Prodigal Steelwielder (Seals of the Duelists Book 3) (10 page)

When Tala’s portal opened, Kiwani was sitting, arms wrapped around her knees, and staring at the far wall. She spoke before Tala could even greet her. “My apologies. I lost track of the time.”

While Tala murmured niceties, Kiwani rose and pulled off her tunic and dropped it in a wrinkled heap on the floor. She opened her wardrobe and fetched out a clean, pressed new tunic, also black. The new one was of the latest fashion and wrapped around her body and tied on the right side. She slid her arms to the sleeves, folded the panels over her torso, then hooked a quick knot in the sturdy cotton belt. She indicated her discarded, porridge-flecked clothing. “I’d been in that thing since yesterday. And I can’t let the students see me in disarray, no matter what else might be wrong with me. I still seem to have some semblance of class, and I can’t seem to shake it. Any advice?”

Tala’s mouth opened automatically, but the singer didn’t have an immediate reply. Belatedly, Kiwani realized she had insulted the style of clothing Tala was currently wearing. But it was too late to apologize. She had a schedule to keep. Besides, if Tala wanted comfort, Kiwani would not be the hexmage she sought it from. Kiwani tugged a complex weave of Wind through her long dark hair, smoothing away tangles and leaving it smooth and shiny. She stepped past Tala through the portal without another word.

Tala caught up to her on the Academy side of the portal, then tucked her crystals away. Kiwani stood in the black cavern beneath campus and breathed deeply of its dark, mineral aromas.
So peaceful down here. Like already having died and been buried.

Tala shifted in the dark, waiting for Kiwani to make some light in the vast underground space. But Kiwani didn’t want light.

Finally, the singer spoke. “I’ll go tell Sivutma you’re here.”

The singer’s magic pulsated in the air as she sang, and her portal opened then swallowed her, leaving Kiwani alone hundreds of strides below ground.
So quiet. So calm. Like that creature’s silent prison. If I had a stone hollow that protected me from the world, would I be afraid to leave, too?
Unbidden, her mind chased that thought, reaching an unpleasant conclusion.
The risk of freedom is sweeter than the chains of safety. It might have felt safe once, but now it’s gone mad.

Am I mad, then? Maybe I just wish I were. Madness can’t possibly hurt this much.

The faint sound of stone shifting by magical means reached her sensitive tears. Kiwani threw light to a dozen glass globes suspended in a ring around the upper reaches of the cavern’s ceiling, and their illumination revealed reddened striations of rock in several earthy hues beneath her feet and along the walls. Avatar students whirled in on their Wind avatars through a tunnel in the ceiling and spaced themselves evenly across the floor as they landed. Lastly, Sivutma arrived with Doc Theo.

Once the students gave her their full attention, Kiwani began. “I give you all good evening. Tonight, I’m going to supervise your savantism practice with your weakest avatar. We all have weak points, emotions we are uncomfortable with, or which we have never truly experienced to any kind of extreme degree. And we all have weak elements with which we don’t identify much. When I was a student, my weakest was Shock. I didn’t understand its fatal power, and I didn’t want to. But as duelists, and most especially as savants, you must constantly push yourself to explore those unresolved parts of your minds so that you may harness them to your will.”

Kiwani lifted the heavy beads on her necklace with her thumb and turned from side to side so that all could see. “Each of these beads represents a different emotion I have mastered. Some of them came easily to me, but most of them didn’t. I had to fight, to focus, and to delve into my own soul in order to earn these representations of my skill. I hexed each bead into existence when I knew that I could control its emotions. I earned them, and I know it. It was hard. It hurt and it stretched. But I did it anyway because I am a savant, and I have no choice. My magic
will
control me if I do not control it. So I will give all of you time to consider your weakest element and weakest emotion before we begin. I want you to feel uncertain. I want you to worry about whether you can do this. And then I want to watch you claw your way forward until you have grasped your success and claimed it as your own, through your terror and your fear and your pain. Take it! A duelist’s first
tegen
is always the self. Defeat your weakness, and no opponent in the empire can use it against you.”

The avatar students went to work, and Kiwani passed amongst them, correcting technique or giving focusing advice. When she reached Sivutma, she found the Nunaa girl pink with frustration and standing with her arms crossed, glaring at the floor as if it were to blame for her troubles.

“How are you doing?” Kiwani asked. Sivutma’s dark glare landed on her, but she let it pass. It had no power if compared to her own black glances in the mirror every morning.

Reluctantly, Sivutma spoke. “My weakest emotion is the weakest because I don’t like it. I don’t see the benefit in possessing it.”

“And what is it?” Kiwani prodded.
Such a soft child.

“I don’t know what to call it. Pity, I suppose. Compassion for the weak?” She uncrossed her arms and turned toward Kiwani, her eyes tight with frustration. “I worked hard for all I’ve earned here. Why should I give any quarter to those who did not?”

“Tell me what you want from your career as a duelist, Sivutma. If you could have the best career you could possibly imagine, what would you be doing and where?”

Sivutma tossed off a quick smile, predatory and full of teeth. “That’s easy. I’d be guarding the emperor himself, first amongst his imperial duelists. His life would be in my hands at every moment.”

A quick brush of anima magic across the student’s mind told Kiwani that Sivutma’s intent was not rebellious, only laden with her version of justice. “Very well. Let’s say you’re assigned that position, and you are worthy of it. You hold the emperor’s life in your hand. And then the years began to pass. You see his constant weakness, his fragile humanity, and his dependence on you for his security. Now how do you see him?”

The tension in Sivutma’s cheeks softened. “He will still be the emperor. He will still be the most important person in the empire.”

“And what of his family? The empress Femke and the princes, Juriaan and Sebastiaan? Are they unworthy of your protection because they are not quite as important?”

Sivutma crossed her arms again, and her lips worked in a wry pout. “I sense you have a plan in your words, Duelist Kiwani. Be direct, and gave me the lesson plainly.”

Irritating girl. No sense of rhythm.
“Very well then, hear me. No matter which person you put at the top of your worthiness list, everyone below that can only be measured in degrees. So where do we draw a line between those who are worthy of defense and those who are not? They are all villagers to us.” Kiwani held out one open palm, then the other. “Either all villagers are equal to the emperor because they are all villagers or because they each possess their own unique value. It is our job to serve the emperor and to protect him and his imperial citizens. And who are you to disagree with your emperor over the value of any one of those whom he sends you to protect? Find the value in the individual, Sivutma—be he craftsman, widow, eunuch, or child—and then, in service to your emperor, defend that value with your life. Every villager has someone they treasure most, for whom they would die in a heartbeat. The emperor bids us die for any or all in that same heartbeat. Do you understand? It is not beneath you to defend the weak. It is the highest calling a servant of the empire can heed.”

To Kiwani’s surprise, Sivutma’s eyes seemed misty. “I will think on what you have said. I will do my best not to disappoint you. May I train now?”

Taken aback by the girl’s complete change in demeanor, Kiwani only nodded and turned away. From the shelter at one end of the cavern, Doc waved her over. When she drew close, he gave her a pleased nod. “That was well done, Kiwani. Sivutma’s allus bin one fer power, not unlike yourself. Does me good to see you taking a special interest in her, seeing as how you have a few certain things in common. And that glow you wrapped yourself in while you were talking seemed to help her understand your words. With your help, I think she’ll turn a bit softer.”

Kiwani nodded her thanks and returned to wander amongst the practicing duelists.
Glowing again, and I didn’t catch it this time, either. We trained that out of our magic—elemental glows in battle are a tactical giveaway, and now I’m letting my emotions beam forth like a lovesick girl. I’m a Duelist Savant by dint of sheer force of will. What is wrong with me? Am I going to end up like Tarin?
Her mind’s eye conjured an image of Tarin’s and Taban’s bodies entwined, moving together as they embraced each other and their glorious panoply of emotions. The hot pang that began between Kiwani’s legs was ice cold by the time it reached her heart.

Tala portaled Kiwani home after the secret training class had ended, and as usual, she did not stay to chat. No one stayed to chat with Kiwani anymore.

Alone in her chamber, Kiwani locked her door with a flick of Wind and sat on her bed in the darkness.
My life reeks of unfairness. I’ve pushed all my friends away, and the one person I want the most can never be with me again. I have no way out of this net I’ve created.

Her jealousy flared with a dark glow as she pictured Tarin and Taban again.
No, I will
force
my way out. That’s what magic is for, isn’t it? To change the possible, to dance with the impossible?

Kiwani closed her eyes, even though the room was dark, and concentrated on every memory of Bayan she possessed. His hands, the way his hair fell, even his scent—fresh and earthen, trustworthy. She dragged her magics together and wove them in a fine hex net, creating a form that thrummed with anima magic. It coalesced before her, radiating heat. She could intimately sense every fiber of its being as she held it within the grasp of her magic. The pain was exquisite, but she couldn’t stand it for more than a few heartbeats. She released control, letting her creation exist on its own, a permanent addition to the world until she decided to unmake it.

This is that moment, the one where I finally admit my shameful weakness. The one where I confess all my deepest failings. The moment when I embrace all that I lack.

She opened her eyes, willed all her candles to light, and studied her creation. It stood waiting, meeting her gaze unblinkingly, wearing black silk clothing that matched her own. It was perfect in every way.

Well, one way still needed to be tested. She held out a hand. “Come to me, Bayan. Take me, and make me forget everything but you.”

Eward had just swallowed his first spoonful of salty fish soup when Imee ripped the crusty edge free from the small round loaf that served as her soup bowl and said, “This is all Dakila’s fault, you know.”

Eward choked and coughed. He’d been hoping to avoid discussion of Bayan’s Balanganese love triangle, but it seemed about to happen. At least seeing Azhni again had not been so uncomfortable. The chanter formerly assigned to guard Kiwani’s blood secret had found steady work with Imee’s company, and she had greeted him warmly. She kept to herself even at mealtimes, though, still sensitive about the scar that made her voice raspy.

Imee flashed a dimple at him. “My success, that is. Two years ago, a singer named Tala told us Bayan was in trouble. Dakila has always suffered from an overabundance of loyalty, but being betrothed to me at that time was what pushed him over the edge. I suppose he felt he’d unworthily usurped Duelist Bayan’s place or some such nonsense.” She met Eward’s eyes. “He gathered a hundred men and headed for the Academy on some kind of glorious quest to save Bayan and show our pride in his success as one of the emperor’s favored. And I went because I was a proud fool. But then everything went pear shaped.”

That topic was familiar territory. “Bayan was exiled before you reached the Academy, wasn’t he?”

“We were stranded deep in the empire, starving and poor. Nobody would hire us for so much as mucking out stalls for almost an entire season, fearing some taint by association. One Balang looks much like another, yes? Finally one day, I managed to get a desperate merchant to agree to hire half of Dakila’s men to guard his caravan against vagaries from Renallen to central Pinamuyoc. Caravan security is a burgeoning business in this part of the empire. Duelists haven’t been patrolling the High Ways for years. And you’ll not hear me complaining. My company has been making ducats in silken bags for a year and a half now. Even if Dakila and I have come to our senses about each other, they’re wealthy senses.”

Eward gave her a wry smile. “At least someone’s benefiting from the lax security.”

Imee nodded, and her thick braids bobbed, gleaming in the firelight. “If the emperor ever does secure the High Ways, I could be out of business.”

Eward recalled the latest report from Philo and looked at Imee with a speculative eye. “I don’t think the emperor will make the High Ways a priority for some while.”

She leaned forward and fixed him with a keen look. “The unrest is getting worse across all the provinces, isn’t it? You know how it’s been in Renallen lately. A potioneer on the city council?”

“Without voting privileges, mind you.”

She shook her head in wonder. “Nonetheless. The world is changing, Eward. We must keep our eye on it, or it will leave us behind. Who ever heard of a chanter working for a villager-run business? Yet I have one, and my customers pay well to know she’s nearby.”

The next morning, the caravan resumed its progress northward, moving sedately enough so as to avoid appearing unseemingly hasty. Banners and ribbons flew from every corner of every wagon, and every horse bore small, felt banners from its livery, the gilded crown-and-jewels symbol of the Corona.

The morning clouds had burned away, and a gentle, warm spring light flooded the valley through which the High Way passed. Travelers and wagons of all shapes and sizes pulled aside to wave and gape at the caravan’s impressive passage, and Erinando never failed to return the greetings, mentioning
Yl Senyecho
by name as often as possible. Imee and Eward flanked him, riding slightly behind. Dakila and his men formed a double column behind them and around the supply wagons in the rear.

Keeping his voice low enough not to be overheard, Eward said to Imee, “Remind me again why he refused the carriage.”

“His mind lay somewhere between not wanting to look pompous and capturing the most visibility for his person.”

Eward studied Erinando’s attire, one of several similar, candy-hued outfits the man had worn over the past few days. That morning, Erinando sported a lovely pale green that matched the fresh rectangles of crops that grew across the valley floor. His puffy, silken sleeves and pantaloons occasionally billowed in stronger breezes. Thick lace fell effusively from his throat, and his brimless silk cap clung like a second skin atop his short, dark blond hair. Eward shook his head and did his best to ignore the overly dapper man.

The High Way bent westward and brought the caravan to the River Kheer, spanned by an enormous stone bridge. Its white arches, the work of trade duelists, rose impossibly high on delicate pillars that seemed at first glance completely unable to support the broad girth of the bridge above.

Erinando reined in his horse until it walked even with Eward’s and Imee’s. “Your bridges, they are all this nice? This is an impressive work of stone.”

Imee replied, “Not all of them, but those close to Akkeraad for sure, and all the bridges on the High Ways. And they’re building more every year. Last summer, trade duelists came to my hometown of Pangusay and created a similar bridge across the Mambajao River. Now, my father’s market can receive customers from a dozen other towns. He couldn’t be happier.”

Erinando jerked his chin up in his peculiar gesture of assent. “We do not have so many large bridges in the Corona. Our lands are more arid, I think, than yours. But our bridges are just as glorious, and perhaps more… what is the word? Fanciful. Our sculptors enjoy their flights of fancy, and our bridges bear the sigil of their
valio
: the fish, the bird, the monkey, the jewel cluster. You see? No citizen of the Corona is ever lost upon a bridge.” He nodded to himself.

Eward grumbled under his breath, while Imee had no trouble with a perfectly politic response. If only the Corona had simply sent a letter. Even if it had been as long as Erinando was tall, it wouldn’t read itself out loud.
And I could stuff it in a box and lock the lid.

Their caravan reached the bridge and began to climb the gentle stone slope. As the wagons behind rumbled across the cross-hatching etched into the stone, Imee spoke. “Do you miss him? Bayan?”

Eward studied her for a long moment then nodded. “He was a good friend. He taught me what it takes to stand up and take charge. I used to feel like I had to be in control all the time but never really knew how. Bayan… he just had this way of stepping up and figuring out all the things that needed to come together to get something done. And I suppose he learned that from his father when he was training to take over the farm.”

Imee nodded. “Probably. When I heard he had been exiled, at first, I hated him. Then, one day, I was sitting in our camp outside Renallen’s walls, cold and starving and honestly worried that we wouldn’t have enough supplies to make it back home, and I had an epiphany.”

“What’s that?”

“The only things in this world that are truly ours are our choices. The more that’s at stake, the more valuable those choices become. And Bayan, he chose for everyone. Everyone but himself. He knew what would happen when he did what he did. And he did it anyway because he chose who to save. And he didn’t choose himself.” Imee cleared her throat and looked down at her horse’s mane. “Did Bayan ever tell you how we met?”

Eward shook his head.

“It was a feast day. Everyone had gathered in the open market space in Pangusay, and the food and drink were flowing. Music played, there was dancing, and the seer was doing Tellings. Then, from down one street, came Bayan, absolutely slathered in mud and pulling this bawling kalabao by its nose halter. When he got closer, I saw he was wearing his feastday clothing, like he had meant to come to the celebration and somehow fallen into the marsh. As it turned out, the kalabao had fallen in the marsh, and Bayan had gone in after it. He recognized it as belonging to one of the poor farmers just outside Pangusay. He brought the creature with him to the party because he had heard from his father that the farmer was unable to purchase a new creature, couldn’t find the lost one, and had spent the last day in talks to sell his farm to Bayan’s father.”

Eward took a moment to digest that. “So you’re telling me that Bayan saved a poor farmer’s kalabao to spite his father?”

Imee shook her head and smiled. “Bayan was only six years old. He hadn’t started training to take over the farm yet. He adored his father, but he knew Datu would be mad. Still, he chose to ruin his clothes and save that kalabao because he knew the farmer, and he didn’t want him to lose his farm. That’s always been Bayan. Doing what he thinks is right, no matter the consequences. Silly idiot.”

“Seems to be working for him so far.”

“You mean it seems to be working for all of us. We’re the ones who get to live in the empire he saved. Someday, I think Bayan is going to face a decision where one of the options is death, and if that’s the choice that benefits the most people, he’s going to choose it. And that makes me both sad and proud. Hearing about his life is like listening to a tragic feastday legend.”

“What sort of story is that? Waarden usually tell happy stories at our feasts.”

Imee grinned at him. “No, you don’t. I’ve heard your tales of adventure and war. They’re just as tragic as ours, but you cloak them in the trappings of glory and slaughter. Which, I will confess, does make them far more entertaining. Our stories are more about individuals than generals and their duelist armies. Where a single man sets himself against impossible odds in order to save the princess, his children, his father’s fortune, or the like. And he always does so, but more often than not, he dies in the process.” She sighed. “I just think Bayan has absorbed too many stories like that. He’s going to get himself killed, and he’s going to think it’s a good idea, and then there won’t be any more Bayan stories.”

I think I see the problem.
“And that means you won’t be able to tell people any longer that you knew him once, right? Less fame for you if Bayan dies young.”

Imee’s eyes flashed at him, then her lips curved in a smug smile. “I think you see me better than most. I like that.”

With the bridge behind them, Eward and Imee led the caravan down the broad boulevard toward the Kheerzaal with all due pomp and circumstance. Judging the sun to be still low in the morning sky, Eward expected to arrive no later than the middle of the afternoon. And then he could finally be rid of his charge and return to his duel den, where he’d get to enjoy being insulted by his Head Duelist some more.

Won’t that be nice? What I wouldn’t give for another few days riding and talking to Imee. At least she doesn’t have the power to potioneer me.