Authors: Michael A Stackpole
before dropping him. As his body hit, the Turasynd drove at Moraven Tolo again. His
saber came up in a two-handed strike designed to cut the man in half, yet left his belly
open.
The Prince squinted, not really wishing to see the aftermath of Moraven’s obvious avenue
of attack. While he didn’t object to the Turasynd’s death, having him kneeling there
keening as he tried to stuff entrails back into his stomach really would put a damper on
any festivities. Still, Moraven Tolo really had no choice.
It is just a matter of how he
chooses to do it.
The Turasynd’s sword began to fall. Moraven Tolo reversed his grip on his sword, letting
the blade rest along his forearm and extend past his elbow. He danced forward, inside the
arc of Chyrut’s blow. Another step in and a sidestep to the left would let him slash right
across the barbarian’s stomach. Tolo’s body would even shield much of the audience from
the spectacle.
Had I his skill, that’s how I would do it.
Even the loud thud of Chyrut’s sword chopping into the wooden floor could not completely
disguise the sharp crack of Moraven’s pommel smashing into the barbarian’s jaw. The
larger man’s head snapped back, then his knees buckled. Moraven Tolo spun outside the
circle of his foe’s arms and brought his blade up high at his left shoulder. The Turasynd
wavered for a moment, almost holding himself up on his hands, and with the flick of an
arm Moraven could have taken his head off easily.
Chyrut tried to say something, but his misshapen jaw did not function well. He pitched
forward onto his face, the feathers on his back rippling briefly. The Turasynd’s breathing
was labored, but the smaller man seemed barely winded.
A young man came from outside the circle and lifted the barbarian’s blade from the floor.
Moraven frowned for a moment, then dropped to a knee and laid his sword on the ground
before the Prince’s dais.
“The entertainment is ended, Highness.”
Cyron stood and nodded down at the man. “Was he a worthy foe?”
“One of the best I have ever been given the opportunity to fight.”
“Were you ever really in danger?”
The swordsman canted his head slightly. “In the circle, one is always in danger. Your foe
can only hurt you as much as you allow him to. And any mistake can be your last.”
The Prince smiled. “Thank you,
dicaiserr
Moraven Tolo. Before you leave Moriande, I
would appreciate your calling on me at Wentokikun.”
“You honor me.” Moraven Tolo turned and glanced at the younger man who was fiddling
with Chyrut’s sword. “If my aide learns manners by then, might I present him to you,
Highness?”
“Indeed, yes.”
Moraven’s words brought his aide’s head up. The man quickly knelt and laid the sword on
the ground. He bowed, but did not raise himself until Moraven lifted his heel as a signal.
The younger man then straightened, but did not leave his knees.
The Prince opened his arms. “I thank you all for being so attentive during our
entertainments. I would have you continue to enjoy the bounty this harvest has brought
our nation. You have seen heroes here tonight, and from them we can all learn. First, we
know that our best effort can only be produced through dedication and practice. Second,
that to fail to do our best means we have been defeated before we begin to act.”
6th day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
736th year since the Cataclysm
Kojaikun, Moriande
Nalenyr
At the Prince’s word, the musicians struck up a tune, and the circle that had contained the
night’s entertainment slowly filled with people dancing. Keru came and took both swords
and the Turasynd swordsman away. Moraven Tolo allowed himself to smile at the
congratulations offered, then melted into the crowd with Ciras in his wake.
When Moraven stopped, Ciras moved around in front of him, bowing deeply. “I beg your
pardon, Master. I did not mean to be an embarrassment.”
“This I understand. You may be able to redeem yourself.” Moraven kept his voice low,
then pointed toward an unoccupied corner. Without a word, Ciras preceded him there.
When the youth positioned himself to watch the room, Moraven took him by the shoulders
and turned the younger man to face him, reversing their positions.
“Forgive me,
Serrcai
Moraven Tolo.”
“Perhaps. Tell me what you are to be forgiven for and why you did it.”
The younger man’s brows tightened. “I was presumptuous enough to assume you would
present me to the Prince.”
“Why?”
“I am of the nobility of Tirat. I assumed you would present me, as I would be presented to
nobility.” Ciras’ head came up. “And this is a contravention of the lesson you taught me in
the graveyard. Here I am nothing.”
Moraven smiled. “That is all well and good, from your point of view, but you must see it
from mine. Do you think me so poorly mannered that I would not have presented you to
the Prince?”
“No, Master, but—”
An upheld hand cut off Ciras’ reply. “Then what reason would I have for not presenting
you?”
The young man’s brow furrowed with concentration. “I am at a loss, Master.”
“I do not think you are.” Moraven allowed himself to lean back against the wall. “You saw
everything you needed to, and you know all you need to puzzle this out. Concentrate.
What did you see?”
“You defeated the Turasynd monster, but that was not a question even from the
beginning.”
“Why not?”
Ciras’ eyes widened. “How could you have had a moment’s doubt? The man was strong
and fast and big, but he had no
classical
training. He showed no recognized forms, he did not flow from attack and defense. He just attacked relentlessly. As you said, he knew you
would defend yourself and not kill him, so he did not have to worry.”
“But was he trying to kill me?”
“No. Wait . . . was he?”
Moraven nodded slowly. “That was his intent. The Black Eagles and
xidantzu
have little
love for each other.”
Ciras smiled. “That’s a known fact even in Tirat.”
“Usually their conflicts occur in the provinces. I’ve not fought them, but I’ve talked to those who have. You might think him an undisciplined fighter”—Moraven held his right hand out
to display where his sleeve had been trimmed—“but he was good. Better than most.”
“If you say so, Master.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“It is not that. He was good, but not good enough to have done as well as he did.”
“That is also true. What does this tell you?”
Ciras wrapped his left hand around his right fist and pressed both hands against his mouth
as he thought. Moraven watched his eyes narrow and widen again as he reviewed the
fight in his head. A realization began to dawn on Ciras’ face, then several more things fell
into place.
“Oh, Master, I am truly sorry.”
“Tell me.”
“The sword. It must be one of those which has been enhanced by a
gyanridin
. I touched it, you feared it might affect me, so you had me put it down and used my breach of etiquette
to draw attention away from the weapon.” He rubbed his hands against his robe as if to rid
them of the weapon’s taint. “Is that not it, Master?”
“Very close, Ciras, very close indeed.” Moraven pressed his hands together, fingertip to
fingertip. “Many fine warriors followed the Empress into the Wastes to destroy the
Turasynd. Their skill led to the Cataclysm. They were all slain.”
“You do not believe that the Empress and her surviving guards will return when we need
them?”
“Perhaps, but if they have not returned in seven centuries, why would they return now?”
Moraven did not allow his apprentice to answer. “While a weapon does not improve when
wielded by the best swordsman, one that has been used by a superior swordsman can
make it easier for another to attain higher levels of skill. It is an aid to the obtaining
of
jaedunto
.”
“I know, Master. I used such a blade for some of my training.”
“Excellent. Then you will understand the importance of what we saw here. There has been
a rumor, which Master Jatan shared with me, that, in the Wastes, certain caches of such
weapons have been found. I saw enough of the Turasynd’s weapon to know it dates from
before the Cataclysm. Someone has been seeking these weapons out.”
“The Desei?”
“Perhaps, or others. But what of that I have just told you does not make sense?”
Ciras thought for a moment. “There should be no vast caches of such weapons. They
would have been entombed with their owners or sent back to their families. They would
not just have been piled up.”
“And this means?”
“Any number of things.” Ciras frowned. “At the very least, someone is out there digging up
graves. And that means—”
“Go ahead.”
Ciras shook his head. “It is foul beyond imagining.”
Vrilxingna,
the darkest of arts, and most dangerous. While it was common knowledge that even the most skilled magician could not raise the dead, it did not mean the dead were
wholly useless.
Vrilxingnaridin
made a practice of locating and despoiling the graves of those known for great virtue or skill. They would take a corpse, grind it down into a
powder, and sell that powder to be inhaled. It was believed that the corpse powder would
grant one the skills of the deceased. Other
vrilxingna
practices were still more
unspeakable, but the idea that the corpses of the world’s greatest heroes could be made
into a powder that could be given to an army was enough to strike terror into the hearts of
any who heard it.
“The Deathbreathers are foul, but think on what you have seen here. A lord of the
underworld has announced to all present that the means to manufacture heroes are
available. Helosundians would desire such wares to help reconquer their nation. Inland
Naleni nobles could see this as a way to raise an army that could overthrow their prince.”
“It is a good thing the Desei prince was not here.”
Another voice, light, replied to Ciras’ comment. “Do you not think,
Lirserrdin
Dejote, that Prince Pyrust has been given his own showing of what is for sale?”
Moraven turned to his right and bowed in her direction. “You honor us, my lady.”
The Lady of Jet and Jade smiled easily, yet not without restraint. “You are the one who
has honored me by acting as my gift. I trust you did not find my offer presumptuous?”
“It was yet another honor.”
She held her left hand out to him, and he took it in his right. “Let us walk. You will be
entertained,
Lirserrdin
.” At her word two of her aides each took Ciras by an arm and
steered him toward the dancers, while others created a circle around Moraven and their
Mistress.
“Should I be angered that you have not come to see me, or shall I assume that you
thought, with your new name, I would not recognize you?” Her words came sweetly and
softly, wrapping in jest the hurt they conveyed. “I have often wondered if you have stayed
away from Moriande because of me.”
Moraven slid her hand to the crook of his elbow and led her through a set of double doors
to the small courtyard garden. Strains of music followed them. The garden, dark and
empty, carried the scent of night-blooming flowers. Their perfume complemented the
scent she had chosen to wear.
“Not because of you, but because of the tragedy of my last visit. Whenever I thought I
would return, an omen reminded me of it.” He smiled at her. “I have thought the gods
strove to keep us apart.”
“And so fearing the gods is why you have spent nights at the House of Three Pearls after
you did arrive?”
“Do not affect that hurt tone with me, my lady.”
“So formal and cold.”
“And now you seek to deflect me.” He closed his eyes. “Is there a familiar name you wish
me to use?”
“For you there is always one.” Her hand came up and she delicately caressed his cheek.
“You are never far from my thoughts. I do like your new name. I shall use it, Moraven. It
suits you much better. It bespeaks more deliberation, a passion that is subsumed but
available.”
“And your name, Paryssa, has always meant passion to me.” Moraven looked down into
her perfect face, with its pale, infinite eyes. Thousands had looked into those eyes over
the years, but how many of them had seen what he had? Beguiled by her beauty,
seduced by her certain movements, the skills she employed with the same facility as he
did a sword.
He shivered, the memory of their first union bringing a flush to his cheeks. He had been
young yet—not as young as Ciras, but young, and so was she. He had fought a duel over
her honor—less because he was concerned for it than that the man he fought deserved
death. It was not the first time he’d felt the magic of the sword, but it was the first time he remembered its remaining with him so long, and the first time he was certain it would not
leave him.
She had reached that same place as they coupled. Together they attained a height neither
had known before, and it thrilled them. And each time after, it came faster and harder,
shaking them. For any two people who had stumbled upon it accidentally, the ecstasy