The Jack of Souls (49 page)

Willard grunted, as if confirmed in his suspicions she’d been involved.

“Guess sleeping’s considered unconscious,” Harric observed.

“So it seems,” said Willard. “They get you too?”

Harric ran a hand over his own injured ribs, expecting tenderness, but found no pain at all. The lumps on his head were absent, and the swelling below his eye.
Healed!
Had Abellia found him in the forest and brought him back? And if so, had she learned his secret?
Ridiculous,
he realized.
She can barely walk alone, much less carry me out of the forest.
He must’ve returned under his own power before she came down to tend their wounds.

“Darn,” Harric said. “I was really looking forward to a month of healing the Arkendian way.”

Willard lit a rag-roll with a burning stick from the hearth. His eyes flashed to Harric, unamused. When the roll burned hotly, he climbed to his feet and made his way to the door, a simple crutch under one arm. He still limped, Harric realized. The old witch apparently hadn’t healed everything; something still nagged him—perhaps an old wound, or he was finally feeling the effects of his long-delayed age.

“We’ll be staying here long enough to rest the horses,” Willard said. “If Bannus follows us, we’ll hole up in this tower, so we need it ready for the horses. Enough hay for at least a week. Fill the troughs with water. Bring over the saddles and tack. Is there much to clear out, girl?”

Caris stood. “No, sir. A small armory only.”

“Show me.”

Caris threw on her boots and trotted out the door, followed by Willard.

Harric climbed to his knees and cradled his head in his hands. The breach in the top of his consciousness shone bright in his mind, and larger than he remembered it. Was it widening? Would he eventually see nothing but the spirit world when he closed his eyes, like the second sight his mother could never control? The thought breathed new life into his old fears of madness. Heart pounding, he peered through the aperture, searching for clues and catching the tail ends of the brilliant blue spirit strands rising up from Caris and Willard. The flames in the hearth, on the other hand, appeared as greedy black tongues casting no light at all. He tried closing the aperture by concentrating on it, but if anything it grew wider the more attention he paid it. Ignoring it was impossible, for it flashed before him with every blink.

Dazed, he stumbled from the room and down the curving stairs, afraid to be alone. Outside, he found Caris and Willard talking in the yard. Caris had removed a pile of gear from the armory, which she now held before her in both arms: quilting, practice swords, and pot helms so old they might have been fashioned when Willard was a boy. On her face she wore an expression of determination and controlled excitement that gave Harric a twinge of panic.

“A little sparring?” Willard asked Harric, amusement in his eyes. “Your paramour here wants a lesson in bladework. Put on that quilting. You can help.”

The look of determination Harric had glimpsed in Caris’s face now bloomed into exultation. She tossed him a musty quilt.

Harric held it out before him. “She’s not the one who’s going to need help.”

Caris donned her quilting and examined the practice sword she drew from its sheath. Though its edge had been blunted, its polish was immaculate. Indeed, all the gear, though old, was spotless. Mudruffle’s work, he guessed.

Harric donned the quilting and pot helm and stood across from Caris with a shield on one arm and a practice sword in the other, determined to at least hold his own.

Willard leaned heavily on the crutch beneath one arm, and studied them, clouds of ragleaf gusting from his lips. “The most important thing you must learn about swordsmanship is not so much the
how to
, as the
why to
. We aren’t mercenaries, we’re knights. Queen’s Knights. A mercenary draws his sword whenever he’s paid to, but a Queen’s Knight draws only under the Code of Protection, which means in three situations: in the defense of your queen, in the defense of her people, and in self-defense. That’s it. A few of the popular orders these days forget this code, thinking it weak, and go out seeking honor and renown with the Order of the Dragon, or the Order of the Bear, or the Order of the Flame. Troublemakers. And if you want to learn to blast a spitfire, you’ll have to go elsewhere for it. I’m going to teach you my way,” he said, fingering his earring. “The Order of the Flea. I built my reputation on it. You don’t hear ballads about spitfire knights.

“Now, normally in an apprenticeship you’d spend a couple of years polishing my armor and tending my horses before I let you pick up a sword. But considering our circumstances, girl, I’d prefer to know what you can do if we run into trouble. We’ll keep with regular fitness training and practice each day while we’re here, and whenever we can manage on travel days. That goes for you too, Harric.”

Willard raised a practice sword and beckoned to Caris.

“Let me see your standard attacks, girl—say, Claxon or Ear Whistle; I’ll parry with the Fiddler or Salute. Watch closely, Harric.”

Harric watched as Caris leveled a series of crisp attacks on Willard, and the knight parried. After several repetitions, Willard called a halt. “Now it’s your turn, boy. Same attacks, only against the girl.”

Harric faced Caris, and met her eyes for the first time since she’d promised to leave him if he didn’t give up trickery. Her gaze was steel. All business, true to her promise, even if it hurt her. Yet he could also see in the sleepless rings under her eyes that the struggle against her heart was taking a toll.

He performed the Claxon with as much vigor as he could summon, and Caris parried with Fiddler.

Willard frowned.

“You’re putting all your weight into it, boy. In a real fight the Claxon’s bound to lodge in someone’s shield, and that’s bad. Even if you wedge it in her head, you can’t parry the next man when your sword’s stuck in the first. Understand? Control is the thing. Give it just enough power to get the job done. Forget the glory blow. A quick cut kills as well as beheading.”

Harric nodded, and labored to heed the advice. Then it was Caris’s turn to attack, and though it was the same move each time, she came on with such ferocity that Harric was instantly in retreat.

“The same thing goes for the parries, son. Grand motions like that are good for a stage, but not a fight. Sweeping parries overcompensate and leave you open for another attack. See? She got you. Only Gregan’s Lie is meant to be a grand and sweeping parry, and it’s meant for very unusual circumstances. Are you concentrating, boy? You’re about as dull as a sheep’s tail this morning.”

“Sorry,” Harric said.
I’m distracted,
he wanted to add.
I summoned a monster and might have ruined my life and afterlife, and every time I blink the spirit world flashes through a hole in my head.

Caris raked her gaze over Harric, her chin high, cheeks flushed. There was triumph in her eyes, as if she’d proved a point or won an argument with him.

“Look, I’m just tired—” he began, but she turned away and spoke to Willard.

“Spar with me,” she said.

Willard’s eyes darkened as he studied her eager face. Harric thought he detected a kind of veiled curiosity in his look, but there was also real opposition and distaste. “Think you’re ready for that, do you?” said Willard. Caris nodded. “Very well. You’re out, son. But watch as we spar, and pay attention to my movements. Small. Economical. Just enough to get it done. Understand?”

Harric nodded—relieved, for he had bigger troubles to worry about. Removing the heavy helm, he sat back against the tower, and as Willard donned his gear, he closed his eyes.

The teardrop window hung high in his mind like the rosette in the gable of his chambers in Gallows Ferry. The sight of it sent a stab of fear through his middle. Memory of the hideous creature who’d put it there flashed through his mind, and he shuddered, opening his eyes to banish the image.

Is it any worse than your mother?
he asked himself.
No. So be strong, Harric. You need this.

He closed his eyes again, and forced himself to study the tear-shaped window. The thing wasn’t as bright as it had been when he first awoke. The indirect light of approaching dawn appeared to dim it. But he could still see the vague movements of the spirit world beyond—horrifying, but also fascinating. It was, after all, a window into the mysteries of the Unseen. What treasures must wait there! It was the surprise of the thing that made it so bad last night. Once he got used to it, he might not be bothered at all. And perhaps next time if he could avoid staring into the face of the Unseen Moon—into the soul-blinding mystery of existence itself—if he could avoid doing that again, then he might use it to banish his mother forever, and even master the trick of invisibility.

Tentatively, he strained upward to get a better look through, and when he managed it, the sight awed and thrilled him. Vision was less distinct in the Unseen, because the numerous ghostly filaments drifting up from almost everything around him formed a kind of spiritual mist that softened lines and contours, and because the advancing dawn blacked out the subtler shades of spirit light, just as his normal vision darkened at the approach of night.

Nevertheless, Willard and Caris still blazed with silver-blue internal light, and from their forms rose sheaves of wavering filaments like columns of light to the sky.

The beauty and complexity of Caris’s soul took Harric by surprise. It was bewitching. Hypnotic. She was the center of a spiritual bonfire, a spirit alight with ghostly blue fire. Stranger yet, it seemed she was enwrapped in deep black hoops, lightless and opaque. The hoops plunged into her breast and flared out behind her like circular wings, pushing and stretching and redirecting the Unseen strands that rose from her spirit.

In a moment of insight, he realized what this was: it was the magic of the triple wedding ring.
That means it’s Unseen magic that makes Caris love me.

The notion was astounding. Could the Black Moon hold sway over the forces of love? Harric licked his chipped tooth, pondering, trying to get his mind around the concept. In a way, it made sense. Matters of the heart were literally unseen, obscure, dark. Why not love, then?

New possibilities flooded his mind. Could he use his Unseen vision to help get the ring off?

“Wake up, boy!” Willard said. “This is for your benefit. It isn’t nap time.”

Harric opened his eyes, heart bursting with joy. He wanted to shout out what he’d seen, but he dared not reveal how he knew it. Instead he tried to hide his now-labored breathing and the dizziness he felt from holding himself so high in his mind for so long.

“Something funny about that?” Willard asked, mistaking Harric’s gasping for laughing.

“No, sir,” Harric said, feigning a cough. “I was just…thinking about what you said.” He did not dare look at Caris.

Willard frowned, and turned to Caris.

“All right, come at me, girl. Let’s see what you’ve got, and don’t hold back because I look lame, or I’ll clobber you to get you mad. Do your best. This is a test.”

Willard braced himself on the crutch as Caris stalked him. She tested him at first, feeling his defenses and exploring his style with a practiced air. Even Harric could see that her form was superb. This was her element. She was as much a fighter as a cat was a hunter of mice; the sword was as natural in her hand as the claws in Spook’s paw.

Nevertheless, Willard breached her defenses and gave her a good, loud smack with the flat of his blade. “You’re not trying, girl. Give me all you’ve got.”

Harric had to hand it to the old knight: he was fair; he seemed to
want
her to impress him.

Caris drew his attack with a feint, took his blade high with her shield, dropped, and swung at his unprotected legs. However, her stroke was intercepted by a quick move of the knight’s crutch, and the next moment her helmet rang with the impact of his sword.

“That was the Thresher…” The knight laughed, breathing heavily and replanting his crutch. “You don’t see that too often these days, I’ll wager.” Caris glared from within the helmet. “Don’t give me that look. You aimed the Millstone at an old man’s legs! You deserved it.”

Caris flew at him anew.

Harric could not resist closing his eyes again to see her soul afire in the Unseen. He experimented with widening the window, and found he could do it by pressing more of his consciousness up and through the opening, but only with much exertion, and success brought with it an odd, detached feeling, which was not at all pleasant. His shirt clung to the sweat of his back, and his lungs began to labor as if he stood on tiptoes and with someone else on his shoulders. Gasping, he abandoned it and opened his eyes to watch in the Seen.

“It’s all right, girl,” Willard said to Molly, as she glared at Caris from the spot where Willard had picketed her, pawing up clods of earth.

Crows scolded from the branches of the fire-cones above.

None of this penetrated Caris’s focus.

She changed tactics, circling away from his sword arm and leveling most attacks to his head, which made it difficult for him to riposte, since he was continually forced to readjust his crutch amidst the hail of blows.

The sound of steel on steel resounded off the ridge above.

Willard stumbled several times, and his breathing grew ragged. When his crutch faltered on a stone, he tottered sideways and Caris lunged for the opening. In the same instant the knight’s control returned as if it had never been gone, and with a quick turn of his weapon Caris’s blade spun from her grip. He placed his point lightly on her shoulder, his crutch set firmly.

“I’ve seen that one, too,” he panted, eyes blazing. “But never from a novice. Pick it up! Show me again.”

Something caught Harric’s attention beyond the spirit window. Peering through, he realized it was Caris: despite the dimming effect of approaching dawn in the Unseen, her spirit had grown brighter. The looping black rings that bound her wavered, trembled—actually
smoked,
it seemed, like grass too close to a fire.