Reave the Just and Other Tales (18 page)

Before Goris Miniter could raise his voice to demand an explanation, Isla and I bowed to him formally. Coerced to do so, the
ro-uke
followed our example.

“King of Vesselege,” Isla said at once, “this test of champions has been dishonored. We’ve brought proof of treachery.”

At her words, quick consternation echoed around the ring. Horsemen muttered and cursed. If she had announced to him that all his pain and effort had been wasted, the young
shin-te
could not have looked more bereft. Bowing his head, he slumped in sorrow or despair. However, the
nerishi-qa
reacted otherwise. He advanced a step or two angrily, as though he meant to challenge us. His
qa
was a furnace, feeding him where a lesser man such as I would have been consumed.

Once more Miniter stilled his riders. At his sides, the White Lords considered the peaks of Scarmin like men striving to bridge the distance in order to see Argoyne’s thoughts.

Despite the haze which troubled my eyes, I could not mistake the King’s calculation as he asked in tones of iron, “What has the Archemage done?”

“King of Vesselege,” I answered, “the treachery is not his.” Although I spoke weakly, my voice carried across the meadow. “The dishonor belongs elsewhere.”

The White Lords’ champion approached another step, outrage burning in his open eye.

“Inside the keep of the Archemage,” Isla explained for me, “this
nahia
and I met and defeated six of the
ro-uke
. They are assassins, King of Vesselege. I think it’s safe to
assume
”—she gave the word a sneering force—“Argoyne didn’t send them against himself.”

“Then who?” the King countered harshly. “And for what purpose? If you ‘assume’ so much, do you also ‘assume’ you know why they were there? The
ro-uke
have as much honor as the
mashu-te
. Their presence is not ‘proof of treachery.’”

Turning to the captive woman, I shifted my grasp on her arm so that my mouth reached her ear.

“Speak,” I told her softly. “The truth. On the honor of your Art.” Within her robes, my fang drew blood from the skin along her spine. “I do not hold you accountable for the service you were asked to perform. But your life and all Vesselege are forfeit if you lie.”

Bitter as a blade, Miniter continued, “And you ask us to believe that you and one
nahia
alone defeated
six
of the
ro-uke
? That is hard to credit. If there is treachery here, perhaps it is yours.”

The assassin cleared her throat, lifting her head to the young
shin-te
and his opponent rather than to Goris Miniter and the White Lords. “No,” she pronounced. She, too, recognized the nature of this battle. And, as Goris Miniter had said, the
ro-uke
understood honor. “The King of Vesselege sent us to rid his land of Black Argoyne, the last of the Dark Lords. He wished the Archemage slain during your contest.”

A hush fell over the meadow—the silence of shock and dismay. The sky itself seemed to carry an echo of chagrin like a suggestion of distant thunder. Although his glare spoke of murder, Goris Miniter held his tongue. It may have been that his soldiers and adherents were more disturbed to hear the words spoken than they were by what the words meant. The White Lords revealed no surprise. But there were warriors among the horsemen, students and masters of the Fatal Arts, and their distress was plain.

To the
nerishi-qa
,
I said, “There is no honor for you here. No victory. The contest is meaningless. Let it go.”

“No!” one of the White Lords returned sharply. “The challenge was made and accepted in good faith. The contest is between mages, and we are bound by it. We stand or fall by the deeds of our champions, not by the honor or falsehood of kings and assassins. Goris Miniter’s actions are his own, irrelevant. The contest must be resolved.”

Although the mage’s lips moved, his voice did not appear to issue from his mouth, but rather from some source as distant as Argoyne’s keep.

The
nerishi-qa
withheld reply. He studied me narrowly for a moment, considering my wound and my weakness—gazed briefly at the young
shin-te
—then strode from the center of the ring toward Goris Miniter. Raising his head and his
qa,
he confronted the mounted King as though he were accustomed to passing judgment on the actions of sovereigns.

“Is this true?” he inquired softly.

Goris Miniter’s calculation was written on his face, plain to all who chose to see it. His eyes sifted lies and half-truths, deflections, while under his beard his jaws chewed the consequences of whatever he might say. In the end, however, the man before him was a
nerishi-qa
master, able to distinguish truth from falsehood, and he did not hazard prevarication.

“In case you failed,” he answered. “The Dark Lords are an abomination. Vesselege will never be whole while one of them endures.”

“Vesselege,” the champion of the White Lords retorted, still softly, “will never be whole while the King is treacherous.”

So suddenly that his action startled the wildflowers, the
nerishi-qa
braced a hand on the neck of the King’s horse and vaulted upward, sweeping a kick which struck Goris Miniter upon the helm and dropped him like a stone to the meadow.

Among the grasses the King of Vesselege lay still, with blood drooling from his mouth, and his skull crushed.

The young
shin-te
watched in bafflement and rue, as though he grasped nothing.

On all sides, soldiers and adherents shouted their fury and fear. They might have goaded their mounts to charge at the
nerishi-qa,
but the warriors around the ring were quicker.
Ro-uke
and
mashu-te,
they hastened their horses forward to block the soldiers. Doubtless they felt as the King’s adherents did. For one reason or another, they had pledged their service to Goris Miniter. Yet they understood that a contest of champions had been dishonored.

And without honor the Fatal Arts would fall to dust.

In relief, I sagged against the support of the captured assassin. The toxin in my shoulder had become stronger than my resistance, and I believed that I had accomplished my end. The
nerishi-qa
had acknowledged the contest dishonored. Now he and his opponent could withdraw without loss on either side. Without more death. Argoyne would live to defend his knowledge a while longer. And my life, and Isla’s, and the young
shin-te
’s, would not be forfeit for our service to the Black Archemage.

Haze gathered over the meadow. Helpless to do otherwise, I trusted that the
ro-uke
would uphold me.

I could only stare in dismay as the White Lords announced together, “The King’s treachery has been repaid.” Their voices tolled thunder. “The honor of this contest is restored. It will continue.”

Isla groaned. She may not have felt my qualms about sacrificing her own life, but she could see that our young comrade was already beaten. Only a few blows were needed to complete his death.

The
nerishi-qa
appeared to ignore the White Lords. Turning his back on them, as well as on Miniter’s corpse, he advanced again into the trampled circle of the contest. When he was within five paces of his opponent, he stopped.

He spoke quietly, but the thunder which the White Lords invoked was not more clear.

“I care nothing for mages,” he informed the
shin-te
. “If they are bound here—White Lords or Dark—the oath is theirs, not mine. This test lies between
nerishi-qa
and
shin-te
.

“For years we have refused your challenge, believing you fools. But you have become offensive to us. You have named
nerishi-qa
a false Art. I was sent by my masters to repay your folly, and to teach you that the falseness you repudiate is your own.”

Although he had been injured, his readiness for combat betrayed no flaw. The resilience compressed in the muscles of his legs matched the hard force of his
qa
. Relaxed and quick, his hands seemed to hold every blow which had ever been struck.

“Now,” he concluded, “our contest has meaning.”

From the edge of the ring, the White Lords nodded their approval.

A low moan escaped the young man’s lips. Yet he did not withdraw. Wavering on his feet, he answered, “Then I must accept. This test lies between us.” A maimed formality dignified his words, despite the frailty of his flesh. “Yours is the Art of the Killing Stroke. I will show you that it is false.”

His knee buckled as he assumed his stance, and he nearly fell. Staggering, he drew himself upright again. The loss in his eyes was terrible to behold.

He had met despair. Already it proved itself against him.

Had I been less weak, I might have wept for him. My own death crouched near me on the meadow, but it did not trouble me as much as his. Poison filled my thoughts, and I could not imagine any help which might save him. His spirit and his
qa
had not failed him. Still he was too young for the burden Argoyne had given him to bear.

Unsteadily he braced himself to meet his opponent’s last attack.

Within me, the toxin seemed to clench its jaws. The
nerishi-qa
had not yet moved. However, I could see his assault in the haze before me, precise and fatal. When he struck—

“Shin-te
,”
Isla called out suddenly, “remember your Art!”

As if involuntarily, the young master turned his bereavement toward her.

“There is no killing stroke,” she reminded him. Her voice rang with certainty. “There is only choice. Or despair.”

I feared that she had lost her mind. Had she not contested his beliefs herself? Yet in the end it was plain that she understood him better than I did. Or that he understood her—

Empowered by the magery of her words, his limbs regained a measure of their strength, and the sorrow receded from his eyes. Years of pain shed themselves from his shoulders. As he rose out of his stance to face his opponent again, he conveyed the impression that he was being lifted beyond himself.

Surprised by the young man’s movement, the
nerishi-qa
paused, easing his own stance.

Deliberately the
shin-te
bowed to his opponent. When he straightened his back, his arms hung defenselessly at his sides. Yet he appeared taller in some way, as if his own words in Isla’s mouth had given him stature.

“Your skill surpasses me,” he told the
nerishi-qa,
echoing her certainty. “But your will does not. No man’s choice exceeds another’s. You cannot make me other than I am.”

Slowly he spread his arms wide, closing his eyes as he did so.

“Here I stand,” he said, “unguarded. Strike me, if that is your wish. Your blow is mine. The victory is mine. If I have chosen to die, you cannot kill me. Any blow of yours can only carry out my will.

“How, then,” he finished softly, “will you teach the
shin-te
that they are fools?”

The
nerishi-qa
frowned, studying his opponent’s displayed form as though to determine the best target for a killing stroke.

“Strike,” one of the White Lords commanded urgently. “His choices have no significance. The contest does not rest on them. Only the blow matters. Only his death matters. The Dark Lord will be destroyed when his champion falls.”

Clinging to the
ro-uke,
I fought to clear my sight.

Without warning, the
nerishi-qa
struck—a blow so fierce that it seemed to stun my own heart. His fist flashed forward with all his
qa
behind it. Under its force, the cloth of the young man’s robe sprang to tatters across his chest, torn thread from thread.

And yet the
shin-te
did not flinch. His skin had not been touched.

His arms remained wide in sacrifice.

With great care, as though he had found himself on the edge of a precipice, the
nerishi-qa
stepped back, rising from his stance. After a moment, he snorted under his breath.

“Look at me,” he instructed his opponent.

Obediently the young master opened his eyes.

“You are indeed willing to die,” the White Lords’ champion observed between his teeth.

Lowering his arms, the
shin-te
shrugged. “Your skill surpasses mine,” he repeated. “Yet my life is my own.”

The
nerishi-qa
snorted again. “The
shin-te
are fools to challenge us.”

For the first time in my experience of him, the young master smiled. “So I believe.” Years lifted from his face in an instant. Without transition, he resembled a boy, innocent and unbereaved. “We learn nothing from each other.”

As if at a great distance, I heard Isla sigh, “Well said. Well done.”

The
nerishi-qa
did not smile in turn. Scowling around his swollen eye, he left the center of the ring to stand before the White Lords on their mounts.

“The contest is ended,” he informed them. The authority of his tone allowed no contradiction. “The
shin-te
has proven himself against me. I am forced to acknowledge defeat.”

Hearing him, I buried my face against the shoulder of the
ro-uke
to conceal my tears. The
nerishi-qa
had studied honor in such depth that I was humbled by it.

Yet I looked up again at once, for the White Lords had raised their voices in a cry as cruel as the clamor of a storm. From within their bright robes, they summoned their power, and thunderclaps answered, rolling among the foothills and over the meadow, gathering fire. Called from the clear sky, lightning hammered downward. Isla, the
ro-uke,
and I were knocked from our feet, horses were scattered, soldiers and warriors were tossed to the ground.

In the center of the ring, the blast scorched wildflowers and grasses to char—and the young master with them.

But his death was not defeat. The White Lords who struck him down had already ceased to exist.

_______

We did not, however. Instead we stood in the chamber where we had left Argoyne, the three of us,
shin-te, mashu-te,
and
nahia
. The Black Archemage was not present. In his place we found three goblets brimming with wine, enough food to satisfy us twice over, and the rich silence of peace.