Sword of Jashan (Book 2) (3 page)

Callo had left for the ring before Ander came down for breakfast. Lord Zelan said a few choice words about his stepson’s skill with the sword, and told him if he wanted to see a real swordsman he should go down to the ring and watch Lord Callo. Sick of his stepfather’s criticism, Ander grabbed a couple of slices of ham, piled it on some bread, and left the table. He had intended to avoid the ring at all costs, but here he was anyway, watching the best practice bout he had ever seen.

Islarian was a competent swordsman. He was known as an excellent trainer, which was why King Martan had sent him to Northgard. Even a King, who commanded armies, needed skill with the sword, King Martan said. A King must command the respect of the strong-willed
righ
and the mages.

Ander struggled with his training sessions. He was used to seeing the puzzled look on Islarian’s face when Ander failed to execute some maneuver that the instructor had gone over time and time again. Ander had grown to dread the matches Islarian arranged with other students; even wooden swords could deliver stinging blows. He could defend himself in a pinch, and all the credit for that went to Islarian’s stubborn persistence. Ander was a gifted color mage, and an intelligent student, but he would never be a good swordsman.

He did, however, know one when he saw one. Lord Callo was in the ring right now, giving Islarian a challenging match. The older man was almost glowing with the pleasure of having his skills tested for the first time in years.

After a few minutes of frowning concentration, Ander found himself watching the men in the ring with an artist’s eye instead of a swordsman’s. He opened his sketchpad, picked up his charcoal, and began to draw, trying to catch the controlled violence of Callo’s body as he worked. The man was in constant movement, so he contented himself with a flow of action—strong lines for Callo’s forearm, a fluid arc for the fair hair tied at his neck, a line to show the motion of his shoulders. The sword itself was wooden, but Ander took license and made it a strong stroke, a dagger of black steel.

He was just trying to figure out how to show the expression on Callo’s face when someone spoke.

“That is very good,” Kirian said.

“Thank you.”

“May I join you, Lord Ander?”

He made room for the Healer on the stone bench, his eyes returning to the men in the ring. He indicated his drawing. “Do you think he would mind?”

“Mind your drawing him? I doubt he would care.” The Healer’s eyes were on his drawing again, then on the fighting man in the ring, then back on the picture. Her lips curved in a smile. “You’ve caught him, Lord Ander. It is—inspired.”

“Really?” He was not used to compliments. “I will give it to you. After I finish it, that is.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She settled on the bench, making herself comfortable. “If I may ask—how is your side today? Is there any swelling, any redness?”

“No. I’m fine. Hon Jesel gave me some herbs to drink. He said you did a good job of cleaning the wound.” He worked at the drawing, finding it difficult to draw Callo’s face. He decided to complete it with just a suggestion of expression, ignoring the fine details to show the man’s focus on the fight.

There was a shout in the ring. Ander looked up in time to see Islarian leap back from a strike, grinning. He had not seen the swordmaster grin before.

He continued to work on the drawing, but his thoughts were elsewhere now. “Hon Kirian—are you privy to Lord Callo’s business?”

She shrugged. “Some of it, perhaps.”

“Then do you know why the King’s men would attack me? I have been the acknowledged heir since my birth. King Martan has no children of his own, and he has never begrudged me anything. Are you sure?”

“Lord Ander, did you not listen through all the argument they felt necessary to have in the middle of the night?”

“Yes, I did. Lord Zelan was not convinced—he feels it was the Sword of Jashan, and I must say that makes more sense to me. But Lord Callo seems very sure about this, and he and Chiss know the one man from the King’s guard. I believe my father is likely to humor him in this. He is very amiable now with Lord Callo because he saved my life.” He sighed, putting aside the charcoal.

“It makes sense if King Martan no longer wishes you to succeed him.”

“Why would that be? What has changed?”

After a slight pause, Kirian said, “Has your lord father told you nothing of what he discussed with Lord Callo this morning?”

Ander grimaced. “He does not trust me with his affairs.”

“These are your own affairs. You are the heir to Righar. Why does he not trust you?”

Ander looked at the Healer. She looked pleasant enough, with her round face and friendly eyes. He felt an unexpected urge to confide in this common woman who knew nothing of him. “I am not the son he would have wanted. I am merely his stepson, and he has no heir of his own body. And I will leave Northgard, eventually, and he knows there will be no Collared Lord here after him.”

“So he is bitter.” Kirian swung her feet, which did not touch the ground. It was an oddly endearing gesture, making her seem more his own age. Ander felt his tension ease.

“I know little about the other Collared Lords,” she continued. “I was posted to Seagard, so I know about the Black Tide, and the Collared Lords there. This seems so quiet a land, in comparison. Why was a Collared Lordship created here?”

“There used to be icetigers living in the high mountains. They would come down every winter, and sometimes at other times, and kill animals and people. They were not like ordinary tigers, you understand—they were almost as big as horses, and vicious. There were other predators, too, that came over the mountains from Leyland—hungry wolves that were forced down from the north in bad weather. The legends say they were the god Chovolth’s creations.”

“Chovolth. He is a Leyish god.”

“The Leyish god of winter. The wolves and icetigers were his servants. People died from them every year, slain in the wild or even in their villages.”

“They sound like terrifying creatures.”

“The Collared Lords of Northgard were created oh, long ago, and bound to the Hunt. They went out and killed the icetigers. They succeeded so well that there hasn’t been one seen since I was born. There is no more need for a Collared Lord here. I won’t create another one, when I am King, and when my stepfather dies.”

Kirian looked over to the ring, where Callo and Islarian were finished with their match. Ander followed her gaze. Islarian was leaving the ring, but Callo stood for a moment, holding his own sword now. Callo raised the weapon in a ritual salute Ander recognized, having seen it in Sugetre.

“Because of this, your father will not tell you news you need to know to protect your own life?” Kirian asked.

Ander laughed. He knew it sounded bitter. “You don’t know him. He is a tyrant. My lady mother is in Sugetre right now, where I should be as well. But Lord Zelan ordered me to remain until I turn fifteen. He will not listen to my arguments, and King Martan has not interfered.”

“In this case, he proved wise. If you were in Sugetre you would likely be dead. Look, I will tell you–”

“Wait.” Ander stopped her, hand raised as he saw what was going on in the ring. Callo was going through an abbreviated form of Jashan’s sword ritual. Ander’s fingers itched for his drawing tools as he saw the straight posture flow into the ancient moves. Then he sat up, rigid, as he saw red fire crawl down Callo’s blade and disappear into his hands.

“Jashan’s sword!” he said. “He is a color mage.”

“He is. That is why the King has changed his mind about the succession. If you had listened . . .”

“But Hon Kirian, he was never a color mage before. I would have been told.”

“It is a new thing,” Kirian said. Ander turned to look at her. Her brown eyes were on the man in the ring.

“You don’t become a color mage by surprise, at his age,” Ander objected. “He would have known.”

“There were special circumstances. No one knew, until recently. King Martan knows.”

Ander put his drawing materials aside and jumped to his feet. “I must warn him.”

“He is in some danger?” Kirian asked.

“He could be. He must learn to control it. Look how the energy is all around him like that. Hon Kirian, he trusts you. Please come with me to talk to him!”

Callo was finishing the shortened ritual, his eyes closed during this final salute. He opened his eyes as Ander barreled into the ring, followed by Kirian at a slower pace. The energies which had clung to him like a lover faded into his hands as they approached.

“My lord!” Ander said breathlessly. “I did not know you were a color mage.”

“Neither did I, young lord,” Callo said. “Until a few sennights ago.”

“He says there is some danger,” Kirian said.

“The color magery—the energy—it is uncontrolled. It should not be visible when you worship Jashan in the form.” Ander felt heat rise in his face. It felt strange, addressing an older
righ
like this. But the man didn’t know, had never been taught, what Ander had spent years learning. “I am sorry to intrude on you like this, but it could injure you, or someone else. It is very dangerous, Lord Callo.”

Callo had sheathed his sword. “It is new to me, Lord Ander. I will have to learn how to control it in the ritual. I intend to use it as little as possible.”

Mage Oron had driven the lesson into Ander, how perilous uncontrolled color magery was. He must make sure Callo understood this, too, no matter if the swordsman took offense. “Forgive me, my lord, but until then, you should not do the ritual. It is very dangerous.”

Lord Callo’s eyes changed, behind that wall of control. “There is no question of skipping the worship. But I thank you for your advice.”

Ander felt like yelling in his frustration. “My lord. I know I am young, but I have been taught by the best mages in Sugetre since I was eight. I know what I am saying.”

Lord Callo looked as if he wanted to walk away, but the Healer’s hand was on his arm, detaining him.

Ander said, “I will show you, if you will let me.”

“There are circumstances you are not aware of,” Callo said as if he would rather be discussing anything else but this. “You are very young, my lord. I doubt you could advise me on this.” He stopped and Ander saw that Kirian had tugged on his arm.

“Let him tell you,” she said. “It can’t hurt. Where else will you have access to a color mage willing to share his experience?”

“Kirian, you know my—unique circumstances.”

“Are you too proud to accept his advice?”

Callo made an almost imperceptible growling sound, but Ander’s ears caught it anyway. His eyes opened wider.

“You know I am not,” Callo said. “Any vestige of pride was burned out of me long ago.”

“Then let him show you, my lord,” she said. “Please.”

Callo looked at the Healer. Ander saw the lines of refusal in his face soften. The Healer had influence over this lord; that was certain. Ander would remember that.

Callo said, “I must ride a patrol. I want to help set up an enhanced guard for you, young lord, not study magery. Kirian, you know I am here only to warn Lord Ander of his danger and protect him from harm before we move on. I have no time for such lessons.”

“You cannot be riding patrols all day. You know the need for this.”

“I suppose I will consider it,” Lord Callo said. He inclined his head in a polite bow. It was clear that he was done discussing the subject.

“Thank you,” Ander said. “Good day to you, my lord. I hope we can talk about this very soon.”

Callo said a polite farewell, bowed, and walked away. The man did not resume the sword ritual. Ander sighed with relief; Jashan was the god of the sword and the god of color magery, and there was a synergy between the two things that could lead to unpleasant consequences if the magery was not held under strict control. So he had been taught.

Kirian also looked after Callo as he walked toward the training shed where Islarian had disappeared after their match. She said, “I do not think he will stop doing the ritual under any circumstances. My lord—will you make sure he knows what he should?”

“If he will hear it from me.”

“You are the only one here except your lord father who can help. Should I ask Lord Zelan then?”

Ander snorted.

“I thought not.” Kirian smiled at him.

“I cannot force Lord Callo to listen to me.”

“No, I will try to do that. You have my thanks, my lord. I do not know why you should care, though.”

“You do not understand either, Hon Kirian.” He looked into her eyes, trying to convey the seriousness of the situation. “I will never be lord here, and I am not yet of age, but these are still my people. If Lord Callo loses control—of what looks to be a strong talent—he will not hurt just himself, but others I have known all my life. He wants to protect me? Gods know, I am grateful you and he happened along last night in time to save me. But an untrained color mage is no asset to us, Hon Kirian. Any mage I know would consider him a threat.”

Kirian inclined her head. “Then I will make sure he understands that,” she said quietly. “Thank you, my lord.”

* * * * *

Ander stood in the clearing, light filtering down through the leaves onto his dark, wavy hair, and held out his arms to either side of his body to illustrate a point. “It’s all about balance,” he told Callo earnestly.

Callo leaned up against Miri’s side as she grazed next to Ander’s long-legged colt. Here in the clearing, just off one of Northgard’s trails, the summer heat was muted to a bearable level, and a slight breeze danced with the leaves overhead. The same current of fresh air lifted tendrils of Callo’s hair from his perspiring neck. It was an afternoon for lying drowsily under the trees, not for learning mage theory from an adolescent. Callo sighed and closed his eyes for a brief moment, then focused on Ander again. As he looked up, he saw the boy’s eyes fixed on his face.

“I recognize that look,” Ander said with a shy grin. “My lord, I have given it to my tutor often enough. I did not expect to see it on your face.”

Callo grinned. “I apologize. It is a sweet day, Lord Ander. Even a man grown can be seduced by a day like this one.”