Knights Magi (Book 4) (34 page)

“But the ones we’re issuing you lot,” he added, “are crappy, rusty old practice pieces with nary a spell upon them.  Because long before you learn to use the
powers and versatility of the mageblade’s full arcane potential . . . you’re going to learn how to use it as a sword.  Just a sword.  But the right kind of sword . . . for just about anything.”

Rondal looked at his ‘new’ mageblade, a cold steel blunted sword that had seen hundreds of sparring matches.  He had his real mageblade of course, a serviceable but simple sword, a gift from Master Minalan, back in his quarters, but he was forbidden to use it.  Not that it would have given him much advantage – it had only a few basic enchantments on it.  But it was a real mageblade, not a practice blade.

“Feel the grip in your hands,” the Master urged, “feel the length and balance of the sword.  A master warmage knows his mageblade better than his pecker.  Just to ensure that you do understand the depth of that knowledge, one of the first spells I’m going to teach you is known in the trade as the Bladelore spell, or more properly Gurther’s Exploration.  In this meditation you will extend your consciousness into the steel of your blade and get to know it, layer by layer, inch by inch, until you know it the way your tongue knows the back of your teeth.  Let’s begin . . .”

Rondal threw himself into the meditation without much native enthusiasm . . . but he knew how to study a spell.  Under Master Renando’s patient instruction he – along with the rest of his troop – crawled through their blades, mentally speaking, from hilt to point.  Rondal could tell his particular sword had been broken and mended twice, and was particularly strong along the forte of the blade.  It was balanced too blade-heavily in his hand, and the leather that wrapped the hilt was soaked with the sweat of dozens of other students.

“Once you know the blade,” Master Renando continued, when they had completed the two-hour long meditation, “then you can begin to understand how to use it.  And using it in combat is different than other sorts of swordplay.  So you will learn the basic postures and positions our tradition brings us: the Sword Dance of the Magi.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon learning the rudiments of the positions and the transitions.  Thanks to Master Minalan’s insistence, Rondal was already fairly familiar with the Sword Dance, up to the first eight movements.  Master Renando complimented him on his stance when he came by, even.

When the time came to pair off with sparring partners, Rondal made certain that he found Gurandor before Tyndal found him.  No need for another awkward confrontation.  They hacked at each other in slow motion as Master Renando instructed the class in swordplay at half-speed.  He almost forgot his fellow apprentice was there until the last few minutes of the class, when the master instructed everyone to switch partners.  Tyndal tried to get to Rondal, he saw, but Rondal was able to snag a short hairy Remeran instead.

“That was a lot of fun,” Gurandor said as the class broke up.  “A lot more fun than infantry drills.”

“It’s a whole different style,” agreed Rondal, who had not minded learning shield work.  Few warmagi used shields.   “Fighting with a mageblade makes you a lot more vulnerable.”

“But a lot more deadly,” Gurandor countered.  “Once you add in the spellwork—uh oh.  The Haystack is heading this way, Striker.”  “The Haystack” was what Gurandor had taken to calling Tyndal, after the shaggy mop on his head that seemed to turn brighter and more golden every day. 

“You want a quick bout, Ron?” he asked, invitingly . . . as if it was a privilege.

“I’m done for the day,” he answered, coolly.  “You should able to find a pick-up match though.”

“All right,” Tyndal said, though he didn’t look intrigued by the prospect.  “Is something wrong?”

“What do you mean?” Rondal asked as he folded his equipment.

“You know damn well what I mean!” Tyndal said in a low voice. 

Rondal looked around.  He didn’t want to make a scene.

What are you talking about?
He demanded of Tyndal, mind-to-mind.

You’ve been acting strange since I got here
, Tyndal accused. 

In what way?

“I . . . well, you aren’t being your old friendly self
,” Tyndal began.

You mean I’m standing up for myself and not taking your abuse?

What abuse?
Tyndal asked
.  I’ve been nothing but nice!

Rondal didn’t have an answer for that.  Tyndal had been nothing but nice.  In a condescending and arrogant way.  He decided to try another approach.

“Do you really think that what happened at Inarion I’m just going to . . . to . . .”

“To what?”
Tyndal asked.  “
And a lot happened at Inarion.  For both of us.”

“You know damn well what I mean!”
Rondal replied, hotly.

“You mean . . . Estasia?”

“Of course I mean Estasia!  Or were you worried I was pissed over your examinations?”

“What about Estasia?  It was a tragic misadventure.  Kaffin will get what’s coming to him – I’ll see to that.”

“You’ll see to that?  That’s mighty gracious of you, fixing
my
mistake!”
Rondal blasted back, and then walked away hurriedly.

“Ron, wait!” Tyndal said aloud.   “
What
mistake?  Wait!”

“That’s enough,” Gurandor said evenly, stepping between Tyndal and his squadmate.  “Let him be.  He’s obviously not—”

“You have no idea what he’s thinking!” snarled Tyndal, trying to break free.  Gurandor pushed back just enough to show Tyndal he wasn’t going to chase after Rondal without getting through him. 

Rondal stomped down to the main hall, where people were beginning to gather for the evening meal.  “What was that all about?” Gurandor asked, concerned.  “I thought you were going to draw on him!”

“That’s why I left,” Rondal said, disgusted.  “He doesn’t even . . . no, don’t trouble yourself.  If he’s going to be as thick as an anvil, I’m not going to worry about it.   Let’s just eat . . . and then find a bottle someplace.  I suddenly feel the need for a drink.”

Gurandor grinned.  “We can go into the village to the inn, tonight.  A few pints will make you feel better.”

“Or make me bawl like a baby,” grumbled Rondal.  “Can he really be that stupid?  She’s
dead
, and he blamed me, and now I’m supposed to just pretend like it didn’t happen?”

“Let it not trouble you,” Gurandor soothed.  “You have to work with him.  You don’t have to like him.”

“True,” Rondal sighed.  “I guess if we could work with Yeatin in the squad, I can work with anyone.”

*
                            *                            *

The one-eyed barman at the
Iron Gate
was dealing with five tables of customers, but there were plenty empty at this time of day.  Rondal paid a penny for two pints poured out of an earthenware jug and handed one to his squadmate.

They talked of the day’s lesson and argued over what the best-designed mageblade would be enchanted with.  Rondal had a slight advantage over Gurandor, as he already had acquired one.  It was as sturdy and as functional as the common blades distributed for practice, but it had been made by Master Cormoran in Tudrytown.  Rondal had barely added enchantments himself, but now that he understood the process better, he had several he was considering.

They were in a debate argument over whether a focus on offensive or defensive spells was more prudent when Tyndal and two other magi from the class came in.  Gurandor was immediately on his feet.

“Sit down,” Rondal casually commanded.  “He’s not here for trouble.  He’s just thirsty.”  His squadmate took his seat, but never took his eyes off of Tyndal.  Tyndal, for his part, spared the two a long glance, but then promptly ignored them, focusing instead on his two companions and a barmaid.

Rondal appreciated his friend’s loyalty, but he knew that what was between he and Tyndal would have to be dealt with alone.  “If he just wasn’t so damned arrogant!” he fumed aloud. 

“Has he always been that way?”

“Well . . . I guess it’s been since . . . well, since we came to Sevendor, but it’s always been there.  Headstrong, proud, and impulsive, certainly.  And then we went to Inarion, and he had to be the biggest dog in the kennel.  Even as he was failing.”

Gurandor shook his head.  “My father always said that the gods built up such men to make them fall all the harder as an example to the rest of us,” he said sagely, and took another sip of the rich ale.

“He wasn’t the one who fell,” Rondal said quietly, but bitterly.  “Estasia did.  That would have solved a lot, actually . . . “

“And you say this . . . Kaffin of Gyre is to blame?”

“Or Relin Pratt.  Orril Pratt’s beloved nephew himself, to hear him tell it,” Rondal scoffed.  “Shadowmage.  Family trained.  And he wants vengeance.”

“On who?”

“On everyone.  But Tyndal and I are probably at the top of the list, now.  We . . . well, we stopped him from stealing a witchstone.”

Gurandor looked shocked.  “Someone tried to steal your witchstone?”

“Someone – Kaffin –
did
steal Tyndal’s for a day or so.  If we hadn’t . . . anyway, we retrieved it.  But only after Estasia was thrown from the roof by one of Pratt’s mates.  I liked her.  A lot,” he said.

“Did she like you?” Gurandor asked.

“Well . . . not as much as she liked Tyndal,” Rondal admitted.  As he did so, he recognized part of the burden he’d been carrying.  “She
really
liked him, even though we had more in common, and I liked her.  So . . . well, Tyndal liked her some, I suppose, but not like I did.”

“So when she died, and he blamed you . . . oh,” Gurandor said, finally understanding.  “So he thought it was
your fault
that the girl
you liked
died.”

“So did I,” agreed Rondal.  “But to hear it coming from him, after all we had been through . . . Ishi’s stinking rose,” he swore, bitterly, “he didn’t even
really
like her!  I swear he only showed an interest because I did.”

“You think you’re angry at him . . . because he blamed you, or because she liked him more than you?” Gurandor asked, quietly. 

Rondal wanted to dispute it – violently.  If it had been anyone but one of his squadmates, he might have.  But Gurandor wasn’t goading him, he was just being a good squadmate, trying to help him out.  “Probably,” he whispered after a long silence.  “Damn it, every where he goes, he has girls follow him around like they’re a bunch of cats and he’s covered in cream!  And it’s only gotten worse since we were knighted, and his head grew nine sizes too big for his hat.  They . . . they won’t leave him alone.  Me,” he sighed, “I could glow like a magelight and they’d walk right past me.”

“And Estasia walked right past you,” Gurandor supplied.

“In a matter of speaking,” agreed Rondal, dully.  “I was the smart one, the educated one, but she only had eyes for that big Haystack.  Why
wasn’t
she interested in me?” he asked, feeling the effect of the ale a bit.

Gurandor sympathetically laid a hand on his arm.  “There’s no accounting for girls’ tastes,” he said, shaking his head.  “They say they like one thing when they
mean the exact opposite.  They expect you to know what they’re thinking when they don’t even know what
they’re
thinking.”

“Well, I knew what Estasia was thinking, and it wasn’t about me,” Rondal said, sullenly, draining his tankard.  “And yes, I was angry about that.  I still am.  And twice so because I can’t even tell her because . . . because . . . I killed her!”

“You did not kill her!” Gurandor insisted.  “She was pushed off a roof by an enemy.  You just made a mistake.”

“A mistake that cost her life,” Rondal pointed out.  “A mistake I should have avoided.”

“But you didn’t, and now she’s dead, and you can’t ask her to the Spring Dance,” Gurandor said, rolling his eyes.  “Look, Striker, I’m sympathetic . . . I am,” he assured him.  “But unless you want to find a necromancer and have him call up her spirit, I think your chances with this girl are gone.”

“I know!” Rondal said, angrily.

“So . . . forget about her,” the other mage encouraged.  “If she liked the Haystack more than you, well, that was her error, not yours.  Or even his.  And that had nothing to do with how she died.  So think about that while I get the next round,” he said, scooping up both mugs.

Rondal stared at the fire and brooded, thinking of Estasia’s beautiful face, her shapely figure, her sparkling eyes and her wide smile . . . and then thinking of it all being reserved for Tyndal’s appreciation.  It made him burn – burn at Tyndal for blaming him and burn at Estasia for being more interested in Tyndal.

“Screw ‘em both,” he muttered to himself.  Unfortunately, he said it just as Tyndal was headed to the bar himself to refill the drinks of he and his new friends.

“Both?” he asked, merrily.  “Somehow I don’t think you have it in you to even do one,” he said, and danced past.