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| wChapter 12: In which we meet the king of Marchith: Sunday, November 27, 2005 | |
Chapter 12 Xivodo did the toe scuffing thing again, almost absently. “I...” he swallowed. “Despite my father’s ambitions for having a connection between the house of Takanor and the dragon, I truly wish to become a smith. I have been searching for masters for... for over a year now, but all wish to treat me as... as my father tries to pass me off.” Madrul cocked his head but said nothing as the boy continued. “Delicately, as if I would run to tell my father the instant something went wrong or I didn’t like what happened, and as if that would damage their reputation. I... I cannot learn in an environment where the master is afraid to reprimand me when I do something wrong!” Xivodo shook his head vigorously. “I did not want to come here but Father insisted. And then...” “Then?” Madrul hefted the bucket slightly. “And then Master Drademar was not afraid to take my father down a peg or two.” He scowled. “Despite his rejection of me without knowing me, I feel as if he would offer me the education that I truly need. Do you think there is anyway I can convince him?” Madrul sighed deeply. “I do not know him so well. I have only been here a month. That is not enough time to truly get to know him.” Wind pressed him into the path--he looked up, startled, to see Drademar swooping from the cave. He swallowed hard, and Xivodo followed his gaze. The wind pressed harder as the dragon swooped down towards the meadow and folded himself onto the ground. His tail draped across the stream like a little bridge, and his wings flapped a few extra times before he fully settled. “What are you doing here?” asked Drademar without any hesitation or introduction, almost completely ignoring Madrul for the moment. Xivodo stepped forward and bowed deeply. “I came to apologize,” he said clearly. “My father’s actions last night were unacceptable. Though I as his son could not step forward and stop him, I am ashamed of how he treated a master smith of your caliber, sir.” Drademar’s wings stirred and then settled again as he shifted momentarily. “It was not his actions that were so offensive, but his intentions. Why is it that a man could hope to influence me merely by throwing around a name of one of the high merchant houses in Sevaye?” Xivodo bowed again. “My father has always had aspirations of rising to the highest merchant house, sir; a connection with you would please him greatly. I apologize for his intentions as well. It was not my choice to come here in the first place.” Drademar settled again, his tail flicking in and out of the stream and splashing little shimmers of water up into the air. “However,” said Xivodo hesitantly, seeing that Drademar was somehow less angry, “Now that I have come... the things that I have seen...” “What have you seen, Xivodo?” Drademar said in a ringing tone that sounded like the hammering at the forge. “I have seen your works in the city, Master Drademar,” Xivodo said. “I know your quality and it is the fairest in the land. But I have also seen that you would not hesitate to tell me when I was doing something wrong--something no master in any city would do for me. I have searched for a year, Master Drademar,” he said passionately. “I have searched for a year’s worth of time among masters high and low in the city, and though they were eager to have me work for them--a connection to the house of Takanor!--none of them were truly willing to teach me, to have me learn. You, sir,” he took a step forward, standing tall now as he spoke his words, “You would not be afraid to reprimand me. You are not afraid of my father. And therefore I must beg you, sir. Please take me on as a second apprentice. I will be no trouble to you. I will work hard, I will learn hard; I will do whatever it is that I must do, if only I could learn from you!” He stopped, panting slightly, and held Drademar’s gaze. The dragon said nothing for a long moment, his eyes narrowed. Then he sighed. “Your enthusiasm is commendable,” he said slowly, “As is your desire to learn. But I have already dedicated myself to my apprentice. I do not know if I am capable of dedicating as much time to a second apprentice.” Madrul was slightly relieved to hear this. As interested as he was in Xivodo, who seemed far more polite than his overbearing father, he was worried that Drademar would find the sweet talking slightly older boy to be a better apprentice than he was. “I know the rule of rank, sir. First apprentice has priority, it is true.” Madrul lifted an eyebrow in surprise. “But... I have not encountered anyone else from whom I might learn.” Drademar snorted gustily, the dark smoke flowing from his nostrils and swiftly disappearing in the wind as the dark ash had disappeared into the water. “Very well,” he said. “Stay with me for a month. We will see how things work out. We will have no formal contract until that point in time, however.” Xivodo bowed deeply, breathing a relieved sigh. Xxxxxxx Nevaya tugged at his embroidered tunic. The cloth was stiff with newness, and the loose leggings did serve to keep him much warmer than his bare legs and toga would have. The robe flapped a bit as he turned from one side to the other. It had been several years since he had left his family to follow Wronsteit and learn his arts, and never since that time had he worn finery. His family, a minor noble house, had of course raised him on manners and obedience and etiquette and all the fine things that the noble houses used to hoist their pride above the middle class, but when he had joined Wronsteit he chose to leave all that behind. There was an entirely new formality to be learned by a swordsman in training, and the other aspects of Wronsteit’s job--the thievery and the killing--required almost no etiquette whatsoever, only common sense and delicacy. He had taken each aspect of the job with an open heart, willing to learn. For Nevaya, there was no other life that appealed to him, besides that of a swordsman, an assassin, and a spy. “Are you ready?” said Wronsteit. “I am, sir.” Nevaya came from behind the screen and paused in front of his master, who stood by the door. The man reached out and slightly adjusted the neckline of the robe. “Very well,” he said, and tucked the cloth-wrapped sword under his own robe. With a turn of his heel and a flip of the dark blue cloak he left the room; Nevaya followed him, locking the door behind him. They made their way from the inn out into the city streets, winding down icy back roads and very fastidiously avoiding mud puddles. When they had wandered aimlessly through alleys and streets for what had seemed like half an hour, a horse-drawn carriage came clattering to a stop right next to them. Wronsteit looked up sharply. A uniform clad guard dropped down from the carriage’s roof and opened the door; another uniformed guard gestured from inside. Before Nevaya even had time to react, Wronsteit had sprung lightly into the carriage, and automatically the boy followed him up, one foot on the step and then ducking through the door into the small, dark, crowded space beyond. The door swung shut, throwing them into darkness. There was a moment in which the first guard’s feet pushed heavily at the carriage; then there came the crack of a whip, and they were off. Nevaya kept his mild amazement under control. Though it had been a long time since he had ridden in a carriage--and the guards’ uniforms indicated that this was a royal trip--he was no illiterate farmer’s child, to gawk at everything. He let his eyes flicker around the carriage, noting the minor details, such as the square in the roof that presumably allowed for an opening, and the untouched by mud shoes of the soldier in the carriage. Wronsteit did not speak to the soldier; he sat with his eyes riveted on the wall across from him, which jostled and jumped as it sped along the streets. When they crossed into the cobblestone paved section of the city, the noise of the hard wooden wheels changed from sloshing amongst frozen ground to rattling along rock, the action jarring Nevaya almost continuously. He did not complain, but he kept track of the number of turns they had made in an effort to determine where they were going. When at last the carriage pulled to a stop, he glanced at Wronsteit but the man, as always, showed no surprise. The door was opened for them by the man on the roof; the soldier in the carriage hurried them out and through a nondescript door in a flat grey brick wall as quickly as he could. Some other guard in a similar uniform hurried them down a mess of corridors; again Nevaya counted turns and this time their direction. When they came at last to a halt outside a relatively nondescript wooden door, he knew how to get out of the place, unless there were some peculiarities he had not noticed. That was always possible. Wronsteit told him of times when corridors were ever so slightly inclined, so when one traveled along them one also moved up a floor, an unpleasant shock to any who tried to cut out what appeared to be ‘doubling up’ from their return trip. There was a muffled conversation on the other side of the door, but as soon as the uniformed guard knocked, it broke off. Then there came a sharp response, and an order. The guard opened the door and bowed them into the room. As soon as they had entered, the door swung shut behind them. Nevaya did not have more than a moment’s worth of time to take in the depths of the room--a well lit space, with lengths of glistening tapestries hanging from whichever walls did not contain mosaics. Wronsteit swept forward, his cloak fluttering slightly, and stopped, his feet planted on the skin of a white tiger that served as a rug, and Nevaya took two quick steps and stopped a half length behind him, slightly to his right. Wronsteit bowed deeply, and Nevaya imitated the gesture, self consciously placing the tips of the fingers of one hand against his forehead in the traditional gesture of respect. Then he straightened, as Wronsteit did, to fully glimpse the figure in the chair at the far end of the rug. He was a tall man whose long blond hair fell to his shoulders, away from a receding hairline. He had a shortly trimmed beard, and his eyes, lying beneath heavy lids and above thick cheeks that indicated a lifetime without want, were nevertheless a piercing internal shade of blue, like the depths of the sky on a sunny winter afternoon. He wore loose leggings and a richly embroidered tunic in a shade of brown far deeper than that which made up Nevaya’s clothing, and a long leather robe lined with sheepskin, which showed at the collar. The full effect of his gaze fell on Nevaya, and the boy surreptitiously kept his gaze on the man’s collarbone. He knew his etiquette--one did not look this man in the eye too boldly; to do so was disrespectful. “You have an underling now, Wronsteit?” the man asked. “The boy is my apprentice, Your Majesty,” said Wronsteit in his low toneless voice. The title confirmed Nevaya’s suspicions, and he was glad for his original guess. “Indeed,” said the king of Marchith. Nevaya knew his name to be Vradkof the third, of the Takener family. “Indeed,” said the king again. “How interesting. He is learning your trade, I assume?” Wronsteit bowed an agreement. The king laughed a little. “And what is that, good Wronsteit? Killing? Thieving? Spying?” Wronsteit shrugged. “A little of each, perhaps,” he said carefully. “You of all people, Your Majesty, know how many things I truly do.” The king laughed again, and Nevaya let his eyes drift up to examine the man’s face, as subtly as he could. The humor in his voice was not echoed in the lines of his face; it was a polite humor, and in the depths of his eyes there was something that was like a cloud, deep and overhanging, laden with unspent water like raindrops or tears. A sadness consumed him in a strange, brooding way--a sadness no one had ever seen, and an anger and a deep, unrelenting and unforgiving silence, like the festering of a long unhealed wound. Then the corners of the eyes tightened, just a little. Nevaya jerked his eyes away instantly, unsure whether or not the king had seen him see, and also unsure whether or not he had actually seen anything. There was a rustle of stiff, embroidered and rich cloth; the king had gotten to his feet. He scratched briefly at his beard, and his feet, clad in eastern slippers, tread carefully across the floor, grinding the fur of the dead tiger beneath them as they went. When he was standing Nevaya could see that he was not a portly man, but rather someone strong, and lean, who had spent a good portion of his life working to maintain not only health but virility and strength. Vradkof the third was known as a great warrior; the strength in the lines of his arms and the muscles in his chest showing through his clothing proved that. But there was something that touched him; a hint of dissipation, perhaps. A once great man who had just begun to go to seed, Nevaya thought, and then tried to suppress that thought as if the king might hear him. “Well, boy,” said the king, and Nevaya, knowing his etiquette, lifted his gaze at last to fix on the man’s eyebrows, if not quite his eyes. “What is your name?” “My name is Nevaya, Your Majesty,” said Nevaya simply. He was glad to hear that his voice did not tremble. Peripherally he could see that Wronsteit had turned slightly so that the king was always fully in his vision. He wondered what his master was thinking. “And how do you like being Lord Wronsteit’s apprentice, Nevaya?” Nevaya wondered briefly if this was where Wronsteit’s dislike of being called ‘lord’ stemmed from. “I find it very enriching, Your Majesty,” he said carefully. The king smiled. “Very good,” he said. “What do you like to learn the most?” Nevaya considered momentarily--Wronsteit certainly taught him a lot!--and then said, “Swords, Your Majesty.” “Swords?” The king lifted an eyebrow. “How interesting. You learn well?” “I try to, Your Majesty.” Here he felt it was appropriate to give another small bow, and did so. “Good. It becomes a young man under such a good master to try hard.” The king then seemed to lose all interest in Nevaya. “So what do you have for me, Wronsteit?” he asked, turning back to the swordsman. “Anything particularly exciting or new?” In response, Wronsteit reached inside his robe to where the sword had been tucked up against his body and pulled it from beneath his belt. Carefully, he unwrapped the soft cloth and pulled it aside. The sheathed blade resting on his palms seemed to gleam slightly in the glow of the fireplace. The blade that Nevaya had stolen was not a particularly magnificent sword but regardless of its design it was indeed particularly well made. Vradkof reached out for it with a hand that almost seemed to tremble in the flickering light. He took the sword from Wronsteit’s palms, his fist closing over the smooth sheath, and then his other hand gripped the hilt and he drew it slowly out from the encasement. The sheath was held, forgotten, in his left hand; the right lifted the sword and tilted it so that its finely crafted edge caught the warm glow that permeated the room. The blade glinted, mesmerizing, as the king turned it back and forth. Nevaya and Wronsteit watched his face--an internal glow lit his face, a glow that was born from the darkness that lay dwelling within his soul and almost totally obscured the depths behind his eyes, a glow that hid something foul and at the same time showed on his face like a form of hope and strange satisfaction. He sighed deeply, and his powerful upper arms moved as he swung the blade in a semicircle. It whistled as it cut through the air, and Nevaya was almost unable to stop himself from shivering. “Well,” Vradkof said clearly, as he swung the blade again. “You say you enjoy learning swords, Nevaya. Why don’t you draw yours, and we’ll give this blade a little test.” Nevaya swallowed, his throat suddenly dry; he saw Wronsteit stiffen just a little beside him. “Your Majesty,” Nevaya said quickly, “I... I do not know if I am worthy of such an honor as to cross swords with you.” The king laughed, that false sound ringing in the fine quarters. “Come now, lad,” he said, his eyes glittering darkly. “I command you to draw your sword.” Reluctantly Nevaya’s hand went to his belt underneath his new crisp robe. He glanced once at Wronsteit, who jerked his chin a little in approval; then he gripped the hilt of the blade and pulled the sword from its sheath. He had no intentions of actually being the first to move to the attack, so he was gratified when the king made the first action, charging him with a swinging of the fine blade. He blocked it easily, the blades sliding across each other, and danced to one side; though he was faster than the men he had fought off to steal the sword, this man did not have Wronsteit’s speed. The king turned to follow him and Nevaya kept moving until Vradkof rushed forward and their blades met again, as did their eyes. The hilts locked, and Nevaya got lost in the depths of those ice blue eyes, for in them lay such a deep and pallid hatred that he could not draw away. He realized then that the king knew that he had seen--that he had seen past the man’s defenses instantly, through all the walls and obstructions he had had up. He had seen into something that no one should have ever been able to see without being intimately close to the man--perhaps not even then--and he had done so in a moment of time, in the first glance that the king had had of him. The king smiled. “Come on, boy,” he said. “Surely you can actually fight?” Nevaya wondered if the words were supposed to enrage him. He did not feel right now that he was capable of anger, and so he made no reaction except to keep his blade up. The man scowled, and then his powerful forearms moved and Nevaya was flung backwards. He went flying and skittered across the tiled floor, dragged to a halt by the scattered rugs and pelts; but he lost his grip on the sword. The king laughed again, that fake sound that echoed in the chamber and made Nevaya feel dizzy. “Your apprentice is not much of a fighter,” Vradkof said to Wronsteit. Again Nevaya felt as if distantly he was supposed to be angry, but realized that he had neither time nor care for that emotion. He thrust down what little of it flickered in the core of his being and concentrated on finding his sword. In an instant he shook himself and spotted the blade, a half a yard away. He dove for it and the king leapt after him, the blade raised. His hand closed over the hilt of the sword and he brought the blade up once, violently knocking Vradkof’s blow aside, then threw himself sideways while the king was still lifting for his next strike and rolled to his feet. But as he was getting up the king was already striking. They went back and forth; Vradkof attacking, and Nevaya fleeing from the blows, not any longer because he did not wish to attack the man but rather because to flee was all he could do fast enough. Wronsteit had never struck at him this hard before, and each blow that came in contact with his own short sword jarred him badly. Nevaya had no time to pay attention to anything but the battle. The king’s repeated verbal jabs grew more and more vicious, but with each one Nevaya felt a strange kind of detachment from the anger that might have once consumed him. At last they locked hilts a second time and Nevaya, this time, did not let himself lock eyes with the man, but instead pushed himself off and spun away. In the process of pulling back, however, the king’s powerful arms moved again when they had already been locked tight and almost without effort, his blade bit into Nevaya’s and sheered it off, hardly a hand’s width from the hilt. Nevaya stumbled backwards as the blade went clattering to the floor, followed by the dropped hilt as the king turned and lifted the island forged blade. As he advanced, Nevaya took quick steps backwards to keep pace with Vradkof’s slow ones, and stumbled over a rug. He fell down heavily, and now he was afraid, fear showing itself in his small, stone gray eyes as the king continued to advance with an upraised blade. As the blade swept downwards, however, there was a flash like golden lightning that lanced across his path, and then Wronsteit was there, his long katana drawn, and he caught the king’s descending blade with a shower of sparks and deflected it. “My apologies, Your Majesty,” he said in a clear tone without even turning to look the man fully in the face. “But I think I must object.”
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