The Sword of the South - eARC (40 page)

“I’m not sad, Elrytha,” he said finally. “Just thoughtful.”

“Thoughtful? Why?” She watched him coolly, and he shrugged uneasily.

“I’m just…lost. You see, I have no memory. It was taken from me and sometimes I…miss it.”

“Taken? By wizardry?” Her voice was hushed.

“I suppose.” He felt restless and exposed. “I don’t really know.”

Chernion gazed at him, her mind racing, sensing his reluctance to speak further of it. She’d already learned more than she’d hoped, and she must not alienate him. Yet of all the frustrating bits and pieces she had to put together somehow, Kenhodan interested her most. Who was he? Where did he come from? He was perhaps the deadliest fighter she’d ever met—more so even than the Bloody Hand, in many ways—but where had he gained his skill? And why was he so important to the wizard?

And now this. Amnesia? How had it happened…and why? Of one thing, at least, she was certain; it was no simple accident. No, his lost identity was the key to all the other questions about him which burned in her brain. Somehow she knew that as she recalled her first impression of bloodshed and innocence.

“I’m sorry, my friend,” she said finally. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s all right. Bahzell and Wencit know—you should, too.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“Don’t mention it.”

He smiled crookedly, and his green eyes were somehow gentle, as if softened by sharing his secret. He brushed snow from his shoulders, and she was struck by the odd gracefulness of his strong fingers. Strange that she hadn’t noticed how strong he was—and not just physically. He had no past, yet she believed him when he said he wasn’t sad. Did he realize how tough and resilient that made him? Yes, he was a strong man, this Kenhodan, and one who might be the key to power.…

“I won’t mention it again,” she said, touching his shoulder lightly.

“Thanks.” He looked away. “And now I’d better wake those two sluggards. Not that we’re going anywhere very fast.”

He vanished into the lean-to, and Chernion watched the blanket drop. She turned to the brow of the hill, looking down on the road, her brain busy—and not entirely, perhaps, with thoughts an assassin should think.

* * *

Umaro and Ashwan rode at the head of their miserable men. The road was icy under the snow, and the thick flakes were a treacherous curtain. The assassins’ horses plodded wretchedly, steaming in the cold while their riders’ breath hung in clouds of vapor.

“I tell you, Umaro, they’re off the road somewhere,” Ashwan said. “They must’ve seen it coming, just as we did, and they were in steeper terrain. They’ve gone up a hill, and they’re all steep as houses around here. I doubt they can get back down in this
stuff
.”

He snorted the last word and scowled at the snow clotting his horse’s mane.

“I know,” Umaro grunted.

“Then why not stop? We’ll only lose a horse if one of them goes down and breaks a leg.”

“I know that, too,” Umaro said. “And I know we’re all cold and miserable, too. But they know we’re back here, Ashwan, so I want to get in front of them for a change. Let them follow us. If they see this large a party overtaking them, they’ll never believe we’re innocent travelers. If
they
overtake
us
, they may.”

“All right.” Ashwan nodded in agreement. “But I hope the Council never takes another commission like this one!”

“Not damned likely.” Umaro grinned lopsidedly. “Leaving aside the minor fact that I’d personally murder anyone who suggested we should, we’re after the last of a breed—a white wizard.”

There was more than a little bravado in the Craftmaster’s tone, but there was an edge of genuine amusement, as well, and the two of them chuckled as they rode on. Neither of them looked at the top of the northern side of the cut, and so neither saw the slight, poncho-clad figure in the green beret who watched them ride slowly past her.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Mage

“Better, Gwynna. Much better! But your concentration slipped. If you can’t hold focus all the way through, you’ll slip out of rapport before we finish. That’s not a problem in a training session, but if it happens when you’re under pressure, you could be in trouble.”

“I’m sorry, Master Trayn.” Gwynna blinked back into focus and nodded slowly. “Should we try again?” she asked humbly.

Trayn caught her pointed chin and raised her head gently, peering into her eyes. They were dark in the shade of the elms, and he frowned.

“How does your head feel?”

“It hurts a little,” she admitted.

“A little?” He grinned and shook his own head. “If you recall, our last exercise was in truth reading. Would you care to answer that question again?”

“Well…” She dimpled, delight briefly breaking through her new, very unchildlike gravity. “All right, it hurts a lot, Master Trayn. But we’ve
got
to keep going.”

“Gwynna, Gwynna! What am I going to do with you?” he sighed. “Some pain’s unavoidable when you stretch your talents, but don’t overdo it. Too
much
pain is counterproductive—a distraction. It’s why you were wavering towards the end. Give yourself time! You’re already making faster progress than any student in the Academy’s records, you know.”

“But you said the proper measure of a mage is against himself.”

“And it’s true. But any student has to be guided by his or her teachers, as well. Don’t push so hard you damage your talent, Gwynna.”

“Yes, Master Trayn,” she said dutifully.

“Good. And if you think you’re not learning fast enough, you’re the only person who does.”

“I know,” Gwynna said sourly, and Trayn looked at her sharply. She refused to meet his eyes, and when he probed gently her shields were locked. He could read her emotions, but not the thoughts behind them.

Gwynna fingered the weave of her dress and nibbled her lower lip, ears half-flattened, as she contemplated one of the more irksome consequences of her talents’ strength. She knew some of the other students resented the fact that she was Trayn’s only student. He was the Academy’s finest teacher, yet she monopolized his time completely.

She sighed. She delighted in discovering her talents, in satisfying the need which drove her like a demon, but she wasn’t truly happy. Those other students disliked her, and she could hardly blame them, though she was enough her father’s daughter—and her mother’s—to want to pull off a few arms over it. They all knew she was expected to show more mage power than anyone had seen in generations, and that distinction would have been handicap enough without her “preferential” relationship with Master Trayn.

The others saw only that she had what amounted to a private tutor and that in barely more than two months she’d been advanced to second-your status. It hadn’t taken long for someone to suggest that she was only a half-breed playing on her parents’ friendship with the Academy and Wencit of Rūm to receive special treatment. Little did her taunters realize how much they owed to the discipline she’d already mastered, for the rage she’d felt when she heard their remarks had almost launched her at their throats. Yet she also understood that no one with her talents could react as a child, whatever her age might be, so she’d refrained. With difficulty, but she’d refrained.

Trayn touched her shoulder and she looked up. Physical contact was discouraged among student magi as a way to encourage them to reach out mentally, but Gwynna’s shields allowed even Trayn to visit only occasionally in the public sectors of her mind.

“They shouldn’t taunt you, Gwynna.” His face was cold, his normally warm voice chill. “Magi, of all people, should be free of stupid prejudice. I’ve a good mind to report this to Master Kresco for discipline and a few home truths on the responsibilities attached to their talents!”

“No, Master Trayn.” Her hand covered his in a gesture both childlike and heartbreakingly adult. “I know why they say it. They’re angry and their feelings are hurt, and they want to hurt me back. I understand that—” she grinned suddenly “—luckily for them! But if you tell Master Kresco, they might behave better, but they’d only resent me even more.”

Trayn nodded slowly.

“All right, Gwynna. If you really do understand—and if you let me know if it gets out of hand.”

“Of course I understand.” She grinned again, but a dark ghost of wisdom hovered in her blue eyes. “What’s the use of being so ‘talented’ if I can’t sense things like that? None of
them
can shield yet—” she allowed herself a healthy edge of scorn “—so they can’t help radiating the truth to me. To themselves, too, but that only makes it worse because they feel guilty but not guilty enough to
stop
, and that makes them even madder.”

Trayn nodded again. She was so insightful it was hard to remember her youth. Working with her was almost like working with an adult—until the sprightly spirit which had somehow survived even her mage crisis laughed out at him. He had an idea that spirit would be vital to whatever unimaginable task was to be laid upon her, and he took care to nurse it like a precious flower. Indeed, he often found himself in the peculiar position of actively discouraging a student from acting with all the maturity she could.

“Just between us, Gwynna, you
have
been outshining them—a lot. Not that I want you to get a swelled head, mind you.”

“Oh, I do,” she assured him gravely, a twinkle lurking once more in her eyes. “It swells up whenever we practice truth reading. In fact it almost
bursts
when we practice so hard.”

“You little fraud!” Trayn said indignantly. “It’s not my fault you’re doing third-year exercises! Semkirk, girl; if you keep going, you’ll pack all five years into three or four more months—and then you
will
have some resentful magi on your hands.” He smiled as she giggled. “Not that I’ll tolerate your being anything less than the best mage this Academy ever produced. I have my reputation to consider, you know.”

“Yes, Master Trayn,” she said demurely.

“Good! Because right now you need a break from
mental
exercises.”

Gwynna’s groan was only half-humorous, because physical training was yet another area in which her classmates could resent her. It wasn’t her fault she had the strength of her father’s people, nor that Leeana had been a war maid, nor even that her own training had begun almost as soon as she could walk. Still, it had outraged the others when she threw Mistress Josilan, the unarmed combat master, out of the training circle that first day.

But at least Mistress Josilan understood. Indeed, she was proud of her prize student, and it hadn’t taken her long to set up a private training schedule and to become another of Gwynna’s champions.

Gwynna repaid her with possibly even more love than she’d showed Trayn, for she had no need to fear what she might reveal to Josilan. And she was eager to learn, because Josilan was a mishuk, with a style quite different from her mother’s. What maids fought with a sort of terrible exuberance, but mishuki were calm, almost cold. For them, combat was an extemporized dance, an almost pure athleticism, and they fought with a sparse, beautiful economy of movement.

Yet the mage-mishuk was even more centered than that, for he fought on two levels, with physical blows and also with the thrust and counter-thrust of mental combat. But combining her psychic talents and her body was unlike her deep rapport sessions with Trayn. In combat, one touched only the fringe of an opponent’s mind, for to look too deep was to become confused, but the lower mental tension made her bruise no less easily. If her fellows only knew! Leeana had never seemed lovingly but unwisely easy in her training, but Mistress Josilan was merciless in comparison.

“Do I really need to go today, Master Trayn?” Gwynna wasn’t above using her youth to wheedle, though the Academy’s masters were more resistant than non-magi, and her voice was earnest. “Isn’t it more important to work on mental discipline? I want to be sure I understand truth reading.”

“You, Gwynna Bahzelldaughter, are an unprincipled little baggage,” Trayn said, “and you can stop trying to diddle me, young lady! I’ve known you since you were two years old. I know how far you’ll go to get your own way.”

“I am not either unprincipled,” she said haughtily, lifting her nose with a sniff. “Only practical.”

“You
are
unprincipled. Charming, yes, but unprincipled. And if you’re late for Mistress Josilan, we’ll spend an extra twenty minutes truth reading tonight.
Then
we’ll see how your head feels!”

“It might be worth it,” Gwynna said thoughtfully. “She makes
everything
hurt. And you shouldn’t threaten little girls,” she added primly.

“Go!” Trayn pointed towards the gymnasium.

“Yes, Master Trayn,” she said meekly. “‘A student is always obedient,’” she quoted from the coda. “‘Only by accepting discipline will he learn discipline of self.’” She managed a tiny sniff, and her head drooped, ears flattening mournfully. “Don’t be angry, Master Trayn. I-I’ll try to obey.”

“Young lady,” the empath said in an awful time, “we both know I can’t force your shields, but if you don’t take yourself off this second, I’ll give them a jolt that leaves you cross-eyed for the next three days. Now
go
, little wretch!” She turned to leave, and he touched her shoulder gently. “And perhaps we’ll try distance reading tomorrow night, Little Sister.”

“Yes, Master Trayn!”

She curtsied—the gesture of respect slightly marred by the impudent tilt of her ears—and he smiled after her as she sped off and the all-too-rare tinkle of her silvery laugh floated back as she ran.

But his smile faded. It was monstrously unfair that she could share her humor only with the masters. It was hardly surprising the other students resented her astounding breath of talent, and those same talents made her even less a child than most young magi, yet she
was
a child. She needed to relate to the world of childhood as well as the world of adults, and she was being robbed of it by her fellow students’ fear and resentment.

A light footfall sounded, and Trayn looked up as Lentos stepped into the shadow of an elm. The Chancellor stroked the tree bark, examining its texture as if it were the most vital thing in the world, then glanced wryly at Trayn.

“The barriers are up, you know,” he said.

Trayn nodded. The barriers were raised a great deal these days.

“I suppose you want a progress report?”

“Only if you have one to make, Trayn. We have no criticism of your work with her, but we’re naturally curious as to her abilities.”

“You want an honest evaluation?”

“Of course.”

“Really?” Trayn smiled in amusement. “All right, here’s an ‘honest evaluation.’ If she left the Academy tomorrow, she could function as well as ninety percent of our regular graduates.”

“That well?” Lentos blinked at him in bemusement.

“Better, for all I know. I’ve never seen anything like it. I know you’re tired of hearing that, but—Phrobus seize it, man, it’s true!”

“I know it is. Do you think you’re the only one who realizes how extraordinary she is? But I need to know what you’re seeing—all you can tell me without violating the mentor relationship, anyway.”

“All right.” Trayn crossed his arms. “It’s not on paper—” He raised an eyebrow and Lentos nodded in understanding; paper could be scryed, but minds could not. “—but I can assess her potential. As nearly as I can tell, she’s got everything.”

“
Everything?
” Trayn was pleased to see that even the Chancellor could be shaken on occasion. “Trayn, are you positive of that?”

“Of course not!” Trayn exploded suddenly. “Damn it, how
can
I be? The child can’t even lower her inner shields all the way—never! And we’re both so strung out from the pace she’s setting that it’s almost impossible to be objective! But the signs are there.

“She tests incredibly high for basic empathy; her
test
scores are twice as high as mine are
now
. She handles telepathy better than Kresco, and her telekinetic potential’s right off the scale. Yesterday she maintained lift for over twenty minutes with fifteen pounds—
pounds
, Lentos—and she’s only eleven! Semkirk only knows what she’ll lift when she’s twenty, and she has better lift and movement coordination now than most fourth-year students.

“Let’s see. What else can she do? She tests positive for apportation, teleportation, levitation, and—especially—pyrokinesis. She’s a born fire raiser. In fact, she near as nothing melted the testing cubicle the first time she tried it. Then there’s empathic healing, perception…Phrobus! She’s even demonstrating early signs of wind walking and weather control! There are half a dozen talents she
hasn’t
shown yet, but be reasonable—she’s only been here nine weeks!”

“Calmly, Trayn,” Lentos murmured.

“How am I supposed to be calm? Her pace is killing me, but that only seems to make
her
more determined. Listen, Lentos, I’m not even training her—not really. She’s improvising her own training as she goes. All I can do is identify her talents for her and try hard to stay in shouting distance.

“For instance, that little girl’s driven herself to master the learning trance almost as thoroughly as I have. She retains both conscious and unconscious control at all times, so she can guard herself. Of course, it also means I don’t have enough contact to take over quickly if I have to. I don’t even know if I could do it at all with killing us both—but I don’t know enough about what’s happening to insist on handling it any other way.

“Gwynna
knows
what’s inside her head, Lentos. I’m sure of that much. But she can’t—or won’t—share it. Not even with me, and right now I’m closer to her than her own mother. I don’t know if what she’s hiding is really that dangerous, but that doesn’t matter, because she
thinks
it is.

“She’s growing into her talents impossibly fast, too quickly for us to understand. And she’s too inexperienced to be objective herself. That’s the crunch point. She’s young, scared, and so strong it terrifies me, yet even though she’s totally inexperienced, the ground rules are hers to make. As I’m sure you understood when you made me her sole tutor.”