153 – asa kraiya

“Younger Riji,” I said.

He grinned widely, and laid the sword along the sword-side of my neck, under my ear. “Which should answer some other questions you must have. Such as, why did this happen to you; and, what is going to happen next.”

If I could spring up fast and close enough, sacrifice one hand to trap the sword and strike with the other, I might have a chance, depending on how good he was; if he was his father’s son, it wouldn’t be easy. Then I’d have a sword, against the other person. Best do it quick before he decided, now he’d told me why, that it was time for my death. But between having been stunned and the sharp pains on my calves, my legs didn’t feel as if they could carry me standing, let alone spring up. If you’ve taken enough wounds and head-blows, you know.

He didn’t strike, though, but said, “Get up.” Between that and his accomplice holding a scabbarded sword in his hands, I saw.

“You are challenging me.”

“Did you think I would just strike you as you lay?” He handed off the lamp to his friend—no, his little brother, I vaguely recognized his child’s face grown almost to a man’s, too—who held out the sword to him. He drew it, and tossed it into the snow beside my sword-hand.

“I decline,” I said. “Healer’s orders; I swore an oath to him, and I’m forbidden even to spar with true steel.”

“You’ll never need a healer again.” Well, it had been unlikely; but you have to say these things for appearances’ sake. One or two or all three of us might get truth-drugged, if we lived for Krero to get his hands on.

I slowly hauled myself up onto knees and elbows, feeling a flash of pain with each flexing of my calves. I touched one of them with my fingers, found the gash in the legging and in myself, oozing wet. “That was in case you turn tail, to make sure we can outrun you,” Riji said.

“Ah,” I said. “You wound me badly enough while I’m unconscious that I can’t run, then challenge me to a duel. Your father would be proud of you.” Truth is, if you know how, you can fight from sitting or even lying—I’ve done both a few times—but I neglected to mention this. With a little more time to clear my head, I knew, I’d be able to stand anyway; it was just pain. But in running, a contest of pure strength and no skill, those cuts in the muscles wouldn’t let me stay ahead of them too long, if they were passable runners, especially uphill, probably.

“You’re stalling,” he said, his voice hardening. I was, of course; the more time passed, the more recovered I’d be. “Excuse me,” I said, turned and let myself throw up whole-heartedly; I’d feel lighter and better afterwards, I hoped. I rinsed out my mouth with a bite of wet snow. He snapped, “Get up, or I will kill you where you lie.”

“While I am half-stunned? This is how you honour his name as you avenge him?”

A mistake, perhaps. Yet feeling the mad-sane sword flash up and start to hiss down at my neck—so sweet, knowing where it was with the perfect precision of weapon-sense—sent bloodfire coursing through me. I snatched up the sword and parried. The dizziness and pain eased.

He straightened, satisfied to have proven his point. “You’ve recovered enough. Get up, father-killing scum, while I’m of a mind to let you.”

I breathed deep, and strangely enough, Surya came to mind. This was the first true fight I’d been in since I’d begun with him. I got to kneeling, and then to one foot and then both, as slowly as Younger Riji’s impatience would allow, making him goad or threaten me to each step. The sword they were lending me was a medium-length Arkan straightsword, standard issue perhaps, no Chirel, but serviceable; I hoped it had been properly sharpened, but if not, I’d make do. I unclasped my cloak and dropped it to the side, and he did the same. When I raised the sword en garde, he grinned, and his green eyes, that I had already thought intense, lit and surged with the fire of the heart.

His father had been in the habit of talking to his opponent, mostly about what he would do to him in the most vivid and terrible detail. His son had inherited that, I found. It began with him saying, in a ritual tone as if he and I were about to perform a sacred rite: “Fourth Chevenga Shae-Arano-e. Karas Raikas. You stand before me in your glory, whole and great and strong and brilliant, your name more well-known than any other in the world. So you are now. When I walk away from this place you will be nothing. I will take you down from what you are to such small scraps they’ll have to search for clues to figure out they were Fourth Chevenga Shae-Arano-e.”

As we closed, he told me that throughout his war-training, he had thought of no opponent but me, no fight but this one; that what he was about to do to me he had planned, revising and refining, for eight years, based on what he imagined his father would have done to me in the ring, if I had not been able to kill him because he had not known I had weapon-sense. He did not say, but it was clear, that he had planned his life only up until the point I was dead, expecting to be killed by my people afterwards, and so no threat of that would touch him. By coming of age he’d meant twenty-one, which was why I thought I’d be dead; he’d decided to do it earlier after my secret had come out, so as to make sure it was him who did it and no one else. “I am the death you foreknew,” he said.

But at the same time my ears told me he’d inherited in whole his father’s artistry in torturing with words, the senses one uses in fighting reassured me that he hadn’t inherited the more important artistry. He was good—strong, fast, well-disciplined in the classic Arkan style, pristine in his form—but only in his dreams was he even near my match.

It’s natural enough to wake up afraid when you’ve been brained, and to stay afraid when you realize you’re already wounded and enemies are standing over you with drawn swords; some nervousness can even be forgiven, I think, when finding yourself in a duel against the son of the man who came closest ever to beating you, using the same sword. Now the fear blew off me, entire. My mind wandered to the hot-tub and the wine, and how much I yearned for them. You young shits, keeping me from that.

I stepped back. “I have nothing against you, Riji, and no desire to take your life. I understand that you’re seeking revenge, so that no less than killing me will satisfy you; so be it, if you can, kill me. But if I get through, I’ll blood you only, not kill you, on the condition that you put up your sword and swear on your hope of Celestialis that you will never come after me again.”

I knew he would say no. My plan was to blood him on the very next exchange, then ask again. If he said no again, I’d just wound him worse and worse until he said yes.

He said nothing, just charged me, and I feinted left then struck for his open shoulder, right. I meant to do it lightly, since I didn’t know how sharp my sword was; this would show me. But something checked my hand, and I didn’t touch him at all. His lips tightened; he’d seen I’d gotten through.

So much for that plan; it wouldn’t have the same effect, to repeat the words now. I tried again, the chance coming soon enough, and the same thing happened.

Kyash, I thought. Too many thoughts of the Mezem, it’s taken me back there, to my first few fights, when I just couldn’t put my heart in it until the other man wounded me, and pain kicked me into thinking of death, and tightened me up. If you only defend, never attack, it’s just a matter of time, of course, no matter how good you are. My natural style of fighting is very aggressive anyway, just all-out for the kill, no cautious strokes to test defenses, so any other way doesn’t feel quite right. It didn’t occur to me to remember that I was already wounded.

It was four more times I could have got him, and didn’t, before he touched me. My blade kept seeming to hit an invisible wall. I thought of Surya; he would ask, “What is in that stroke-pulling? What is in your hand, and your arm, that’s stopping them?” More thinking than I could do, in the middle of a fight. Then the mad-sane sword was in the outside of my arm, making a shallow cut before I knocked it away. Now you’re in trouble, little Riji, I thought. My heart’s in it.

I changed my plan, though. No scratch. Next one, I’m going to end this. With good healing, you can survive a wound that goes into the torso anywhere except the heart and the tangle of blood vessels around it. He’d have no choice but be carried to Kaninjer. With a double-feint I got him to leave himself wide open, started the thrust for the bottom of his right lung, and felt my arm lock still when the point was a finger-width from his shirt.

He saw it clearly; for a moment his face had the look a person’s gets when he knows he’ll be dead in a heartbeat, then he stared at me amazed when it didn’t happen. The look on my face, I guess, told him I hadn’t meant to do this.

“My Gods protect me!” he cried. As good an explanation as any.

What is in that arm-freezing? My hand will give him even as much as a nick; why?

It came to me like a great gate slamming shut, as truth that you know down to your bones is truth the moment you hear it, always does.

I am asa kraiya.

I am asa kraiya… this thing I chose, this thing I’ve been smashing my head against walls for, this thing for which I’ve been straining every emotional sinew in me to work towards, this thing that has felt like an impossible dream… I’ve done it.

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