Authors: Robin D. Owens
"And the Marshalls are ever structured," Bastien said.
Faith plowed on. "Since you are already Paired with a Sword,
you can take the same Tests as she, or opposite—"
"Yes." That rang true. Struck the right chord inside
him.
Faith raised her brows. "Which?"
"The same as Alexa," Bastien said.
"Any objections?" asked Faith.
Silence.
Now Reynardus smiled faintly, and something fluttered in Bastien's
gut. If he thought fast, maybe he could direct this process. He recalled Alexa
had bested—killed—Defau Disparu. "The late Swordmarshall Disparu Tested
Alexa's fighting ability. I stand ready to be Tested that way."
More quiet. The Marshalls exchanged unhappy glances.
"I've proven myself in the field. I am every bit the warrior
my Lady Swordmarshall is," Bastien said coolly. "I match Alexa—isn't
that what Pairs do? Match?"
B
astien's use of her name brought her back from dozing to her
dream.
Fighting. Field. Warriors.
He was talking about her? Alexa
Fitzwalter? As a warrior? She took a moment in her odd dream to ponder this.
Was she? She'd fought all her life to get what she
wanted. She'd waged civilized war through law school and
had planned on tough but bloodless fighting throughout her life—as an attorney.
She'd believed in her old career. Visions of renders and soul-suckers and
slayers and the dreeth curdled her guts. But she imagined them all too well
invading the village on her land, setting fire to her home, and a hard, fierce
burning flared in her core. She would never allow it. She would fight to the
last drop of her blood to stop that. To keep her home safe. To keep Bastien
safe.
In her dream, she missed a remark from Reynardus, but knew it had
been snide.
Bastien laughed shortly. "Then I will balance her
inexperience. I am a seasoned warrior." A lightness lit the tone of his
mind. He began to strip, turning a sly gaze to Faith, the historian. "I
believe I heard once that one Marshall Test of field experience was counting
the number of scars. I have a goodly number of scars." He threw his shirt
on the table, pointed to a small white knot at the side of the ring finger of
his left hand. "We'll call this 'one.'" He frowned. "I've had it
for several years—I think I got it when my childhood friend and I fought two
armored snippers."
It was all before her in those scars—the recollection of the
quick, nasty fight with "lesser monsters over the years," the
cheerful, male competition with his lost friend—a loss that still echoed grief
in his thoughts. Her mind whirled, trying to grasp the new information. Then
her dream eyes focused on his body, his beautiful, muscular frame under
dreadfully scarred skin, and she whimpered. Her resolve flamed
white-blue-jade-green hot and was imprinted on her soul. She would never let
him be hurt again, not if she could stop it.
His laugh rippled a tune in her head. He'd never let her stand in
front of him if
he
could prevent it. They'd fly into the field together.
They'd battle together. They'd
triumph
together.
"Oh, put your shirt back on, Bastien. I'm sure you have a
hundred battle scars," Thealia said irritably. She glanced at Faith.
"That was the accepted figure, was it not?"
Faith cleared her throat, turned a page of the Lorebook.
"Actually, it was a mere fifty."
Bastien chuckled and pulled his shirt on. "So much for the
fighting experience Test." He struck a pose. "What's next?"
"Power," breathed Partis.
Bastien's face altered subtly. He'd had Power all his life.
Fragmented Power as a black-and-white.
Everyone looked at his streaked hair.
No wonder his father smirked. Bastien
had
had problems
controlling his Power, especially in new situations. He didn't know what
Alexa's Test of Power had been, but reasoned it must have been very difficult.
Bastien swallowed. Alexa was stronger than them all in Power. He set his jaw.
But he was whole now—the flaw that had fragmented and blew his inherent magic
wild in all directions had been mended by Alexa. He should be able to handle
anything the Marshalls could dream up.
Reynardus steepled his fingers, tapped them together, smiled a
renderlike smile. "An atomball," he said softly. "Make us an
atomball."
Merde!
It could drain him for days. It would
take
days.
That's not right.
Alexa's sleepy voice was
querulous in his mind.
Shh, rest,
he said, pulling his thoughts from her.
"I've never made an atomball." Hadn't known anyone who
had, hadn't known the Marshalls had. He gestured to Faith. "If the
Lorebook has instructions, I'd like to glance at them."
Sinafin!
Alexa's call echoed in his mind.
The pages of the book riffled themselves, then stopped. Bastien
stepped up to scan it. Essentially it came down to gathering
his Power, compressing it, separating it from himself and
making it into a visible sphere, viable as a weapon. He had a nasty idea how
the Marshalls had used it in Testing Alexa. He took the anger at the thought to
make the core of the ball, white hot. No one would
ever
do such things
to her again. Not while he lived.
"There is no way a single person could make an atomball of
the small size and great Power that our Circle did. Let us set a size and
amplitude for this Test," Thealia said.
"Agreed," said Mace. "The size to fit in my large
shooting-star?"
Bastien concentrated on his task, gathering his Power. The size of
a shooting-star, the round, spiked weapon at the end of a chain linked to a
club, should be within his reach. Just.
"Fine," Reynardus said, and Bastien added to his ball
the spurt of anger he felt at the smug tone.
Reynardus didn't think he could do it. Probably thought Bastien
had already lost, since he was unnaturally quiet. The core was coming along
nicely, though.
"Strength?" asked Partis. "What if it lifts Mace's
shooting-star to the table?"
Bastien set his teeth against a groan, added more Power.
"To the ceiling," Reynardus said silkily.
"Midway the length of the windows," Thealia countered.
"Done!" Reynardus said with satisfaction.
Heat gathered in Bastien as he raised his energy level and poured
all his Power into the forming atomball. He should have sweated, but he used
that bit of energy from his pores to go inward to the construct.
The doorharp sounded a scale—with notes above and below what were
set by the strings.
Ping!
A weight settled on his shoulder, but he kept
steadily layering the ball. From the corner of his eye he saw a warhawk with
bright pink eyes. The shapeshifter. Sinafin. For a moment he lost the slippery
ball, but Sinafin snagged it with ease.
Let's put it outside you. Any more time inside you and it could do
damage,
the shapeshifter said in a sensible tone he'd never heard from
her.
He shut his eyes and visualized sending the ball outside himself
in a flow of energy. He shuddered as the last bit pulled away. When he opened
his eyes the ball was a misty yellow nimbus the size of the huge gong in the
Temple, around a white core the size of his fist. The center glowed near his
gut. He gritted his teeth. This was going to be hard.
She broadcast her next words to the Marshalls.
You all had each
other's help in making the atomball, as well as the ritual that brought in
Power from the Song. The Song sent me to help Bastien at this time.
Bastien sent his laughter flashing into the ball—who was going to
challenge her? And what would happen if anyone did? He'd been reckless enough
to dare anything and yet
he
wouldn't think of challenging the feycoocu.
No one spoke.
He panted now, compressing the sphere, sending the heat of his
body to it, all the Power he could easily access.
All his strength, all his physical reactions from the trembling of
his muscles to the sweat that should have beaded on his forehead went to the
sphere. The task demanded a forced concentration from him that he'd never used,
never could have mastered when he was a true black-and-white. Increment by
increment, the sun-yellow globe shrank. How could he succeed at this Test?
How could he fail? If he failed, he'd prove to the Marshalls, to
his father, that he was weak and useless, confirm the opinion many had of
him... That wash of humiliation shrank the ball a good four inches. He sought
to relax, to make sure any tension of his muscles went into the effort. Soon he
swayed on his feet, felt his balance going.
Sinafin's claws pricked his skin as she steadied him.
I will
link to your woman.
No! She is drained enough from battling the dreeth.
The Song blessed her. Power gathers around her even as she sleeps.
With every breath she inhales energy motes and they live in her skin, merge
with her cells. You will help her master and wield her Power, but now you need
her.
A trickle of energy, sweet energy buzzing from his lover, came to
him on a threnody. The additional strength had him push the sphere tighter.
From the corner of his eye, he saw several Marshalls holding their breaths. All
attention was fixed on him. With slow wit, he located Mace's shooting-star. It
had been moved to within an inch of his toes, but he hadn't noticed how or
when.
Slowly he let the ball descend from belt-buckle level—this was
more of a releasing, a deliberate relaxation of his own energy, again siphoning
to the atomball. Soon the yellow was almost in the round, spiked iron, but a
definite rim of white-yellow showed. Bastien tried everything, visualizing
himself packing a snowball between his hands, sending more Alexa-Power to it
with fierce will, incipient despair—any emotion that flitted to his mind. Yet a
slight glow remained.
The strain was too much, he couldn't hold it, couldn't force it
into the weapon, no matter how hard he tried. He had nothing left.
Sinafin's claws pierced his skin. He jerked, and his shout and his
pain sped into the ball. The hawk lifted her bloody foot and flicked droplets
of deep red with unerring aim to the last shine of white.
The atomball vanished into the spiked iron. It broke its chain,
flew up, hit the ceiling, rained plaster, fell to the table, hitting the wood
and embedding with a
thud.
When the glaze of exhaustion faded from his eyes, Bastien saw no
one in the room. He blinked, then noticed people huddling
under the table. Humor returned. The Marshalls always had
fast reflexes.
"Playing with atomballs is ever an interesting
experience," Partis said, his voice echoing from under the table.
Go free it from the table,
Sinafin said.
Bastien grinned weakly; he wasn't sure he could take the two steps
to the table.
Let them do it themselves.
Sinafin stretched out a wing and batted him around the head. He
got a mouthful of feathers.
I'm going, I'm going!
Taking one long stride, he
fell against the table. The shooting-star had made a big dent and was implanted
a good inch into the table. With spread fingers, he set both hands on the
weapon and arched as energy sizzled back into him, setting his hair on end, top
to toe.
Merde!
The leftover energy,
Sinafin said smugly.
As he pulled the shooting-star from the table, the Marshalls once
again took their seats, all gazes now on the weapon. Not a bit of energy leaked
from it. No glow. But it hummed very low, nearly below the hearing threshold.
Faith's pen scritched on the parchment. "Bastien Vauxveau
passed his second Test. One of Power. It is the first time in the annals of the
Lorebook that an applicant has made an atomball. The Marshalls will be lucky to
have him with us," she muttered.
Bastien stretched, shook out his arms and legs, smiled at Mace,
who was eyeing the chain and stick of the shooting-star on the floor and the
round spiked ball on the table. "Want your weapon of choice back?"
asked Bastien.
"I don't think so," Mace said.
Shrugging, Bastien said, "You Marshalls can decide what to do
with a spiked iron shooting-star that contains an atomball. It was your idea,
after all."
Sinafin cackled.
When Faith finished writing, she looked at Bastien. "The next
Test is of compassion."
"Compassion," he snorted. "As if you Marshalls, who
think and strategize big, are any to speak of compassion."
"How dare you criticize us!" thundered Reynardus,
standing.
"Easily. You manipulated my lady. Even
after
she
passed your Tests and became a Marshall, you forced her by your mistrust and
your actions to leave the Castle—she a stranger, an alien with no money, and no
knowledge of our land. And that is just the latest of your exploits that show
true compassion," he mocked.