The Seer King: Book One of the Seer King Trilogy (7 page)

Those tales are not, by the way, told in the presence of Cimabuans more than once, since we also have the not undeserved reputation for being frequently short-tempered and implacable in our wrath. I myself spent many hours stable-cleaning as punishment detail at the lycee for having repaid such “jokes” with my fist.

My family has always been soldiers, serving either our own state or, more often, Numantia, always remembering the days when the country
was
a country, with a king, no matter how evil, instead of a collection of states, each ruling itself badly and seeking any opportunity to do harm to its neighbor.

We were land rich, our estate covering many leagues of hilly forest. The land was worked by freeholders, long beholden to my family, since Cimabue has few slaves. It is not that we are opposed to slavery, since all men who are not fools know that when the Wheel turns a slave may be reborn as a master, so one lifetime spent under the lash matters little, and may serve to teach the soul what errors he committed to be so punished.

Our villa was less a house than a run-down fortress, having been built generations earlier by the first of our family to use his sword and army pension to carve holdings from the jungle, defending it against the savage tribes that have now retreated far into the mountains where no man dares disturb them further, since they are armed not only with savage cunning, but also with dark magic pulled from the earth and blessed by Jacini herself.

Even with little money in the coffers my family lived comfortably, since we grew all that could be desired for the table and had enough herd animals, mostly zebra, cattle, and half-tame gaur used for hauling and plowing that only children and the beasts’ drovers could safely approach. A caravan would come through our lands twice a year, and we could trade for the other items — cloth, steel, spices, iron — we could not pull from our own land.

I was the youngest child, following three sisters. I was, they say, a very pretty babe, and so, in a normal household, would have most likely grown up cosseted, frail, and gentle.

My father, Cadalso, would have none of that, however. In the army, he’d seen many battles on the Frontiers, in the Border States, and, in spite of not having any friends in high places, what soldiers call a “priest,” was able to reach the rank of captain before losing his leg, and hence being forced to retire, at the famous battle of Tiepolo, ironically a battle fought not against a foreign enemy, but between Darans and our fellow Numantians, the Kallions.

He insisted I be raised as a soldier. That meant mostly outdoors, in all weathers, from the brain-baking Time of Heat to nearly drowning in the typhoons of the Time of Rains. When I was but five, I was taken to one of the estate’s outbuildings, a small structure with only two rooms: bedroom and ablution chamber. This was my sanctuary, and no one would be allowed to enter without my permission. I would have no servants, and was expected to turn the vine- and filth-covered building that I suspected had once been a cowshed into living quarters proper for a soldier, and an officer to boot.

I started to protest, looked once into my father’s eyes, fierce behind the great prematurely white beard that covered his face, and knew there was no use. Cursing, perhaps crying, I set to work, sweeping and scrubbing. Then I had to take the few coppers he gave me and bargain for my furniture — a cot, a small chest, and an open wardrobe. Father gave me a table of great age that took two men to carry into my rooms.

I was never permitted to slack off. Father inspected my rooms daily, and on the results depended what I would be allowed to do that day.

This, I realize, makes him sound like several species of tyrant, but he was not. I can never remember him raising a hand to me, to my sisters, or to my mother, Serao.

He explained his actions: “You are my son, my only son, and you must learn strength. I sense there are trials ahead for you, and while these will build your thews, you must also have power within. Even the smallest wolf cub must learn to snap before his pack will welcome him and teach him to hunt.”

I did not realize until later, when I found real love myself, how close he and my mother were. She had been the daughter of a district seer, a man with a small reputation for honest spells and refusing to work magic that would harm any person, no matter how evil. I know my father could have done better — in our province a soldier is well thought of, and many landowners are proud to give their daughter to a man of arms, particularly if he hails from the area and also owns property. But my father said that when he first saw Serao, assisting her father as he blessed the seeds in the Time of Dews, he knew there could be no other.

She was a quiet, gentle woman, and when they married she struck a pact with Cadalso: All that happened outside the household was his responsibility, all within was hers. This bargain was held to, although I can remember times when a particularly incompetent cook or drunken groom would bring a flush to either’s cheeks, and they would be forced to bite hard on the words that wished to come out.

I loved them both very much, and hope the turning of the Wheel has taken them to the heights they deserve.

As for my sisters, not much need be said. We fought each other and loved each other. In time, they made good marriages — one to a village subchief, one to a fairly wealthy landowner, and the third to a soldier in our state militia, who the last I heard had risen to the rank of color-sergeant, and now manages the family estates. All have been blessed with children. I shall say no more about them, for their lives have been fortunate by not being touched by history. The gods let me send gold when I was rich and powerful, and granted them safe and comfortable obscurity when Emperor Tenedos and I met our downfall.

I am told most boys go through a time when they want to be this, be that, be the other thing, from wizard to elephant leader to goldsmith to who knows what. My mind never spun such skeins for me. All that I ever wanted to be was as my father had dreamed: a soldier.

On my name day, I was taken to a sorcerer my father particularly respected, who was asked to cast the bones for my future. The sorcerer cast once, cast thrice, and then told my parents my fate was cloudy. He could see I would be a fighter, a mighty fighter, and I would see lands and do deeds unimagined in our sleeping district That was enough for my father, and enough for me when I was told later.

Just before her death a few years ago my mother said the wizard had finished his predictions with a quiet warning. She remembered clearly what he said: “The boy will ride the tiger for a time, and then the tiger will turn on him and savage him. I see great pain, great sorrow, but I also see the thread of his life goes on. But for how much farther, I cannot tell, since mists drop around my mind when it reaches beyond that moment.”

That worried my mother, but not my father. “Soldiers serve, soldiers die,” he said with a shrug. “If that is my son’s lot, so be it It is unchangeable, and one might as well sacrifice to Umar the Creator and convince him to return to this world, take Irisu and Saionji to hand, and concern himself with our sorrows.” That was great wisdom, she knew, and so put the matter aside.

Somehow I knew as a boy what skills I must learn, and what talents would be meaningless. I learned to fight, to challenge boys from the village older and stronger than I, because that was how a reputation was made. I was always the first to climb to the highest branch or leap from the tallest ledge into a pool or run the closest past a gaur as he snorted in his pen.

I listened hard when the hunters taught me archery, when my father gave me lessons of the sword, when stablemen taught me how to ride and care for a horse.

One of the most important things I learned from my father, although he never advised me of this directly, was that the best weapon for a soldier was the simplest and the most universal. He taught me to avoid such spectacular devices as the morningstar or battle-ax for a plain sword, its hilt of the hardest wood without device, faced with soft, dull-colored metal that might serve to hold an enemy’s edge for a vital instant, its grip of roughened leather, preferably sharkskin, and its pommel equally simple. Its blade should be straight, edged on both sides. It should be made of the finest steel I could afford, even if it meant borrowing a sum from the regimental lender. The blade should not be forged with sillinesses like blood runnels, since those do not work and only weaken a weapon’s strength, nor should it be elaborately engraved or set with gold. My father said he knew of men who’d been slain just for the beauty of their sword — an entirely ridiculous reason to die.

It should be neither too long nor short; since I became taller than most men when fully grown, I prefer a blade length of three inches short of a yard, and the weapon to weigh a bit over two pounds.

He added that if I were to become a cavalryman, I’d likely be given a saber. Most likely I’d have to carry it until I achieved some rank or battle experience, but then to consider well before I kept the weapon. It was his experience that a saber was very well and good for wild swinging in a melee, or for cutting down fleeing soldiery, but afoot or in a man-to-man contest, he’d rather have a bow and fifty feet between him and his opponent than the most romantic saber. This was but one of the quiet lessons I absorbed from him, one of those that kept me alive when all too many lay dead around me.

I pushed my body to the limits, running, swimming, climbing, paying no attention to the tear of muscles and silent scream of exhaustion, but forcing myself to go one more hill, one more lap across the pool, one more hour of sitting, shivering, in the blind with my sling beside me while rain seeped down and the geese did not appear.

One thing came naturally: I loved and understood horses. Perhaps at one time I have been one, since when I was first taken to the stables as a babe, and my father held me up in his arms to see the great beast, I called out, as if recognizing an old friend, and, I was told, the animal nickered a response, trotted across the yard, and nuzzled me.

I don’t glorify the animals particularly. I know they aren’t terribly intelligent, but what of that? I don’t consider myself a sage, either, and some of the finest men I’ve had serve under me, serve to the death, would be hard pressed to remember today what their lance-major told them last week.

Riding was another part of my schooling, being able to ride a horse bareback, with a saddle, or with the bare blanket and rope bridge someone said the nomads of the distant south preferred. I learned how to make a horse obey without having to use the cruel curb bit, and my spurs had balls on their tips instead of spikes. Some horses became almost my friends; others, while not quite enemies, were not ones I’d readily choose to saddle up for an afternoon’s outing.

It was graven into my soul that your horse always comes first: It’s watered, fed, groomed before its rider dares provide for his own comfort, or that man is less than a beast himself. I was cursed later by my men for driving them to their currycombs and feedbags, but my regiments would still be mounted long after other units were afoot, their horses foundered, cut into the stewpot, and they themselves stumbling along as common infantrymen.

I spent hours in my father’s stables, learning everything I could from old grooms, knowing my fate as a soldier might depend on these beasts. I learned to treat their minor ailments and even, when one of our horses fell desperately ill and a seer would be called, I found a place to lie atop the rafters so I could watch what medicines he compounded, and what spells he cast. Of course, since I have not a single trace of the Talent, when I tried them nothing happened, but at least I was learning how to pick a true magician from the crowd of charlatans that crowd around an army on campaign.

Isa, god of war, who some say is an aspect of Saionji herself, also gave me talents. I grew tall and strong, with a voice other boys listened to and enough brains so they would follow me.

I loved to hunt, not for the kill, although that is the satisfaction the gods give for a task performed well. I would take bow, arrows, a small knife, tinder, and steel, and set out into the jungle. I would be gone a day, or a week. My sisters and mother would worry, my father pretend unconcern. If I were to be eaten by a tiger, then the sorcerer had been wrong and it was the tiger’s lifeline that stretched long.

Far away from our estate and the surrounding villages, I learned the real skills of soldiering: to be content while alone; to be unafraid, or at any rate to stay calm when night closes down and the forest noises are very dangerous, even though most of them come from creatures that would fit in the palm of your hand; not to be choosy about your food and to be able to live on raw fish, partially cooked meat, or the fruits and plants around you; to be able to sleep when drenched to the bone and the monsoon pours. Most important of these is always to think of the next step — to be aware that if the rock you jump to is slippery and sends you sprawling, you could be crippled, far from any help. Or that the cave that looks so inviting a shelter from the thundershower may hold a sun bear, and what then, my lad? All of these things I learned well, and they saved my life many times in the years that followed.

There were two other “skills” that are commonly thought of as soldierly that my father spoke little of, but I also familiarized myself with. One came naturally, but I failed at the other.

The latter was drinking. All men know soldiers are sponges, sops around anything fermented or distilled, and I fear it’s more than true for most. But not for me. The smell of wine or brandy turned my stomach as a lad, which is hardly uncommon. But the smell or taste never became more attractive as I aged. When young, hoping to learn the skill, I forced myself to drink with my fellows, once as a boy when we found a wineskin that had fallen off a merchant’s cart beside the track, and the second time at the lycee, when we cadets finished our first year of studies. I never made a boisterous ass of myself as others did, but became very sick early on and crawled off to be rackingly ill, and then had a sour gut and a huge drum in my head for two days as reward. Of course I never say I do not drink, since the world pretends to respect but actually feels uncomfortable around an ascetic, but I will carry a single beaker of wine for an entire evening without anyone noticing that I but touch it to my lips. I drink small beer by choice, and even water when I’m assured of its purity. There have been a few times as an adult I’ve gotten drunk, but they were the exception and even more foolish than when I was a boy.