The Sorcery Within

"I…I…"

"Go ahead and babble! I wish you had never been born, you incompetent fool! Elandris is ruined. All the effort of my father and his father and his before that, dragged into the mud by the procrastination and indulgence of my own son. Why did you dally in this wasteland? What has it brought you? Have you found what you came for?"

"Leave me alone!"

"No. I shall haunt you. The only joy left me is that I could come here and confront you with your own ineptitude, with your unforgivable irresponsibility. I shall not leave you until you are twisted from your own guilt – until you beg for death!"

Alemar licked the sudor off his upper lip, burned by its saltiness. Something was happening. Something was crumbling inside. Keron was right. Every word was true. The blood of a nation had stained his hands. He could have acted months sooner. He could have returned to Elandris or Cilendrodel and at least contributed to the fight, even if he never found the wizard's talismans. Better yet, he could have tried to find Setan when he'd first arrived in Zyraii. Had he died, at least it would have been an honorable passing.

"Your mother could never have me," Keron hissed. "She had to settle for you. She had to love you in all your wretchedness. Was it enough for her? Did it satisfy her? Did she die content?"

Alemar groaned.

"How can you ever atone? What do you have that is worth the suffering you have caused?"

Alemar didn't remember drawing it, but his saber was in his grip, its steel echoing the color of the walls. Take it. Slide it across my throat. End this shame. Make it up to my father. Free myself from this agony.

Gradually, his hand lifted, and set the edge of the sword against his gullet. Be quick. Cut deep.

He paused, feeling the solid contact with the loops of his necklaces. One was the talisman that he and Elenya shared, the other the memento of the grateful mother whose child he had saved only a few days before. They would interfere with a good slice. He began to remove them.

He stalled, the paltry bit of turquoise dangling in front of his eyes. Modest as it was, he was proud to have it. He deserved it.

He had had good reasons for delaying the quest. He had been able to protect a fatherless family, he had learned a beautiful and just art that would give his life meaning throughout his days, and he had saved a little girl scared of dragons. He had made his decision, and though in the end his duty to Elandris had called him back, he could be proud of the road he had followed in the meantime.

He sheathed his weapon. The phantom of Keron had already vanished. But it was not simply relief that Alemar felt; no, it was exultation. He had beaten a fear that had plagued him during his entire stay in Zyraii and found in its place a new sense of self-worth. The sorcery of the room had actually helped him. He was a more complete being now than when he had entered. He understood why the ken had conceived of the tests. Those who survived the rooms could rightly provide the spiritual leadership for a nation.

He noted the green flicker of the jewel on his chest. The ghost had lied about everything, even Elenya's death. Alemar refrained from attempting contact. His sister might be struggling for her life this very instant and need all her concentration.

Lies. Who could say whether or not his father was alive, or how the war was going? They might still have a chance; perhaps a good one. Furthermore, Alemar had not failed. He had thwarted the third room. Beyond, somewhere through the portal that now beckoned, the weapon left by Alemar Dragonslayer was waiting for one of the Blood to claim it. Excitement, not fear, drew him to the entrance of the fourth room.

He was waiting for her in the middle of the third room.

Elenya tensed, expecting the rush of menace or other psychological attack, but all she saw was the lone figure in the middle of a room identical to the previous two. The werelight was back, so she set her own torch in place of the charred remnant in a niche by the door, and moved forward.

He wore a gleaming set of leather armor, cut in the style of the Calinin Empire. The hide could turn or slow all but the best sword thrusts, yet it was light enough so as not to slow its wearer down appreciably. In one hand he bore an Aleoth longsword, as thin as her rapier but, she knew, far stronger, with an edge that allowed him to slash as well as parry and thrust. In his other hand he held a stiletto, an excellent balance to the longsword: he commanded both reach and infighting. The man himself was well over six feet tall, lithe and young. As she came nearer, she recognized the emblem on his chest. He was a member of the Shadow Corps of Xais, the elite assassins whose charter generations had played the vital role in winning the Old Kingdoms for the Calinin.

She began to worry.

"Draw your weapon," the shadow dancer said. "Or be cut down where you stand."

He had hardly spoken before he charged her. She drew her rapier and deflected his chop in one motion. Though she had almost stepped clear, avoiding most of the force, her arm almost went numb from the impact. She drew her dagger with her other hand and backed up.

He followed, the longsword prodding her like a stubborn oeikani, its length thwarting any counterattack she could think of. He denied her the luxury of time to gain her composure. It was all she could do to stay alive.

A trickle of blood ran down her dagger forearm. She hadn't even seen the jab that had nicked her. Casually, contemptuously, he pinked her on the underside of each breast.

Damn, he was good.

But she survived the first sixty seconds. Though bleeding from half a dozen small cuts, he had not wounded her critically yet. She had time to develop her defense.

She used classical strategies, to save her mind, to give her the time to originate better moves. First the Tiandra Block.

He sloughed it off with the Ezenean Offense, the maneuver Hoy of Orr had developed exactly to circumvent the Tiandra. The man knew his fencing. Not that she had doubted it.

She tried the Square next, and was nearly disembowelled. Likewise he mocked the Southern and the Rhidan Feints. By now she had backed up so far that her ankle came up against one of the dead men. She fell, making it appear that she had stumbled. He leaped forward. She thrust toward his groin. He sprang back, pinked in the inner thigh, while she rolled and regained her feet.

Bones and old flesh lay underfoot everywhere in this part of the room. Good – Elenya liked obstacles. Small in stature, she could avoid them with greater ease than a large opponent. She hopped from spot to spot. The assassin imitated her, graceful and sure – but not quite as fast. She had gained the respite needed to take the offensive.

She had realized her earlier error. She had used strategies that were too classical; they all stemmed from the days of the empire and would be well known to one of the Shadow Corps. When she attacked, she used the unique Cilendri Maneuver that had made the original Lord Garthmorron famous.

She was jolted by a sharp pain in her ribs. Suddenly she was on the defensive again, blood pouring out of her side. The shadow dancer had skewered her well that time. She tasted bile deep in her gullet.

He had her now. Already it was hard to hold the dagger on that side. He didn't even have to press the attack now. If he simply held her at bay until the loss of blood sapped her strength, she would be putty in his hands.

He obviously realized this. He broke off and retreated to the center of the room, where the clear floor put the advantage squarely in his territory. He wasn't going to leave her the opportunity for tricks. He was making it plain – she was going to lose.

She was. She could tell. She had met the one. Lonal might have been able to beat her and maybe not, but there was no question with this man. He was a demon. She dropped her dagger and held a palm against her wound. The blood leaked through between her fingers, sticky, hot.

"Amateur," he taunted. "You should have left this art to men."

She stumbled forward, already finding it hard to walk a steady line.

"Such a dainty babe," he said. "You would have made a fine ornament for a harem." He snorted theatrically. "Look. You are so tiny, I could blow you over."

Her rapier began to twitch in her hand. She was still walking forward.

He only smiled. "Put down your toy and – "

She lunged, swallowing the last few paces between them. His point speared her heart, the pain blacking out her awareness. But nothing was going to stop her. She buried her rapier in him up to the hilt even as she fell.

The impact with the floor woke her up again. She ached incredibly. She hadn't thought it could get much worse after the first two rooms. It took her several long, heavy breaths before she could lift her head up.

The room was empty.

Gradually she understood. She had ceased to care whether she lived or died. She was willing to sacrifice herself, as long as she could avoid defeat. In so doing, she had lost all fear.

Three times the spell had captured her. She should have felt like a fool; instead she laughed. She pitied the man who might challenge her with the sword in the future. After this, what could intimidate her?

Three rooms, three types of fear. In the first, primal terror – all the things that traditionally frighten human beings. In the second, the fear of the enemy, of sudden death at the hands of the Other whose greatest desire is to destroy you. In the third, fear of failure – self-doubt – not technically a fear at all, but just as threatening. What, Elenya wondered, would come next?

She stood up. Her knees were skinned, her jaw sore from banging it on the floor, but she had suffered no permanent damage. She was ready, full of an intoxicating sense of resolve, to enter the fourth room.