Terry Simpson - Etchings of Power

“I still can’t believe what she did,” Ancel said, his low voice filled with awe. “To be able to hold the currents of a river at bay. To calm storm winds. To go against the natural flow of Mater. Can you imagine if any of us could do something like that? I wonder how strong she is?”

“Stronger than an Ashishin, I think,” Mirza said.

Danvir took down the hunks of sizzling meat. “Maybe. And right now, I don’t care. I just want to eat and get home.” He dropped the haunches into two large pots they’d found inside the farmhouse.

Echoing his sentiments, Ancel nodded and eyed the food. They’d discussed staying in the farmhouse until they ventured inside past the broken down front door. A weeks old corpse sat rotting in a chair, a huge gash across the chest, head lolled to one side. The place reeked of death. They took only what they needed to prepare their food and left. Ancel cringed with the memory and almost lost his appetite, but his need for sustenance overrode his revulsion.

“Do you think they’re looking for us back home?” Mirza stared out through the lone window.

Ancel followed his gaze. The twin moons hung low in the sky. On clear nights after a storm, if one saw the moons before they reached their zenith, their huge silvery-blue forms gave the impression they were close enough to reach out and touch.

“They must be by now. I’m sure my father’s people in Randane dispatched eagles,” Ancel said.

At least that’s what he hoped. But suppose they didn’t know it was him and his friends that the King’s men sought? Then word wouldn’t reach Eldanhill until too late. How long before the soldiers discovered what they did? He thought about his father, his mother, his classes, Teacher’s Calestis’ tutelage, and the long ride in the morning that comforted him so much. Would they ever see their homes again?

“I’m sure by now my Da has either sent men or is on his way to Randane himself,” Danvir said as he fanned the hot food with the flat back of an old chair.

“I’m worried about that too,” Mirza said. “None of our people are safe in Randane or anywhere in Sendeth for that matter.”

“You know what this all means, right?” Ancel said glumly. He stared off into the distance. “It means more war. To think King Emory’s involved with the shade. Wouldn’t it have been easier to seize us when we delivered the kinai? It’s not like Headspeaker Valdeen could’ve stopped them. Either way, they’ll all answer to the Tribunal.”

Danvir growled. “They can keep their bloody war. All I want right now is to eat.” His broad shoulders flexed as he ripped chunks of meat from the bone.

Following their friend’s lead, Ancel and Mirza went to the pots and prepared themselves their own meals. Before long, they sat drinking water and eating in silence.

Ancel found himself thinking about Kachien’s power again, and his own recent manifestations came to mind. From the way Kachien had grown weak from her Forging, he knew she would soon need to kill to appease whatever her power required as a price or she would either go insane or die. He shuddered to think what she went through. If he was to ever control what grew inside himself, he needed to practice in earnest. Tonight, he would begin the task until the ability to step into the Eye’s calmness became as easy as breathing.

After he finished eating, Ancel cleared old furniture and wood from the far side of the barn. He found a thin branch among some firewood. Using a rusted knife he’d found in the barn, he whittled the stick until its weight matched his sword. Satisfied, he stood and shifted into a ready position, his right foot forward, facing straight ahead. Most of his weight rested on his back leg, firm to the ground like tree roots. He kept his front foot balanced on the ball with the heel slightly raised.

In quick motions, he began to move, shifting his front foot to copy likely scenarios, to compensate for balance or to pull back as if he slipped. Adding his rooted back leg to the movements, he pushed off into lunges, side steps, and blocks, his charm bouncing on his chest. At times, he dropped his weight onto his front foot to press forward. The entire time, his legs remained slightly bent, his joints loose, his back straight, body facing forward and his arms relaxed. He imagined his father or Teacher Calestis calling out the positions from left, right, back and front as he ran through the exercises called the Bonadotors, his feet making precise steps in every direction, his arms whipping out, loose and fast.

“Dexterity and sword handling are as important as strength. Speed kills,” his father would say. “The Bonadotors are the keys. Practice them daily.”

He repeated the Bonadotors several times before he moved into basic swordplay. First came the eight basic parry positions, from head, to shoulder, to flank and to his legs on each side. He imagined his assailant attacking him from each position, and he defended. When he found his opening he struck with the cuts, slices, and thrusts he’d been taught. Elancose for all attacks on the right. Carnean for those on the left. His repertoire sped faster and faster, and he hardly noticed the sweat on his brow.

The burning in his arms and shoulders became a sweet sensation, the weight of his legs, a feather. The stick became a sword in truth.

He shifted into the Stances his father had taught him. Flowing like water, absorbing every attack was the art of the Namazzi. Rumbling and strong, strength like the mountains themselves was the Svenzar. Swift, faster than an eye could follow, like light itself, were the Ashishin arts. If only he knew the Styles to go with each. Regret touched him as he realized how far along in his training he could be at this moment.

Teacher Calestis’ voice echoed in his ear. “Your sela isn’t just a combination of life and death essences. It’s the combination of your heart and mind, as your gaze is your perception and sight, as your hearing is a connection to locate anything close, as your touch can be as useful as what you perceive. Thrust all you sense into yourself, so deep until you reach a calm pool. There resides your sela. All that makes you who you are. Embrace it. When you have, then you will have attained the Eye. Within the Eye, all and nothing exists. There is no speed, no strength, no dark, no light. There is just you and what your heart desires. Commit to that and what seems impossible will become possible. Ultimate control will be yours to reap.”

Ancel embraced the Eye, and floated upon the calm pool at his center. Outside, all his emotions and feelings raged. They tugged at him from every direction. He could pluck any he wished to use or none. In the Eye, control belonged to him.

As before, at the river with Kachien or when he was overcome with emotions, a sight rose within him. Every living thing glowed with their own luminescence, with their own shades, like an aura of light around a candle, lightstone or lamp.

The glow drifted over Mirza and Danvir in vibrant hues. Ancel could tell them apart like the calluses on his palms. Whites, reds, and blues swirled around Mirza as if he was swathed in fire then surrounded by sky and clouds. Danvir’s was heavy with browns and greens, which somehow reminded Ancel of the mountains and forests. When he turned to Kachien, he stared with his mouth open.

Colors roiled around the woman as if they fought for supremacy-a white glare, many shades of brown, yellowish light, faint blue. And dominating them all, squeezing them in was darkness. Ancel knew the darkness for what it was. Shade. Somehow, he knew. This hue was what encroached on her sanity, made her kill, caused her lack of control. And as he watched, the shade was devouring the other colors in tiny increments. Ancel wanted to run to her, to hold her, to tell her she would be fine. He could tell the pain being inflicted on her by the battle around her body. Each time the shade gained ground, a near imperceptible shiver passed over her body, too tiny for a normal eye to notice but not for his new sight. Not able to bear anymore, he tore his eyes away from her.