Martin Hengst - The Last Swordmage

“Is this-?”

The Captain took the dagger from his belt and struck her armor with the broad side of the blade. She felt the metal contract, a tight but not painful constriction across the entire garment. She watched in awe as the metal expanded to its original size.

“Yes,” he nodded. “Witchmetal. Highly durable, but not indestructible. It will serve you well.”

From the chest he lifted a pair of breeches that were dyed the same deep blue and constructed in much the same fashion. Tiadaria quickly shucked her pants and slipped on the rest of her armor. A pair of boots finished out the ensemble. She twirled, indulging in a moment of sheer girlish delight as she viewed herself in the full length viewing metal attached to the door. The Captain chuckled and reached back into the chest.

“There’s more?” Tiadaria asked, astounded.

“Just a bit.”

The Captain withdrew a sword belt and pair of scabbards. The supple leather was dyed the same color as her armor, the clasps and hardware silver that danced and sparkled in the sunlight. The scabbards were curved, like his, but the hilts of the weapons that stuck out above them were nothing like any weapon she had ever before seen. The grips were polished to a bright silver shine and were crafted in the likeness of a winged horse, the wings spreading out to form the guard before sweeping back along the hilt. The legs of the beast lie alongside the guard, giving it the appearance of gliding.

He circled her waist with the belt, pulling it tight so the scabbards rested at her hips. He fussed with it a bit and then apparently satisfied, buckled it tightly. “The Pegasus is a noble, honorable, and highly intelligent creature. One that has been gone from Solendrea for hundreds of years. They represent a legacy of swiftness and passion that I now pass on to you. You’ve learned everything I can teach you, young Tiadaria. Now it’s your turn to fly.”

The Captain reached into the chest and Tiadaria wondered what could be left. He had already given her so much. Her throat was tight and she was on the verge of tears already. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep herself together.

Taking an oddly shaped, matte black instrument from the chest, he beckoned her to him. She recognized the device and her heart skipped a beat. It was the same tool that Cerrin had used to lock on her collar.

“I thought the collar was permanent,” she asked, puzzled.

“It most cases it is. Faxon happens to be a good friend of mine. He knows quite about the enchantment of witchmetal and the tools used to manipulate it. He invented it, after all.”

He fitted the end of the instrument over her collar and she suddenly knew what he intended.

“Sir, wait, please!”

His grip on the tool slackened and he looked at her questioningly. “You’re a slave no longer, Tiadaria. You shouldn’t wear a collar.”

She took his hand in hers and gently removed the device from the band around her neck. She folded his hands over it, and then her hands over his.

“I came to you as a slave, as property, but you never treated me like your property. You trained me, taught me, and you helped me find my purpose. Everything that I am, or want to be, I learned from you. The collar has never defined me. You showed me how to do that. I’d like to keep it. It’s a reminder that things happen as they’re supposed to…and that freedom can be found in the unlikeliest places.”

“It’s a tactical liability,” he protested. “An enemy could use it against you. A strike against the collar could render you vulnerable at the worst time. Gasping for breath on the battlefield isn’t how you want to die.”

“No, it’s not,” she admitted with a wry smile. “We’re all vulnerable in our own ways, Captain. This is no better, or worse, than any of them. Please respect my decision. You’ve taught me well, and I choose to keep the collar to honor the man who made certain that it would never bind me.”

“If that’s really what you wish.” He tossed the instrument back into the chest, looking at her with thinly veiled skepticism.

“It is, Captain.”

She threw her arms around him, drawing him close and laying her head against his chest. They stood there for a long time, bathed in the golden sunlight of the rapidly dying day.

Royce and Tiadaria were among the last to enter the council chamber. The vaulted ceilings, each with a painting of some important moment on Solendrea’s history, were normally a delight for Royce. Today, however, his mind was elsewhere. Tiadaria had changed. She still wore the collar, which he thought was a distraction at best and a hazard at worse. It had been her decision to keep it and he had to respect her wishes.

Collar or not, she had changed. No longer did she follow behind him. She kept step at his side, a smaller version of the warrior whom she did her best to emulate. Her chin was tipped a little higher, her eyes flashing with the stubborn defiance that Royce had come to know and understand very well. She had become a powerful warrior in her own right, no longer overshadowed by his skill, but a fitting complement to it.

There was a cold ache in his belly that had nothing to do with this council or the battles that they soon would face. Over the past few days, the medicine in his flask had done little to ease the gnawing pain that had grown worse with every morning. He had spied himself in the mirror this morning before they left the inn. He was pale and haggard. Royce thought, with no small amount of remorse, that their departure from the inn would mark the last time he would stay in such an establishment. There were many things that were drawing to a close now.

As they crossed the threshold into the council chamber, all activity stopped. Faxon and Adamon looked up from the table where they had been talking. Torus and his men, gathered around a large map, paused in their strategizing and looked up at them. Even the king, high on his council chair, peered at them as they entered the room. Let them stare, Royce thought. Every one of these men, save the Quints, had once followed him into battle. Let them see that he had passed the torch thoroughly and completely to this splendid creature beside him.

Tiadaria was resplendent in her royal blue armor. The witchmetal rings caught no light, but seemed to ripple in waves of shadow across the fine silk. Her weapons hung at her sides, their silver hilts sending motes of reflected lantern light dancing across the floor. If anyone noted the collar, they pointedly ignored it, Royce thought. Torus raised his hand, greeting her as an equal. The mages nodded gravely. The king, leaning on his cane, made his way down the few steps to the floor of the chamber and met them as they crossed the room.

“I’d have thought you would do something about that collar, Royce.”

“He attempted to, your grace,” Tiadaria bowed respectfully from the waist. “I asked to keep it.”

“Keep it?” Heron Greymalkin was aghast. “Whatever for?”

“Because it is proof positive that one can overcome the worst adversity if one sets their mind to it…and has the right kind of teacher.”

The king peered at the girl, then to Royce, then back to the girl. Royce suspected that the king would have still preferred her to be without the collar, but in the end, it wasn’t his decision. Tiadaria had decided what was best for her, and Royce wasn’t inclined to argue. She was perfectly capable of making her own decisions now. She’d have to. It was time for her to stand on her own and make her own legacy, or die trying. Just as he had.

“Well, young Tiadaria, when this mess is over with, you’ll come see me. You’ll have a writ signed by my own hand, with my own seal, that the collar you wear is by your own decision, not because any man holds dominion over you.”