Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (23 page)

He walked to the door and opened it, but
paused at the threshold. “Oh! One more thing. You may take lovers
if you wish. I fully intend to myself. But be discrete, and don’t
ever again humiliate me as you did last night.”

He could see in her face that she understood
the depth of his anger, his hatred. She would heed his warning, for
she feared him now. It tore at his heart. He had never expected to
see her face turned to him in fear.

He looked at her one last time and let her
see the anger he felt. Then he closed the door softly and was
gone.

France waited patiently outside Olivia’s
audience chamber. She had summoned him, which was a rare but not
unheard of occurrence. And as usual the old witch made him wait,
sitting patiently, hoping the audience would not last long. He had
no doubt she did so intentionally, a not so subtle reminder of who
she was, and who he wasn’t.

He saw her three or four times a year this
way, and each time they played the same game. He would be summoned,
told to report without delay, then instructed to wait, sometimes
for hours. And when he finally did see her, she would want to know
every detail of Morgin’s training. France would tell her what he
could, sometimes making a recommendation or two, and then she would
finish by asking for details of the lad’s private life, about which
France would feign ignorance.

“The Lady Olivia will see you now.”

Avis’ words brought France out of his
reverie. He stood, and as Avis opened the door he stepped into
Olivia’s sanctum. Instantly, he realized this time would be
different.

The old witch sat among cushions on her
couch wearing a hooded gown, floor length, with billowing sleeves
and simple lines. As always she had chosen a dark color. Today her
mood had gone to a green that was almost black. She reclined
comfortably, one arm resting casually on the back of the couch, the
hood thrown back over her shoulders. Hwatok Tulalane stood behind
her, and in front, to one side, stood old Beckett.

France took a place beside the old weapons
master. He bowed deeply. “You wish to see me, milady?”

“Yes, France,” she said pleasantly. “And you
no doubt are aware of what I wish to discuss.”

“I assume you wish to speak of Lord Morgin,
milady.”

“Exactly, swordsman. How does his training
progress?”

“Slowly, madam. But steadily. He improves
regularly now. No miracles, mind you, but each week he is a little
better than the week before.”

“Is he finally becoming a swordsman
then?”

“Yes, madam, in the sense that he can fight
and defend himself he is becoming quite proficient. But let me
caution you that he is not a duelist, and never will be. It’s not
in him to think like one.”

“Then how does he think?”

France considered that carefully before
answering. “I can only guess, madam, but I would say he thinks in
terms of survival.”

“His only concern then is for his own skin?
He is a coward?”

“No, your ladyship. I didn’t say that. He is
as brave as the next man. And the survival he chooses might be
yours, at the cost of his own life. But where his brother
JohnEngine will almost foolishly seek honor, Morgin avoids conflict
to begin with.”

The Tulalane spoke. “Sounds like a coward to
me.”

France was careful to disguise his dislike
for the wizard. “Forgive me for disagreeing, Lord Hwatok, but
Morgin is no coward. He merely thinks first of defense. He is a
survivor.”

Olivia’s lips tightened. “Does he never take
the offensive?”

“Occasionally, madam, when forced.”

“And do you ever force him?”

“I have, madam. One must see both sides of a
coin.”

The Tulalane leaned forward. “And how do you
force him?”

France looked at the wizard. Their eyes met,
and while they said nothing openly, it was obvious their dislike
was mutual. France chose not to answer the wizard.

Olivia said flatly, “Answer the Tulalane,
swordsman.”

France spoke carefully. “If he is
challenged, prodded into doing so, then he will take the offensive.
But it must be done carefully. He must not attack in anger. Combat
should be a decision, not an emotion.”

“But if you wanted to,” she asked carefully,
“could you make him attack in anger?”

France shook his head and lied. “No, madam.
I could not.” He could see in her eyes that she knew it for a
lie.

Old Beckett spoke for the first time. “My
lady. I must agree with France.”

“Thank you, Beckett,” she said stonily.
“Your opinion is valued here. But it is I who must decide what is
best for my grandson. And I would like to see how he performs when
on the offensive. Can you arrange such a demonstration,
swordsman?”

“With all due respect, you ladyship, I’ll
not goad him into anger.”

Olivia brushed his words aside impatiently.
“I did not ask you to.”

“Very well, madam. Tomorrow, after the class
workout, I’ll be tutoring him privately. If you observe from the
sidelines you’ll see what you wish. But it must be done carefully,
and I must not be rushed.”

“As you wish.” She dismissed him with a wave
of her hand. “You may go now.”

She looked at Beckett. “You too may go.”

They left, and once gone the Tulalane said
softly, “I don’t like that man.”

Olivia smiled. “And it’s obvious he doesn’t
like you.”

“He’s rude and disrespectful.”

“Yes he is. But I have use for him, and my
grandson needs him, so you stay away from him. If I ever want him
dead, you’ll be the first to know, but for now leave him alone. Is
that clear?”

The Tulalane nodded reluctantly. “Aye,
milady.”

“Good. But I’m still concerned about Morgin.
It’s been two years since he and Rhianne were wed, and he has yet
to come around. He’s surly, uncivil, and ill-humored. He does
nothing but brood. The winter has been long and his temper short.
Is it true he lives with the young bachelors and has never slept
with Rhianne?”

“Aye, milady. Since the first morning after
the wedding.”

“And is it true that he now spends most of
his free time in the village, drinking and wenching?”

“Aye, milady.”

“Blast and damnation!” she cursed. “And he
still shows no magic. Will that boy never do as I wish?”

“He does show magic,” the Tulalane said.

“I know he does. The shadows. And his
defense against my power. But that’s all passive magic. I wonder if
Roland is right, if perhaps that is the boy’s limitation, that his
magic is purely defensive.”

“Perhaps,” the Tulalane said. “Then again,
perhaps the boy is simply a coward.”

“I hope you’re wrong,” she said. “But I fear
you may be right. Blast! I would give anything to see how that boy
reacts when pushed to the limit. I must know what we have in him. I
must find out. But how?”

The Tulalane grinned slyly. “The boy seems
to respond readily to fear or anger. Tomorrow, during the
swordsman’s demonstration, if the boy could be induced to attack
because of one of those emotions, we might learn a lot.”

Olivia’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Yes.
But the swordsman made it clear he would not goad the boy so.”

The Tulalane’s grin broadened. “Yes, milady.
The swordsman will not do so, but perhaps there is a way around the
swordsman, a way to induce both fear and anger in the boy.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“Perhaps, milady. But it must be arranged
carefully.”

“Tell me,” she said. She looked up at the
wizard standing over her. “I want to know.”

His grin broadened and he said, “It won’t be
pleasant.”

~~~

Morgin sat in the shade of the porch watching
the Tulalane’s back recede as he walked casually across the
practice yard. For just a moment he wished he had the nerve to bury
his sword in that back, to bury it to the hilt and watch the
bastard slump to the ground. He would take great pleasure in doing
that. But then the
twoname
would probably hear him
approaching and it would be Morgin who would die, not the bastard
Tulalane.

Morgin grimaced, shook his head. It had been
a strange, angry day, as if his magic was out of control, and
thinking of murder that way only fueled his anger. The day had
begun and progressed as many others: a day of work followed by
sword practice in the late afternoon. But where France usually
condescended to act as old Beckett’s assistant, this day he had
been called away to some business of Olivia’s. And shortly after
he’d gone the Tulalane had arrived, pleading that he’d been idle
lately and needed exercise.

The lesson began in the usual fashion, the
young men pairing off with partners of roughly the same skill, old
Beckett and the Tulalane walking among them, offering advice, and
occasionally a demonstration. But early on the Tulalane had focused
on Morgin as a subject for his demonstrations, and Morgin was no
match for the wizard swordsman. Each time he was made to appear
more stupid, foolish, and inept. The demonstrations frequently
ended with Morgin face down in the dirt, his head spinning, the
Tulalane standing over him with a boot buried in the small of his
back, making some witty comment that brought chuckles from his
friends. The Tulalane had even cut him several times, shallow cuts
that produced only a drop or two of blood, then dried quickly in
the mixed dirt and sweat on Morgin’s chest and arms. It required
great skill to make such cuts with the tip of a sword, and not cut
deeply, and Morgin did not doubt that the Tulalane had done it
intentionally. But with his relative lack of skill he’d been
powerless to defend himself against the wizard, powerless,
frustrated, and angry; an anger that grew with each cut, each
bruise, each insult, jibe, and witty remark.

Morgin’s head thundered painfully. His
stomach churned. Even sitting still he felt ill. He’d spent the
previous night in the village drinking and whoring, and as usual
he’d done too much of both.

“Well, slacker,” France called as he walked
across the yard. “How goes it?”

Morgin looked up, said nothing.

“Come on, lad,” France said. “Up with you.
We have some practicin’ to do.”

“I don’t feel like practicing,” Morgin
growled. Nevertheless he picked himself up off the porch.

“Ah, lad! Payin’ the price of yer evil ways,
eh? Well you’ll not use that as an excuse fer gettin’ out of yer
lessons.”

Morgin stood reluctantly, followed the
swordsman to the center of the yard, trying desperately to hold
down his anger as well as the contents of his stomach.

France pointed with the tip of his sword. “I
see you’ve already been in the dust a few times.”

“I always end up in the dust,” Morgin
snarled.

France’s eyebrows lifted. “Yer sure in a
sweet mood today, lad. Come on. No more of yer growlin’. Up with
yer sword and let’s get on with this.”

They crossed swords, then without hesitation
France attacked. Morgin was already exhausted and he defended
himself clumsily. It seemed he was always on the defensive; against
the Tulalane and now against France. He backed up slowly, barely
able to stay ahead of the swordsman’s strokes. He was tired and
hungry and sore, and with each step more dirt ground into the
Tulalane’s cuts. And France allowed no slacking, no yield, no
rest.

Morgin, preoccupied with his own thoughts
and trying at the same time to avoid one of France’s strokes,
missed a step and faltered. A fist caught him between the shoulder
blades, knocking the wind out of him, driving him face down in the
dirt again. He lay there and gasped for air.

“By the
gods
, Morgin! This is the
clumsiest I’ve seen you in the four years I’ve been teachin’
ya.”

Morgin shot to his feet. “Taunts I don’t
need,” he screamed. “I’ve had more than my share this day.” He
slashed out angrily with his sword.

The swordsman danced away from the slash
easily and his eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong, lad?”

Suddenly something pulled at Morgin
painfully. It told him even beyond his own reasoning that this fool
was his enemy. It drove him, fed his anger, made him strike out at
the swordsman. Like a madman he slashed and struck, again and
again, and like a mocking demon the swordsman parried the blows
easily, dancing among Morgin’s strokes with insulting
indifference.

Morgin screamed uncontrollably, lashed out
again with his sword. He twisted within the mad grip of the magical
hatred, for this impudent commoner of a swordsman had no right to
mock him so. Not he, not an Elhiyne: a clansman, a wielder of magic
and power, magic that flowed through him now as it was meant to,
power in its infinite glory. He felt it guide his arm, his hand,
his sword. It ruled his mind and his soul. It fed him. It devoured
him. And from a far distant place he looked on as it swept France’s
sword aside with ease. He sensed the fear in France’s heart, and
was horrified that a piece of him reveled in it.

He fought his magic as it sought to consume
him in an orgy of blood. But it would not yield. It gripped his
sword in both hands, crashed the hilt into the side of France’s
head. Morgin looked on powerlessly as his boot lifted of its own
accord and slammed into France’s crotch. The swordsman grunted,
doubled over, then fell to the ground at Morgin’s feet. Morgin’s
sword lifted in a nightmare that would not end, his control
completely gone, his hands little more than passengers on its
hilt.

Something hit him hard, slammed into his
side, knocked him sprawling into the dust of the yard, rolling in a
tangled heap with a new opponent. He broke free, rolled to one
side, came up swinging.

Tulellcoe dropped below his first stroke,
jumped over the next. He danced just out of range of the tip of
Morgin’s sword. He back-stepped hard, drew his own blade, and as he
met Morgin’s next stroke, steel rang loud and demanding in the
castle yard.