Taming Fire (20 page)

"I am ready," I said.

"We shall see," he said, with a tone that left no doubt what he expected to see. "The door. Is it open or closed?"

He snapped the question as though to catch me off guard, but I casually replied, "Closed."

"Correct. The body of your test now will be the simple process of opening the door. Understood?"

"No."

He waited for me to ask more, but I was caught in my imagination, moving my awareness down and to the left to stare directly at the closed door. Finally I asked, "How?"

"It is simple. Whether the door is open or closed...that doesn't matter. The fact that it is a doorway is important—in fact, doorways and walls are surprisingly important—but open and closed shift constantly, and they don't hold too well. So, you know that with your eyes open the door would be closed, right?"

I nodded.

"Now, in your imagination, you must create an image of this room, of
this
door, but with the door open. Then you must believe that the image in your mind is the true reality, that your memory is only tricking you but your imagination shows you truth."

"How?"

He growled softly in frustration before he answered. "By your will," he snapped. "By your faith. That is all it takes. Believe, desire, and create. Now, begin."

I tried. In my mind I spoke the words, "The door is now open! Poof!" But the image stayed the same. I wasn't fooled by words. I knew the truth.

I tried to change the image so that the door was open, or discard this image and create a new one with an open door. But that was not real. The image in my mind was the truth. It was the room I might have to fight in. Whether the door was open or closed mattered very much if I needed to beat a hasty retreat or back an opponent into a corner.

When I closed my eyes and saw the room, I saw the world as I could count on it. I would not hesitate to stand up and walk among the rows of tables and benches, to dance up and down the steps without even glancing, because I knew the accuracy of my memory. This change, though, demanded something different—almost something opposite of what I knew. The tools seemed the same, but the harder I tried to work the magic, the more real my belief in a closed door became.

I began to feel a tension building in the air about me, a heavy, oppressive air that weighed on my body and taxed my lungs. I screwed up my face, frowning in concentration, but the more effort I poured into my imagination the more it seemed I should just stand and walk to the door. It would be so much easier to open it by hand!

And with that thought the whole image fell apart. Instead I saw myself rising within the room, walking calmly and easily to a plain door, and pulling it open by hand. No magic, no power, no buried truth. Only the stale world I'd always known. And as I watched that little pantomime unfold before me, I felt all hope for power, all magical ability at all fade from my feeble grasp like a tide sinking back to sea. I could never have anticipated the great sense of loss, of emptiness that I felt in that moment.

I sighed a great sigh and let my shoulders slump, falling back against my seat. I allowed my eyes to open and stared at the cursed door for one long heartbeat, and then it whispered effortlessly open, swinging easily and rapping lightly against the inner wall before settling to silence. Ashamed, I turned to face the grinning Archus.

"That," he said darkly, "was the most pathetic thing I've ever witnessed. You actually showed
no power at all
! I've never even
heard
of that happening! The door didn't
budge
until I opened it on my own!"

Shame and rage met in a great clashing front that hurled me to my feet. Before I even knew I was on my feet I flew over the long table and landed directly in front of him, grabbing the front of his shirt in my fists. "You arrogant bastard!"

He didn't twitch, but snapped a word of command, and a wall of air threw me back to crash against the wooden table I'd just hurdled. He took a moment to arrange his shirt again, brushed at his sleeve, and then stepped up to loom over me. Half of his mouth curled up in a sneer.

"You should watch your mouth, little Daven. Students are not permitted such harsh language around their masters."

I tried to stand, to lunge at him, but found myself still bound by his magic. I recognized bands of air, like those Claighan had used to trap me at the lakeshore, snaking over my chest and shoulders, my waist and knees. I stopped struggling and instead spat at his face, which took him by surprise. "Let me go, coward! Face me like a man, with sword in hand."

"Oh, Daven." He shook his head slowly. "You should know threatening your master is considered poor form, too! And, as I said, I am responsible for setting your punishments. However I see fit." His eyes danced. "But I'll forgive both your offenses this time. After all, you're just a shepherd, and it will take time to tame you." He turned his back on me and started up the stairs toward the door. He made it halfway, strolling with an easy arrogance, then turned back to me as though in afterthought. "But...perhaps I would do well to continue your education by other means. Meet me in the Arena at even bell, with your sword, and we shall settle this."

With that he left. I struggled to stand, but his bonds were still in place. I screamed after him, crying curses, but his footsteps trailed off down the hall and I heard no other reply. It was a long time before his magic faded and I could push myself up off the floor to make my way wearily to my room.

I had missed lunch with Themmichus and wasted much of the afternoon pinned on my back on that floor. I didn't know where I was supposed to find dinner, or when, but as I stepped out into the courtyard between the Halls of Learning and the dormitory, I saw evening fast approaching. Bloody sunset bathed the corridor in red shadows. I set my jaw. I'd missed dinner, too, then.

I whipped the door to the dormitory open with more force than I needed. The halls beyond were empty and my footsteps echoed, high and thin, as I stomped my way back to my room. I saw no one. As I went, my shoulders twitched. I licked my lips and fought to suppress a snarl. My hands balled in fists, and I made a conscious effort to relax them, but moments later they were clenched again. I began walking faster and then finally broke into a run for my room just as the great bells of the tower began tolling the evening hour. Archus would be waiting. Hate and fear clawed at my heart, crushed on my lungs, but neither overwhelmed my desire for vengeance. He would pay.

When I came to my room the door was standing open. I exploded through it and saw my travel pack still fallen where Themmichus had dropped it. I spared it less than a thought, stepped over it, and drew the Green Eagle's sword with one furious motion, then turned on my heel and darted from the room. I sprinted down the hall, feet pounding against the stone in time with the thunderous beat of my heart, and burst through the little wooden door that opened onto the Arena.

And I stopped. The courtyard was packed with students, and every one of them faced toward a little clearing at its heart with a palpable expectation. I understood in a flash. I understood why Archus had left me trapped in the room, and why the halls had all been empty. He had gathered them here for this, to witness my humiliation.

Of course. He was the first heir of some southern nobleman. Of course he would have some facility with a sword. I had watched noblemen duel, though. A dark grin twisted at my lips, and I began shouldering my way forward. He couldn't know how hard I had studied. He couldn't know how viciously I would fight.  He had bought his own suffering with that one act of cruel arrogance. I finally broke through the crowd and into a ring of richly dressed young men. Archus stood opposite me in an open area almost exactly the same size as the one I'd fought Cooper in years ago.

No, days. I shook my head, and my grin faded. Days ago, I'd been just a shepherd. But I had killed since then. My path had changed. I set my jaw, raised my sword, and met Archus's eye.

He smiled. He laughed and raised his voice. "So you've come after all. Let's dance."

I dropped the sword to my side and sneered at him. "I hate to dance. Let's fight." He scowled as a chuckle went up from some of the closest students. He came a step closer and answered me.

"You would brawl like a dirty beggar." He shook his head in disappointment. "You're a disgrace, Daven, and you don't belong here. You bring shame on the school, and today you have dared to challenge your master." He dropped his voice, dropped his eyes to lock on mine. "Prepare for your second lesson."

He reached up to unclasp his cloak, and it fell in a soft rustle to pile on the dusty ground. One of the nearest spectators darted forward to take it up. Beneath the cloak he wore new clothes, all of black silk and resting lightly on his pale skin. He pulled a long, light rapier from a sheath on his belt and settled into a northern stance, left hand held arcing up to head height behind him. He hopped from one foot to the other like an excited race horse. "Come fight me, then."

I looked around for a sympathetic face in the crowd, but the closest all seemed to be Archus's friends. They wore the same elegant finery on their soft frames, the same arrogant sneer on their hateful faces. I had no cloak to drop and my clothes were simple cotton, but they were much like what I'd always worn, and I was comfortable in them. I rolled my shoulders once, then raised my sword in a simple capitol stance, and settled to wait for him.

But when his eyes finally fell on the blade, his mouth dropped open. "Where did
you
get a sword like that, shepherd?"

I kept my voice low for him. "From a duel, lordling. I took it from a Green Eagle."

He snorted, but when my face didn't change his expression did. "Impressive. I'll examine it more closely once I've won it from you." As the words left his mouth he moved. With a smile like a striking hawk's, he came gliding forward.

He used the rapid, careful steps of a trained swordsman. Within three paces I had a measure on how he moved, and I rushed to meet him.

We crossed swords once, almost formally. But instead of falling into a flurry of flashing blades I disengaged and then lunged, forward and to the side. I struck out once, more against his blade than at him. It threw his weapon wide even as he turned to follow my motion. I quickly reversed my lunge and closed with him, face-to-face from less than four feet away.

I slashed my sword up to cut his cheek, to score a point off my clever motion, but he moved with astonishing speed. He managed to bring his blade back around and deftly parried my attack. His riposte came just as swiftly, and I was lucky to send it wide of my right shoulder.

At that distance our fight was a desperate, dizzying whirlwind. His sword and mine danced around each other, seeking frantically for some purchase. A deep, cold silence filled the courtyard around us. The boys closest must have been straining to see what was going on, and those farther back straining to hear some indication from them. But for a long moment, we merely tested each other in speed.

The observers couldn't have followed us. I couldn't even keep up consciously with the motion of our swords. Instead I fought to maintain my relaxation, to know our positions, and allowed my muscles to respond more on instinct than thought. Training turned my wrist, jabbed my arm forward or pulled it back, rolled the hilt of my sword lightly over my fingertips. I moved the blade on nothing more than a sense of the pressure and angle of his weapon against mine, but it was enough to keep me safe.

He was terribly skilled, and faster than I, but everything he did was with textbook precision. For two passes I allowed my guard to lapse on the
terce
, and on the third pass his perfect strike came
in terce
, straight out of the book. But I was not there to receive the blow. As his lunge carried him forward I dove free of him, coming up behind and to the right.

He caught himself short of falling and whirled to face me. Surprise and irritation flashed across his face, beneath a light sheen of sweat. I grinned as I moved to meet him, but I hung just an inch outside of the appropriate range. For two or three passes we fought like that, and I could tell that the distance was irritating him. So I pressed an attack and took a long step forward, bringing us face to face. I thought to lock swords with him and then just shove him over—I was clearly stronger than he—but as I slid in close to him I saw his mouth move.

At the same time his left hand suddenly swung out, as if he were throwing a haymaker at me from three paces away, and a great gust of wind reached across the distance to deliver the blow for him. Pain flared across my ribs and I had to take three quick stumbling steps just to keep my feet. Before I could set myself, before I could turn to face him again, he attacked me from behind.

I felt the tip of his sword cut into my left shoulder, sharp and hot. Blood washed down my back and anger flooded me. I threw myself into a tight turn and dove toward him. I swung my sword in a high arc to draw his attention up, and while his blade was still rising to block it I leaped forward and crushed his forward foot beneath my heel.

He cried out in surprise and pain and then lashed out again with another gust of wind that pushed me away and beat me down to the ground. I tried to fight it, tried to attack him through the spell, but he moved forward with the gusts of air and attacked as he did it, the tip of his blade darting past mine to cut me along the arm and shoulder. I fell into desperate defense, but beneath the torrent of air I couldn't even maintain enough control for that.