and then
after another furious pass with the weapons, ‘Strike.’ He was marking his
touches, Stenwold realized. Unlike any sane or civilized duel the fight did not
pause on a hit. There was no moment permitted for Tynisa to regain her
composure or her balance. Sweat gleamed on her forehead, soaking her arming
jacket, but Tisamon’s brow was pearled as well. Stenwold could not tell if it
was the injury from Helleron or the pace of the current duel that strained him.
‘Strike,’ Tisamon noted
again, and they fought on. Neither was cut: the blows had been delivered with
the flat of the narrow blades only. Their faces had so much the same expression
of intense concentration that in that moment Tynisa truly resembled her father.
The features of her dead mother were momentarily banished.
Stenwold sat down a
little way from the rapt students. Tisamon had promised to train his daughter –
the one gift he could give – and he took that vow as seriously as the
Mantis-kinden always did.
‘Strike,’ he said again.
Stenwold expected Tynisa to become frustrated now, stirred to anger that would
be fatal for a duellist. Instead she seemed calmer after each call, focusing
more and more within herself.
Stenwold glanced around
at the students. They had stopped murmuring now, were watching the action with
almost as much concentration as the protagonists themselves. They were all
young, in their first year, local Beetle-kinden mixed with a few visitors. No
Tarkesh Ants, of course. They had been recalled, all of them, when the news
broke of the threat to their city.
‘Strike,’ came Tisamon’s
voice, and then, ‘Strike!’
The sound of swords
stopped, and Stenwold struggled to disentangle what had happened. Only when he
saw the line of her blade pressed against her opponent’s side did he realize
that the last call had been Tynisa’s.
They were all watching
Tisamon now for his reaction. It was a nod, just a small, sharp nod, but
Stenwold read volumes of approval in it. The Mantis ran a sleeve over his
forehead, fair hair flat and damp with sweat there, and then came over to sit
by Stenwold. Close to, the strain was clearly visible, more lines about his
eyes and an added pallor to his face.
‘You should perhaps take
things easier for a while,’ Stenwold suggested, knowing the suggestion was
futile.
‘I’m getting old.’
Tisamon smiled a little. ‘I used to heal faster than this.’
‘You’ve healed faster
than anyone has a right to,’ Sten-wold told him. ‘You took quite a scorching
there.’
‘It has been a while
since someone put such a mark on me,’ the Mantis agreed.
Tynisa had meanwhile
been accepting the congratulations of the students, who seemed to appreciate
that fighting Tisamon was like fighting a force of nature, and that even one
strike was equivalent to a victory.
‘Of course, you killed
her a dozen times there,’ Stenwold remarked.
Tisamon shook his head.
‘Practice is always different to blood, even using a real sword.’
‘I notice she wasn’t
using the sword you gave her.’
Tisamon seemed to find
that amusing. ‘It is crafted for killing, Stenwold. It wouldn’t understand.’
‘What will you do, when
she’s good enough?’
‘She is already good
enough, or nearly.’ There was hard pride in the Mantis’s voice. ‘She was on the
edge of good enough before I even met her. Blood will out, and all she needed
was real blood on her hands to call to her heritage.’
Stenwold shifted
uncomfortably. ‘So what will you do now?’
‘When this is done and
when we can, I shall take her to Parosyal.’
‘I can’t even begin to
imagine what that means for you, but surely your people . . . ?’
‘They will hate her, and
despise her,’ Tisamon said flatly. ‘Not one of them will look at her, or even
at me. We will be pariahs in my people’s holy place. But they will not deny
her, because she has the skill. If she can pass the trials they set, then in
the end . . . in the end she
after another furious pass with the weapons, ‘Strike.’ He was marking his
touches, Stenwold realized. Unlike any sane or civilized duel the fight did not
pause on a hit. There was no moment permitted for Tynisa to regain her
composure or her balance. Sweat gleamed on her forehead, soaking her arming
jacket, but Tisamon’s brow was pearled as well. Stenwold could not tell if it
was the injury from Helleron or the pace of the current duel that strained him.
‘Strike,’ Tisamon noted
again, and they fought on. Neither was cut: the blows had been delivered with
the flat of the narrow blades only. Their faces had so much the same expression
of intense concentration that in that moment Tynisa truly resembled her father.
The features of her dead mother were momentarily banished.
Stenwold sat down a
little way from the rapt students. Tisamon had promised to train his daughter –
the one gift he could give – and he took that vow as seriously as the
Mantis-kinden always did.
‘Strike,’ he said again.
Stenwold expected Tynisa to become frustrated now, stirred to anger that would
be fatal for a duellist. Instead she seemed calmer after each call, focusing
more and more within herself.
Stenwold glanced around
at the students. They had stopped murmuring now, were watching the action with
almost as much concentration as the protagonists themselves. They were all
young, in their first year, local Beetle-kinden mixed with a few visitors. No
Tarkesh Ants, of course. They had been recalled, all of them, when the news
broke of the threat to their city.
‘Strike,’ came Tisamon’s
voice, and then, ‘Strike!’
The sound of swords
stopped, and Stenwold struggled to disentangle what had happened. Only when he
saw the line of her blade pressed against her opponent’s side did he realize
that the last call had been Tynisa’s.
They were all watching
Tisamon now for his reaction. It was a nod, just a small, sharp nod, but
Stenwold read volumes of approval in it. The Mantis ran a sleeve over his
forehead, fair hair flat and damp with sweat there, and then came over to sit
by Stenwold. Close to, the strain was clearly visible, more lines about his
eyes and an added pallor to his face.
‘You should perhaps take
things easier for a while,’ Stenwold suggested, knowing the suggestion was
futile.
‘I’m getting old.’
Tisamon smiled a little. ‘I used to heal faster than this.’
‘You’ve healed faster
than anyone has a right to,’ Sten-wold told him. ‘You took quite a scorching
there.’
‘It has been a while
since someone put such a mark on me,’ the Mantis agreed.
Tynisa had meanwhile
been accepting the congratulations of the students, who seemed to appreciate
that fighting Tisamon was like fighting a force of nature, and that even one
strike was equivalent to a victory.
‘Of course, you killed
her a dozen times there,’ Stenwold remarked.
Tisamon shook his head.
‘Practice is always different to blood, even using a real sword.’
‘I notice she wasn’t
using the sword you gave her.’
Tisamon seemed to find
that amusing. ‘It is crafted for killing, Stenwold. It wouldn’t understand.’
‘What will you do, when
she’s good enough?’
‘She is already good
enough, or nearly.’ There was hard pride in the Mantis’s voice. ‘She was on the
edge of good enough before I even met her. Blood will out, and all she needed
was real blood on her hands to call to her heritage.’
Stenwold shifted
uncomfortably. ‘So what will you do now?’
‘When this is done and
when we can, I shall take her to Parosyal.’
‘I can’t even begin to
imagine what that means for you, but surely your people . . . ?’
‘They will hate her, and
despise her,’ Tisamon said flatly. ‘Not one of them will look at her, or even
at me. We will be pariahs in my people’s holy place. But they will not deny
her, because she has the skill. If she can pass the trials they set, then in
the end . . . in the end she
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