the hours while we stitched, Zoe mentioned to Kargetha that I was distracting the others with my foolishness. The Zhid woman touched the tag on my ear and commanded me to cease my useless conversation. I had to do so, of course, as surely as if the compulsion had actually been attached to the tag. In the days of silence that followed her command, I speculated on whether the compulsions had really been put there after all. However would I know, when I dared not disobey?
After I had gone five days without a single word, Zoe mentioned to Kargetha that perhaps her command had been too effective. She had no objection to reasonable speech in the workroom, and I had made some useful suggestions about the work in the past. Kargetha was feeling indulgent that day and reworded her command. “I release you from my bond, Eda. Perhaps you are too stupid to know what is useless and what is not. Speak as you wish, unless two of your fellows tell you to be silent.”
“Thank you, your Worship,” I said, dipping my knee, but I didn’t resume my attempts. Two months had passed, and Gerick was gone, and I didn’t have anything to say any more. The prospect of living out the rest of my days in such a fashion was abhorrent. By comparison my years of poverty in Dunfarrie seemed endlessly stimulating. They had encompassed growth and change, the acquisition of new skills, the cycle of the seasons to mark the days . . . the height of the garden . . . the flight of birds . . . such beauty and variety. That I had considered life in Dunfarrie as near death as I could imagine pointed out a singular lack of imagination on my part. But then, who could ever have imagined the life of Zhev’Na?
CHAPTER 30
Gerick
One morning, after I had been in Zhev’Na for several months, I went down to the fencing yard ready to begin the day. I had been working with a new sword, not a rapier, but an edged blade, a war sword. It was fine—a one-handed blade with a deep fuller to keep it light, a sharpened, tapered tip, and a length that was exactly right for my height. With so many new things to learn—cutting and slashing movements, different kinds of thrusting, appropriate stances, footwork, and defenses—I made sure to arrive at the fencing yard early every day and stayed at least an hour longer than usual. Though Calador never admitted it, I knew I was making good progress.
Someone new stood waiting with Calador that morning. Like Calador he was a Zhid—one of the warriors of Zhev’Na with the strange eyes. He was very tall, and his thin red hair was combed straight back from a high forehead. His whole face was long and pointed, especially his nose. If he hadn’t been talking to Calador, I might have thought he had no mouth at all.
Calador bowed to me and to the tall man. “My lord Prince, may I introduce Kovrack, a gensei of the Lords’ armies—our highest military rank. Gensei Kovrack has been charged with the next phase of your training, that of military command. You are to live with the gensei in the war camp of Elihad Ru, and he will teach you how to lead your soldiers. I have been honored to be your swordmaster.”
“But wait . . .” I was just getting used to Calador and Harres and Murn, just beginning to improve so that maybe they would think I was worth something. I liked my house and my servants and my horses. I didn’t want to change things.
It is necessary, my young Lord, said Parven, inside me. You are to be the ruler of two worlds. You agreed to let us guide you in the accomplishment of your purposes, and we warned you that there were hard lessons to be learned. Your destiny is not to be comfortable. That will make you weak. Weakness—fear of true power—was the downfall of Avonar and the line of D’Arnath. Have we not made you more than the sniveling child you were?
Of course, he was right. They had made me better, harder, more like what I should be. I could run for an hour across the desert and still come back and win a fight. I could pin an opponent that outweighed me by half again and break his arm to boot. It didn’t make my stomach hurt any more when I cut a sparring partner’s legs so they wouldn’t hold him up, and I could seal the slave collar on a new captive without even hearing his screams or feeling anything but relief that there was one more of the Dar’-Nethi unable to kill kind old women. Even if Prince D’Natheil was dead, I would have my revenge on him. I had sworn my oath. “Of course, I’ll do whatever is necessary.”
We left the fortress immediately, without even returning to my house. All that I needed would be supplied, Kovrack told me as we rode into the desert.
Two leagues from the fortress was the heart of a Zhid encampment that stretched as far as I could see into the brown dust haze that was the horizon. I had been into the Zhid war camps only twice: once to see a new lot of horses delivered from the breeding farms, and once to watch the execution of a Zhid who had spared a captive Dar’Nethi from a punishment. The warrior’s commanders had staked him out on the ground and given him only enough water to keep him alive while he baked in the days and froze in the nights. Every day they would lash him until his flesh was shredded, and the wind blew sand into the wounds until you couldn’t tell he was a man. Every night they worked some sorcery that made him whole again. He was out there for days. By the time he died, he was mad.
We spent my first day in Elihad Ru touring the ranks of tents, the supply huts, and the training grounds, stopping occasionally to watch a mock battle or other exercise. At sunset, we rode to the top of a small rise where several larger tents were pitched. The gensei assigned me a tent next to his own and told me we would share a fire. A slave was kneeling in front of my tent. “The slave will keep you supplied with water, wine, and food, cook for you, and clean your clothes,” Kovrack said. “You’ll have no other luxuries in a war camp.”
The slave looked a few years older than me. No one told me his name. Luckily he seemed to know what to do, because I didn’t know what to tell him. After taking my weapons, brushing off my clothes, and putting out the light, he curled up to sleep on the sand outside the door of my tent.
On the next morning before sunrise, when the light was still dull and red, I heard Gensei Kovrack up and about. My slave was kneeling at the doorway of the tent waiting for me. I dressed quickly, had him buckle my sword belt around my waist, and stepped out of the tent. Kovrack was stretching and flexing his arm and shoulder muscles. I didn’t say anything, because it looked like he was concentrating. My slave brought me a cup filled with cavet—the thick, strong tea the Zhid drank—and Kovrack flicked his fingers at his own slave as if he wanted some, too. Kovrack’s slave filled a cup, but just as he offered it to his master, he stumbled over a tent stake and spilled the cavet in the sand. Scarcely interrupting
his exercise, the gensei reached over to the post where his scabbard hung, drew his sword, and ran the slave through. My slave fell to his knees and pressed his head to the sand. I almost dropped my cup.
Kovrack snapped his fingers. While two slaves dragged the body away, and a third cleaned his sword, he resumed his exercise. He lunged forward in a half squat and brought his arms over his head, holding the position for longer than I could hold a breath. “You think me harsh?” he said.
I did, but would never say so. I was becoming accustomed to how things were done in Ce Uroth. I shrugged.
Again Kovrack motioned with his hand. My slave filled a cup and presented it to the gensei when he left the position and stood up again. “The first rule of command: tolerate no imperfection. Otherwise your soldiers will lose their fear of you. Slaves are not inexpensive, but they are cheaper than armies such as this.” He waved his cup about us. “My soldiers know that no one of them is exempt from this same penalty. They work hard for me.”
When we finished a breakfast of hot bread and soft cheese, we walked down into the camp. A troop of ten new soldiers of various ages were waiting for me. Throughout that day, Kovrack showed me how to run them and drill them, how to use my voice and my power to command them, and how to make them fear me even though I was so young and scarcely taller than their shoulders. “You are their commander and their sovereign. You hold their lives in your hand, and no one of them is worth a fistful of sand unless he obeys you without hesitation. They must be taught that you, too, will tolerate no imperfection.”
The Zhid weren’t like soldiers I had known in Leire. They didn’t laugh or tell bawdy stories around their campfires. Though a few fierce-looking women warriors lived among the Zhid, none of the warriors seemed to have families. They talked of weapons and battles, and who they would kill if the Lords would let them. I didn’t think they knew what the jewels in my ear signified.
These do not, whispered Parven as soon as I thought it. But they’re new. They’ll learn.
Gensei Kovrack supervised my training, but it was the Lord Parven who taught me the subtler things that I had to know, watching everything that went on through my eyes and my thoughts. The first weeks were anxious and difficult for I had to learn so much at once, while developing my own strength and endurance as well. Fortunately my soldiers’ infractions were small, and I had no need to use any punishment beyond extra practice. I dreaded the day one of them balked at a command.
One of my men was younger than the others. His name was Lak, and he was about fifteen, only a little taller than me, dark-haired, wiry, and strong. He seemed a little brighter than the usual Zhid. Not that Zhid were stupid. Most of them were intelligent and powerful. But if you were to think of them like metal, you’d say the Zhid were made of iron, not silver. Maybe it was because they never thought of anything but hatred, battle, and death.
That’s all they need, Parven had told me. That’s how they serve you.
By the second month of my command, we were taking long marches into the red cliffs that were the southern boundary of our encampment. We practiced disappearing into caves and niches and the long, narrow shadows, climbed impossibly steep tracks carrying heavy packs of water and food, and survived for days at a time with no sound and no movement and only the most minimal sustenance. Of course I had to do all these things with my troops, and I could not complain lest they think me weak.
Lak and I always climbed together, for we were lighter and so had an easier time scrambling over rocks and crevasses. One day we got to the top of a rocky ridge while the rest of the men were still out of sight below us. The day was murderously hot, and when I reached for my waterskin, I found it empty, a ragged rip in the side. I had not allowed a water stop for several hours. My mouth felt like iron, and my head throbbed, but I could see no remedy. I was the commander. I could show no weakness.
Lak was panting and red-faced. As he pulled out his own water skin, he glanced at mine, and his eyes grew wide. “Your water, sir.”
“Unfortunate,” I said, looking off in another direction—any direction but his bulging waterskin.
“But it will be hours until we reach the camp.”
“It is the way it is.”
“If you would honor me . . . “ He pushed his waterskin into my hands, nodding his head ever so slightly down the hill. No one was in sight. It would be only moments until the others came into view, and I was already feeling desperate at the thought of the long, hot afternoon. I said nothing, but nodded in return and took a sip of the warm, stale liquid that tasted as good as anything I’d ever drunk before. I was amazed. I had never seen a Zhid share anything.
This is dangerous, whispered Parven. You know it.
If I don’t take it, I’ll risk collapsing in front of them, I thought, maintaining silence with Lak. He’ll not tell anyone.
Lak was the only one of my men that ever smiled. He smiled on that morning when I shared his water and again a few days later when he was sparring with me and got in a decent lick that left me in the dirt on my backside.
“A commander does not spar with his troops,” said Kovrack, his small mouth set hard, his empty eyes glaring at Lak as the soldier walked away.
“I choose to do so, in this case,” I said. “I don’t want to lose practice while I’m in the field. None of your practice slaves are the right size, and Lak needs the work, too. I can’t let him be lax just because he’s small.”
Kovrack and Parven were both annoyed with me. But it was the most enjoyable practice I’d had since I’d come to Zhev’Na. Because Lak was a soldier, he was allowed to wear leather practice armor when we sparred, so I was unlikely to damage him severely. The work was good for both of us, and we steadily improved.
Things were going well. The move to the desert had been all to the good.
“Young Lord,” called Kovrack one morning as we were doing our dawn exercises. “I clocked your men running yesterday. They were not near fast enough.”
“They’ve been dragging all week,” I said, spinning on my heel and launching my knife at a wooden post halfway down the hill. The blade dug deep, right at the mark. And I was drawing it twice as fast as I could when I first came to the desert. “I plan to run them double time this morning.”
When I walked down the rise for morning inspection, I told my troop what I intended. But our morning sword practice took much longer than I had calculated, and so the sun was almost at the zenith by the time we were ready to run. “I suppose I’ll have to run them this evening instead,” I said to Kovrack, who had come down to watch. To run in the midday sun could be deadly.
Kovrack curled his lip the way he always did when he thought I was being weak or stupid. “Indeed you will not, my lord. You told them they would run double time this morning. You cannot back down from your word. The news of your softness would travel throughout the entire camp by nightfall.”
I looked around the cluster of tents. Several of the older men were already lounging in the shade of their tents, assuming I wouldn’t make them run. They were the same warriors who never seemed to draw blood when they fought each other and looked sullen when I insisted they clean and polish their weapons every night. They were on the verge of not taking me seriously. I nodded to Kovrack. I understood.
“All of you malingerers, up. Now! Run!”
I ran them two hours in the desert noonday. At the end of the first hour they were dripping and panting. When they passed by the place where I stood watching them with my hands clasped behind my back, I didn’t change my expression or say anything. They ran on. A half-hour more and they were laboring. One soldier dropped to his knees, holding his belly, about two hundred paces from where I stood watching. Cramps.
I was tempted to stop the exercise, but Kovrack was beside me, glaring, just waiting for me to show how weak I was. And Lord Parven was inside, whispering. You know what to do, young Lord. He is worthless if he cannot follow your commands. He knows it, too. A soldier has pride, or he will turn traitor w
hen battle is hard. The warriors of Zhev’Na do not live if they do not obey.
I drew my sword and walked across the cracked ground to where the soldier had slumped over. It was Lak. I had a full waterskin at my belt, but it might as well have been at Comigor for all the good it could do him. I touched the point of my sword to his neck. “Run,” I said.
His breath came in harsh gulps, and he didn’t look up.
I pressed just enough harder to break the skin. “Run,” I said again. I willed him to run; every muscle in my body begged him to get up. Slowly, he pushed himself up and staggered forward through the heat shimmer.
Only nine of the soldiers returned. The oldest one collapsed and died fifty paces from the end. Lak returned with the others, falling on the ground and grabbing for his waterskin.
What should you do? asked Parven. Has he obeyed your command completely?
He didn’t have to tell me. I already knew what I had to do, even though I hated it. “Hold, Lak,” I said. “You haven’t finished the course.”
Lak gaped at me stupidly, holding his middle, bent double with cramps.
“You were told to run double time, but you spent a quarter of an hour on the ground until I persuaded you to continue. You’ll not drink with your obedient comrades until you’ve done what I told you.” I kicked his waterskin out of his hand. A look of such hatred blossomed on his face that I drew my sword. “Run,” I said.
He stood up and stumbled away. “Neto, clock him a quarter of an hour.” I turned away and watched the other men drinking and wiping their faces. It seemed like a year until the other soldier gave the call. With a loud thud Lak collapsed behind me.
Well done. Parven was still with me. But you know you are not finished. He defied you. You had to tell him twice.
Lak lay on his back in the dirt. One of the other soldiers was dribbling water in his mouth. He coughed it up several times until his cramps eased enough to let him hold a little of it. I stood over him and watched him heave. He was weak. I could read it in his face, and he didn’t think I could. He wasn’t afraid of me at all.
