The Schemes of Dragons

XXII

ELENYA FELT HEALTHY. The wounds from the ambush and the attack on Puriel's fortress no longer troubled her. It seemed odd to ask her brother to heal her.

"I can't," he said. "What brought you up here to ask that?"

"Word from an old friend. He said to mention the name Ilyrra."

Alemar stood up suddenly. "You've word from Gast? How?"

"I don't know how the messenger crossed the sea, but he found us." She handed him the scroll.

Alemar poured over it. "It's definitely his calligraphy. A Zee-no-ken could have helped him charm the parchment, so that it was drawn to me. Yes. Look. There's a strand of hair woven into the fringe-mine, no doubt. We kept samples of each other's hair and blood for use in certain healing spells."

Elenya was encouraged to see Alemar so alert and involved. "What did he mean? Why do I need to be healed?"

"You don't, exactly," Alemar said. "But we all suffer the affliction of being who we are. Most of us muddle through as best we can, even though we could benefit from care. Gast is suggesting that I perform a very special type of healing, like that I did for Ilyrra, a Sholi slave girl."

Elenya frowned. "How are you going to do it? Your power is drained."

"So I believe. But if Gast says that Retreat will not help me, I believe him. Shall we try his way?"

Elenya shrugged. "It seems little enough to endure."

Alemar smoothed his long hair back. "That's where you're wrong."

They erected a tent at the far end of the valley, under the shade of two old oaks, in view of the rest of the encampment, but secluded by the distance. They stocked it with a three-day supply of water and food, and Alemar left strict orders that no one was to approach the site unless an emergency arose, such as the arrival of Omril and his army. By dusk, only Wynneth remained with them, until, giving her a hearty embrace, he asked her to leave as well.

"No matter what sounds you hear through the cloth, no one is to disturb us. If I need help, I'll step outside to call for it."

She nodded, kissed him, and left, though Elenya could tell she wanted to stay.

Alemar closed the flap, shutting out the sunset. In the light of the single lamp, his eyes seemed fathoms deep. Elenya involuntarily stepped back.

"What's next?" she asked a little faster than she meant to.

"Clothes off," he said, doffing his shoes.

Elenya undressed more slowly than usual, feeling inhibited, which was strange, because she and her brother had never been shy about being naked together. They had bathed together only an hour before, and she had given the nudity no notice whatsoever. Perhaps it was his gaze, which seemed to penetrate more deeply than ever before, even into regions not shared during their mindspeech.

"Lie down on the blanket," he said, his voice soft and soothing. "On your stomach."

She lowered herself, wrapping her hair, still damp from the bath, into a tail and placing it so that it would not be in her face. The blanket, and the mat beneath it, gave her just the right combination of firm support and cushioning.

Alemar began massaging her. He cupped her toes to warm them, wiggled and slid a finger between each digit. He pressed the side of his thumb firmly into the calluses on her soles, working out the kinks. He alternated with a light, finger-tip stroke. As he reached her ankles, she sighed with pleasure.

He continued up each leg, over tissue sore from the kicking exercises. She hovered at the delicate point between pain and relief. He kneaded her leg muscles until they turned to jelly. She had not realized until now how stiff she had been. He was finding layers of aches, drumming out the stress of the long flight northward, and the battle before that.

By the time he reached her torso, she was almost crying. He gathered small areas of her skin and released, he pressed gently on her lower vertebrae until they shifted, he pounded lightly until the broad muscles of her back let go of their tension. He used fingertips, palms, elbows, forearms, forehead-even his hair, with which he brushed her backside with broad, feathery strokes.

"Where did you learn this?" she murmured.

"No talk. Relax."

She eagerly obeyed. Presently she realized that his movements followed the rhythm of her breathing, first in obvious ways, then with increasing subtlety. Something else was happening, too. Something in the touch itself, the human to human contact. She had never been so aware of the healing nature of hands upon her. It ceased to matter if he were her brother, or a lover, or a stranger-the rightness flowing from his body to hers was palpable, deep-seated, and intense.

Alemar, she bespoke.

No questions. It is happening. Feel it. Where his hands pressed, she could feel an electrical tug; she could almost hear the crackle in the air. Her ears began to ring, a steady note from deep inside her skull.

She let him in.

They had bespoken many times, but those conversations, though intimate, had always been between distinct entities. This time they shared the same place. She could sense him delving deep, rooting out a source of wrongness that, until that moment, she had not realized existed. She felt him hesitate, evaluate, and decide. Then he took her there, to show her what he had discovered.

The lawns of Garthmorron Hold were stiff and itchy, and hot now that the sun had angled past the trees. Her bare feet danced back and forth across the sward, finding purchase, digging in, jumping, until the soles were completely green. The aroma of crushed grass filled her nose. Side-step. Thrust. Twist. The area sang with the rasp of steel on steel.

Her opponent was Alemar. She circled, keeping outside his range. She had the length advantage, thanks to the growth spurt of adolescence that had not yet occurred for him. Though still lean in the hips and completely flat-chested, she towered half a head above him. She strove to maintain control over her breathing, but it was difficult. The practice blade weighed heavily in her hand.

Alemar plunged forward, thrusting. She turned away, but not in time. The tip of his sword jabbed her sharply in the ribs, almost on top of the bruise from his previous thrust. He had taken her twice with the same technique.

They returned to their starting points. Alemar seemed sympathetic, but it was hard to see much of his expression behind the grid of his face mask. He dipped the blunt at the end of his weapon into the paint pot to restore the red coating. She frowned at the marks on her tunic. The garment looked like it had measles. Alemar's displayed only one stain, and that had been made by a different opponent.

She glanced at Troy, but she dared not meet his flinty gaze. She would not whimper or ask for a rest, no matter how tired she was.

"Begin," Troy ordered, though they had not paused any longer than normal.

Alemar moved in, confidently, aggressively. Elenya parried and retreated. She clenched her teeth in frustration. She was better than he. She won well over half their matches. But she was exhausted, and he was fresh.

He "wounded" her in the heart, ending the match.

She sighed and returned to the starting point. At Troy's command, they bowed to each other.

"Alemar may retire."

As her brother returned to the small knot of other young noblemen waiting at the side, Elenya suppressed her tears. Again. Troy was making her spar again. She had fenced all six of the boys twice without resting. She longed to be excused.

Troy stared at her impassively. "Enns, take your place," he commanded.

Enns strutted forward like a peacock, resplendent in his fine beige tunic, already tall and imposing despite being only a year older than Elenya. Her heart sank. Enns was the best of all of Troy's junior pupils, in part because of his age and size, but also because, since early childhood, his rich father had hired none but the best fencing instructors to train him. The best instructors, that is, until Lord Dran had enticed Troy from Calinin South to become the tutor at Garthmorron Hold.

Enns grinned. He had bested her twice that day. The first time she had scored two marks to his three. The second time, none at all. She licked her lips, chapped from panting. Her arms felt as if she wore lead bracelets.

"Begin," Troy said.

Enns rushed in, creating openings for his thrusts by the sheer intimidation of his charge, taking full advantage of her winded condition. She lasted for the space of ten quick heartbeats, until he landed his point in the center of her belly.

She gasped from the violence of the impact. Her tunic was well padded, and the blunts discouraged serious injury, but the precautions assumed a certain amount of consideration on the part of the attacker. As they walked back to their places, the pain next to her navel proved that Enns had been too harsh.

They faced each other once more. He smirked behind the mask. He, the nephew of a duke, had shown her, a mere gamekeeper's granddaughter, a noble only by adoption, her place.

"Stand up straight, girl." Troy's shout made her jump. How many times had she heard that tone in the months since he had arrived, always with the same bite placed on words that referred to her gender? Out went her small hope that Troy might reprimand Enns, as he had yesterday when Enns had been unnecessarily rough against another boy.

She felt cold, deliberate fury exude from her pores, drenching her body, banishing her weariness.

At the command, Enns drove in as before. This time she held her ground. He was caught completely off guard, had to attempt his thrust early. She easily twisted aside and let him run into her jab. A thick glob of pigment stained the left breast of his handsome tunic.

She smiled impishly at him. The mask could not disguise his anger.

Troy made no reaction other than to utter the next starting command.

Enns charged again, this time in a less headlong fashion, aiming a good, strong thrust to her upper chest. She dropped to her knees, extending her sword. His tip split empty air over her head. Hers landed squarely in his groin.

Enns stopped abruptly, emitting a deep, sudden grunt. Elenya twirled to the side, out of counterstrike range, not because she feared a response-Enns did not look likely to mount one soon-but simply because it was proper fencing strategy, which Troy would notice.

For the first time that day, she stared directly into her instructor's eyes. He met her gaze with an equally firm one of his own. That only fueled her state of mind, keeping the flow of energy open to her tortured limbs.

She faced Enns, smiling. It was his turn to have difficulty standing up straight. As he had not done with her, Troy gave the boy a moment to recover. She thought Enns looked ridiculous with a red crotch, and recalled the rude, typically boyish joke he had made one day when she had been "wounded" there. The memory kept her at peak in spite of the delay.

Troy gave the command. Enns assumed an en garde position, preparing to move in, this time with full caution, but she did not wait. She leaped in, aimed low, then high, then middle. He parried frantically. Knowing how good he was at defense, she did not let up, did not give in to her protesting arms, until she scored with a high cut.

At first, Enns did not acknowledge that the contest was over. "Stop!" Troy called harshly, and the youth froze.

Enns walked stiffly back to his place. Elenya took hers, her limbs shaking uncontrollably. Her body felt light, almost ethereal, like a rythni in flight. At last she had driven a response out of Troy. She was responsible for his raised voice, for Enns's loss of favor, and, best of all, for the undisguised respect in the eyes of the other boys.

She bent low at the waist, mocking Enns for his virtually nonexistent bow.

"Enns may retire," Troy said curtly. He paused, just long enough to dissolve Elenya's sense of victory. "Sit down and rest," he told her.

She sat, knees forward, buttocks resting on her heels, and felt her stomach grow heavy and the parched sensation in her throat become fierce. Once again she had incorrectly assumed that she had fought her last match.

She glanced at Alemar. He scowled in protest. But what could either of them do? They were twelve years old. Lord Dran did not tolerate children defying their tutors. "Noble blood should have a proper dose of humility," said he, adding that the only time to learn to be modest was before coming of age.

When her breathing had slowed to a relatively normal rate, Troy fitted his mask over his head and picked up his practice blade.

"Once more, girl. Try your best."

He did not advance. Furthermore he left her a wide, obvious opening. She hesitated, suspicious. Avoiding the bait, she aimed elsewhere. He shifted so little that her sword blunt missed by only a finger-width, but it was enough.

He planted a mark on her chest with a plain, almost casual gesture.

"You should have taken the opening," he said. "I won't give you another."

He was true to his word. The second time he tagged her in the belly almost before she realized he was charging. His head and shoulders did not shift when he moved, his spine stayed straight, his body upright. Only his legs, and at the end, his sword arm, gave away his intent. She could not anticipate his tactics.

The third time, as if mocking her, he performed exactly the same technique. The only difference was that her sword nicked his as it was withdrawn, a reflex rather than a conscious reaction.

Tears welled in her eyes. She stared at the crushed, pungent grass, avoiding Alemar's sympathetic frown and Enns's smug sneer.

"You've got a way to go, girl," Troy said. He pulled out his polishing cloth and rubbed the paint off his blade. "You're excused. Get a drink of water. You look like you need one."

She stalked off, jaws clenched. Someday, she vowed, I will be the best.

Without opening her eyes, she became aware of her surroundings: Alemar's scent, the wind batting the tent cloth, the woven texture of the blanket underneath her. She shuddered violently, tears squeezing out between tightly-shut lids. Her throat ached.

She did not understand how the memory of a single incident could evoke such agony. Look, Alemar insisted, and in her mind's eye she saw a network of bright lines, each one a filament of pain, each one ultimately stemming from a single junction-the embarrassment and humiliation she had felt on that day at the age of twelve. The filaments ran through the years, bits of suffering piled onto the old, until the aggregate formed a wound too raw to be faced. Therefore she had buried it.

Alemar guided her vision toward other, lesser junctions. She withdrew, trying to cover them up again, but with firm, compassionate maneuvering, Alemar made her look.

The barn smelled of fresh hay. Streamers of light blazed in through knot holes and around the edges of the wide double doors, illuminating the dust and hay particles in the atmosphere. Around the opening of the loft Alemar and four of the keep boys hung like vultures. The dim, striated interior of the barn made it a challenge to follow the movements of the two combatants on the ground.

Elenya vaulted a bale of hay and slashed. Troy side-stepped, putting another bale between them. She hopped back to outdistance his counterthrust. The spectators bit back their exclamations; the only sounds in the barn consisted of the loud breathing of the participants, the impact of their feet, and from time to time, the rasp of sword contact.

Troy darted down a corridor between two high stacks, out of sight of Elenya and the boys in the loft. She circled to the left, stepping carefully through a patch of loose straw. Troy chose that moment to reappear, charging, forcing an instant response. She kept her footing, parrying three times, countering once. He retreated. She backed out of the straw, waited for him to follow. He declined, vanishing around the stacks once again.

She glided to the center of the open area, listening carefully for signs of Troy's movements behind the hay. She counted silently to five. As they were supposed to do any time either combatant paused under the loft opening, the boys shoved armloads of straw at her. She danced away from the downpour, and was ready when Troy sprang out of concealment.

They fought their way around the low bales. Elenya paid close attention to her breathing. Troy understood far better than she how to conserve energy. Though she was fifteen and he nearly forty, stamina was his advantage. After half an hour of sparring, she was at the edge of losing her wind.

Yet, as they continued, the edge receded. Though using obstacles to simulate true battle conditions was one of the most difficult types of fencing, she had matched Troy blow for blow, strategy for strategy. She had two red marks on her tunic, and so did he. For the first time in four years of instruction, she stood within one point of winning against him.

Sweat dripped from Troy's eyebrows. He blew out a sharp breath between pursed lips. Elenya concentrated on his expression, as he had taught her to do whenever they fenced without masks. He glanced down. She thrust.

A sudden pain flared in her wrist. Her rapier careened through the air, landed with a hush against a loose bale, and slid to the ground. She gawked, not comprehending how he could have disarmed her. The boys above murmured in awe.

Troy calmly touched the tip of his weapon to her tunic. The paint was so dry from their long battle that it barely marked her. As she gathered her thoughts, she realized Troy suddenly seemed only slightly winded. He smoothly sheathed his blade, the corner of his lips curling upward in a familiar, self-satisfied smile.

He had tricked her. He had been far from his limit. He could have stepped up the pace and defeated her at almost any point. All the long months in which her confidence had grown, her plans been laid, her hopes constructed, had been rendered meaningless with one quick gesture.

"Another time," he said. "Maybe your luck will change." He chuckled as he opened the barn doors. The brightness of the day stabbed her eyes.

Her throat was dry from her weeping. Alemar poured water into her mouth. She choked, swallowed some, inhaled a bit, and lost the largest part down her neck. She was tired. She wanted to stop. The pain, however, had lessened. The tendrils had unravelled from the first junction, and were doing the same with the second, leaving the areas cool, green, and untainted.

She was in a sitting position, with Alemar wrapped closely around her. Wherever their skin touched, energy passed back and forth. She trusted him utterly, knew that he would guide her tenderly and well through the rest of it, but she doubted her own ability to continue. She felt like a cripple. But the more he touched her, the more her breathing calmed, the more her muscles relaxed. She drifted back into sleep as he drew her to the next junction.

The clop of her oeikani's hooves was crisp and sharp, like her mood. Ahead the great, green canopy of the forest yielded to blue sky, a sign that she was nearing Garthmorron Hold. Alemar rode at her side, engrossed in his own thoughts of homecoming.

"Look. There's the tree where we talked with father," he said, pointing to a trunk heavy with creeping vines. Keron had visited them only once in their memory, staying only two days. One afternoon he had walked along this road with his twins to have a private moment with them.

She nodded absently, still playing out in her mind what she would do after their arrival, once the homecoming celebration began and she could arrange an encounter with Troy. She imagined the scene:

"Learn anything in your year in the Old Kingdoms, my lady?" he would ask, politely but patronizingly, lifting a goblet of wine to his lips.

"The men of Numaron like their women fat," she would respond, sipping from her own goblet, "and the folk of Sirithrea are astonishingly rude."

"True, true."

"And," she would add casually, "the wizards of Acalon make fine rapiers."

Troy would pause, meet her eyes, remember he had wine in his mouth, and swallow. "That they do. Of the finest Antoth ores. But they don't let go of them easily."

"I know." Her eyes would sparkle. "Nevertheless, I happened to obtain one. Would you like to see it?"

Troy would try to seem nonchalant, mildly interested. Perhaps he would even decline her initial invitation, but eventually she would open the polished hardwood case, revealing her prize. He would hold it reverently up to the light, check its balance, examine the swordmaker's signature on the pommel. "Seth of Tsiris. They say no one has ever broken one of his blades." He would betray a hint of envy, for though he had two Acalon swords, neither had been made by such a famous craftsman. "How did you get it?"

"He made it especially for me, for a price no higher than a common smith would charge. He was impressed by my fencing." And she would smile.

Perhaps she would mention the training she had received from other swordmasters, hinting at the new tricks she had learned, or perhaps she would surprise him. Sooner or later he would want to discover for himself why his pupil, still a mere eighteen years old, had merited such a trophy. Perhaps she would even use her Acalon rapier, for they were both at such a level that they could dispense with the precaution of practice blades.

Then they would see who was the best.

She and Alemar rode through the flowered archway that led to the main hold, and saw an animated gathering of people on the broad stone steps. Their mother, Lerina, and the rest of the party with whom they had toured the capitals of the Calinin Empire had preceded them by half an hour, and by now most of the residents had turned out to welcome the travellers. The twins eased through a crowd of servants and friends, touching hands, smiling, offering greetings. Elenya was surprised to see her mother leave Lord Dran's company and thread her way through the celebrants. Elenya had to lean over in the saddle to hear her somber words.

"Swordmaster Troy caught the ague and died two months ago," Lerina said.

All at once, the grounds and the people around her became shadowy and unreal. So deep was her shock that she did not hear her mother's next words.

"It's so sad. He was so proud of you."

This time, as Alemar focussed the memory, she heard the comment, and finally understood that over the years, Troy had come to respect her. She had been so anxious for overt acceptance that she had missed the small, subtle signs that he had given, indications that a perceptive observer like Lerina had recognized. Elenya had pushed for total acknowledgment, not seeing that Troy's pride would never let himself stand revealed so openly. His death had meant to her that she could never prove herself, never resolve the matter between them, not knowing that it had already been resolved.

She no longer resisted the journey along the filaments. The suffering was tolerable now. She stalled at only two places. The first was when she looked back at her life in Zyraii, and realized how much her unhappiness there had been exacerbated by her own character. Another woman would not have had as great a problem with the sexual inequality of the desert society. The second was when she remembered Milec, and realized that part of the reason she had failed to fall in love with him was that he, in turn, could not measure up to the other men she had known, from Alemar to Troy to Lonal.

The strands unravelled, releasing the pain. Alemar had been right; she had never suspected the ills hidden within. Though she had never concealed the memories from herself, she had forgotten and denied the depth of the emotions associated with them.

She opened her eyes. She could see almost nothing, only the dark backdrop of the ceiling, the dim shape of Alemar asleep beside her, and the murky glow of Motherworld leaking in at the edge of the tent flap. Her throat smarted, dry as dust. Caked perspiration clung to her like a shroud, moist only at her waist, where Alemar's arm was draped. She lifted his limb away and set it gently on the blanket. He did not stir. In fact, he was so lifeless it frightened her, until she made out the steady rise and fall of his chest.

She swayed as she sat up, and decided not to stand. She crawled to the water bags and, ignoring the cups, put the spout to her lips and did not remove it until her stomach felt like it would burst. The dizziness faded. She tore off a tiny hunk of bread, put it in her mouth, and held it, her tongue and cheeks pressed against it, finding more comfort in the possession of the food than in the actual consumption. When she trusted herself not to fall, she crawled outside, closed the flap, and stood up.

The cold breath of night greeted her, stiffening her nipples and raising the hair on her legs. The valley was still with the promise of dawn; she saw no sign of activity across the meadow, in the camp. She considered fetching a shawl, but decided against it. The cold felt good. Her nudity felt good. The world would not harm her this night.

The dew brushed her ankles as she walked. She scooped her hand across the grass and wiped her forehead, delighting in the wet caress. Warm in spite of the air, she was strong, contented, free.

It felt good to be herself.

She stretched, vigor increasing by the second. She was ready to stalk the grass like a great cat. She felt a victory more profound than that at Old Stump, or in the Eastern Deserts.

The horizon paled to violet before she thought of Alemar. She had been healed, but what of him? She could not guide him through the corridors of his inner being as he had her. She had neither the training nor the innate talent. What had Gast meant?

Alemar would know.

She smiled. Concerned though she was, nothing could spoil her mood. The answers would come. In the meantime, she would need to sleep, as would he. She started back toward the tent.