Paul Kearney - The Mark of Ran

“You fought well today,” Rowen said quietly. “The impatience is that of youth, and will be remedied in time.” Her strong fingers kneaded the flesh of his shoulders and he leaned into her, closing his eyes. For him, the pain of the practice bouts was worth this, the almost-dark of the steam chamber, the intimacy of their two bodies close in the stifling warmth. Perhaps Rowen felt the same way, for she was always a little less reticent after their contests. She would talk to him not quite as an equal, but as a favored subordinate. A fellow-traveler perhaps.

“I have broken more bones in the past year than I did in the fifteen that came before it,” Rol said dryly. “If time does not remedy it, a broken neck will, one of these days.” He twisted to meet her eye, and for a treasured instant she was smiling back at him. Then she eased his face away from her and began massaging the sore meat of his muscles again.

Psellos was not entertaining that evening, so they joined him for dinner on the balcony level of the Tower. Rol had counted eleven levels aboveground and seven below, but he knew there were yet more beneath those seven-seldom-visited caverns he would probably never see. Psellos had a laboratory somewhere below the training circles to which he would sometimes disappear for days at a time, and among the Tower servants there were rumors of secret strong-rooms stuffed with jewels, imprisoned demons festering in stone cells, forgotten prisoners eking out a starvation existence in the subterranean darkness. Sheer fancy, most of it, but if half the rumors and demi-legends could be proved true, Rol would not have been surprised. He had seen and done enough in his year within the Tower to know that anything was possible.

Psellos was in an expansive mood. He had bidden Rol and Rowen don their finest, and the long table was cluttered with crystal and silver, the centerpiece an exquisite rendition of a carrack in full sail crafted of thinnest gold plate. The model’s main-hatch was full of salt, and silver barrels that lined the little deck were full of other condiments and sauces. It was a long way from dried fish and brackish water upon the Gannet.

Silent servants danced attendance on the trio, their comings and goings regulated by curt gestures, nods, and waves from Quare. They drank Armidian apple wine with fillets of Bank’s Monk stuffed with anchovies and capers, hooked snail-shrimp from their long whorled shells with silver picks, and sliced into cutlets of lamb rare and bloody and mouth-melting with wild garlic and thyme. Finally they pushed back their chairs, dismissed the servants, and sat while Psellos broke open a bottle of Cavaillic brandy, the glass encrusted with age. Gibble had surpassed himself. It was a meal a king could not have found fault with. Psellos was austere in many ways, but not when it came to his belly.

“A year and a day you have been under my roof,” Psellos said to Rol. “Doubtless, in your youth, it seems a long time. And yet your training has barely begun. Rol, your tutor tells me that you are close to besting her in combat, and you have no idea what praise that is.” He paused awhile and looked both Rol and Rowen up and down. He seemed to be savoring some secret knowledge as a miser will gloat over his hoarded gold.

“But fighting is not everything. There are other disciplines which are not so easily mastered. I want you to learn them all. I want to see what you can do.”

He was perhaps a little drunk, but not solely on wine. Psellos often slipped into moods like this. He would sit and plan their lives in vague terms which seemed nonetheless to please him inordinately, and sculpt visions of glorious futures. Sometimes Rol thought there were two natures warring within Psellos, one which was proud to teach, and another which was closed and ugly, hoarding its knowledge. One never knew which was strongest. Until one won out.

“My, what a handsome pair you are. What beauty sits at my table. Rol, you have the brow of a prince. Rowen, you are stainless, perfect. You shall remain with me. I wish to enjoy you tonight.”

Rowen inclined her head, expressionless. Rol knew her well now, and he could see the tiny flicker in her eye. For a long time now, Psellos had not called her to his bed, or sent her out to lie in others’. It had been a tacit hope of Rol’s that Psellos would hold to his word, and not do so again. He bowed his head. What was he to say, if Rowen said nothing?

Psellos had not missed the look in Rowen’s eye either. It seemed to heighten his good humor.

“Rol, doubtless you have a comely kitchen maid awaiting you downstairs, but before you leave us, there is something I wish to present you with.” Pushing back his chair, Psellos rose and from a nearby sideboard fetched a long, slim wooden case. He unlatched the lid and raised it. Whatever it contained flashed the reflected light of the candles across his face.

A sword. It came up in his hand like a sliver of blue water. With a twist of his wrist he sent it spinning end over end toward Rol’s face. Rol twisted aside and plucked it out of the air as though he were catching a paper bird. Psellos laughed. “Good, good! Rowen’s time has not been wasted, I see. Its name is-well, it does not matter what its name is. You must give it a new one now. It is yours to wield, for a while at least.”

The surface of the blade was luminous as the shallows of a calm sea at evening. It was wickedly light, a snicker of cold laughter in Rol’s fist. Almost he felt it had a voice, a whisper which crooned of carnage. The voice was avid as a famished rat-but there was a delight in the perfect balance of the steel. It seemed somehow to connect with the very sinews of his arm, its curved brightness an extension of his limb. A light scimitar, its trappings were unadorned and workmanlike, but the bright, marvelous blade was exquisite as a faceted jewel.

“You think he is ready for it?” Rowen asked the Master, and there was an odd, contained urgency in her voice.

“We will see. What think you of your gift, Rol?”

“I think I could fillet the north wind with it. Thank you, sir.”

Rowen spoke. “It is an old blade, and it contains many memories. It will enhance your sword arm, but there is something-”

“Do not ruin the surprise, my dear,” Psellos said with sharp levity. “Let the boy have his trinket.” From the padded box he lifted a plain wood and leather scabbard chased with green bronze and tossed it to Rol. “You may go now.” And as Rol rose and bowed, he added: “Keep it with you at all times, and do not unsheathe it again unless you intend to shed blood.”

“But I will have to get to know it, to practice-”

“No. You will find that the blade adjusts to your style. There is no need to become accustomed to it. The sword will take care of that itself.”

Rol felt a prickle of unease. “What kind of weapon is this?”

“An ancient and unique one, which should be treated with respect. Now leave us.”

Rol did as he was told. He met Rowen’s eyes for one flashing instant as he turned to go, and realized some light that had come into them of late had been quenched again. The realization darkened the simple, lustful joy of the scimitar’s bright quiver in his hand, and he made his way down the Tower’s endless stairs with heavy feet, some part of him still with her at Psellos’s table.

He bedded Arexa that night, a tall, dark-haired girl from inland Gascar who worked in the middle regions of the Tower and had the neat hands of a seamstress. Her breath was quick and light under him as his pelvis slammed into her buttocks. He was staring at the sword as it hung on the wall before him, thinking of Rowen’s steel-spring strength straining against him. Somehow the two were connected in his mind. Absurd and hopeless though it might be, he knew he loved Rowen. He loved her rare smiles, her silence, the sense of wholeness and quietude her presence gave him.