Raithe didn’t have to believe, he knew. But showing weakness in front of Sebek wasn’t a good idea. Raithe moved to slip the sword into his belt.
“Not yet,” Sebek said. “I want to show you where you failed.”
“Not interested, chopping wood. You’re interrupting.”
“You can chop wood later, if you survive.”
Raithe was waiting for the attack. He’d expected it since Sebek appeared. He just couldn’t anticipate what an attack from Sebek would be like. He was faster than Nyphron; Raithe didn’t see the blade. Once more, Raithe acted on instinct and was right—he met Sebek’s sword. The moment they collided, the impact jarred the weapon from his hand, just as in their first encounter. An instant later the point of Thunder—or was it Lightning—was pressed against his throat.
Raithe didn’t move.
Sebek nodded as if they were having a conversation, then pulled back and walked five strides away. “Pick it up.”
Raithe was already in the process, wiping the sweat from his palms on his leigh mor.
“It’s not your fault, I suppose,” Sebek said. “You’re so young. You show promise, but you lack experience. You can trust me on that. I’m senior captain of the guard and master of arms at Alon Rhist. I’m also Shield to Nyphron. I’ve trained and tested thousands. Now, let’s see if you can get Shegon’s sword anywhere near me.”
The bad news was that Raithe saw no hope of avoiding a fight he had no chance of winning. The good news was that Sebek didn’t appear to want to kill him, at least not right away.
Sebek dodged his first stroke with no effort. On his next swing, the Galantian displayed his speed, slamming Raithe in the face with the butt of Lightning—or was it Thunder this time? Raithe staggered. His eyesight blurred, and he tasted the blood running down from his nose.
“Get serious or I’ll beat you unconscious. Here, I’ll make it easier.” Sebek sheathed one of his swords. “Now try again.”
Raithe shook his head and spat. Shifting his feet the way Herkimer had taught, he drew in his elbows and then leaned to the right until Sebek shifted his weight. At that moment he spun left, swinging the blade horizontally, and attacked Sebek’s undefended side. He expected to slice Sebek across the chest. Amazingly, Sebek deflected the blade with his hand—his empty hand. The Fhrey slapped the flat of the blade, driving it down and away.
Raithe pivoted once more and swept high. Again, Sebek slapped the blade aside. Frustrated by the ease with which the Fhrey deflected his attacks with a bare hand, Raithe swung harder and faster. Following one stroke with another, he closed the distance between them. Sebek became pressed enough to use both his hand and a sword to deflect the attacks. But then, when Raithe thrust the sword at his chest, the Fhrey caught his blade with his hand, twisted it, and once again disarmed him.
“Your father wasn’t a good teacher,” Sebek said, handing the sword back. “You’re slow, predictable, as graceful as an ox trapped in mud, and have no strategy for attack. I’m surprised Nyphron had so much trouble with you. But I think he wanted you to win. Still…” Sebek nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “You’re much better than I expected. Much better than I would have thought a Rhune could be.”
“Are we done, then?” Raithe asked, picking up Roan’s ax.
“Yes. I got what I wanted.”
“What was that?”
“The truth.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Prince
We were foolish to think the Fhrey were gods, but it was insanity for the Fhrey to believe it, too. I’d rather be foolish than insane.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
As he rode alongside Gryndal at the head of a small column of soldiers, Mawyndulë worked hard to hold a stoic expression. Locking his teeth together, he stiffened his lips, which were constantly trying to betray him. His eyes were wide, but there was no helping that. He had no idea how to be casually in awe. Mawyndulë desperately wanted to appear as the unflappable prince of the realm instead of a sheltered youth seeing the magnificence of the world for the first time. The flaw in the plan was that he wasn’t and he was.
Since leaving Estramnadon, Mawyndulë had gazed dewy-eyed at the great Parthaloren Falls, the marvelous tower of Avempartha, the snowcapped peaks of Mount Mador, the fjords of the Green Sea, and finally the broad, sweeping vista of Rhulyn. The sheer size of everything was incredible.
And the colors!
The sun playing on the barren hills and stony mountains produced a strange beauty. The harsh landscape sang of adventure and secrets. He saw himself traveling the wasteland alone, climbing the jagged ridges, and peering into lost caves. He imagined discovering Dherg treasure guarded by sleeping dragons, which he would slay. Or perhaps the guardians would be a troop of Dherg, the little monsters with their shining metal weapons lashing out from underground hiding places. In every fantasy, he was victorious—although he allowed himself to almost be beaten in a few of his daydreams before making his enemy pay dearly.
When Alon Rhist appeared on the horizon, the sight was beyond boyhood imaginings. Mawyndulë couldn’t have dreamed that big. This was the stuff of legends. The great tower looked like an upthrust spear, punching out of the ground, stabbing the sky. The dome might have been the helmet of a giant, hidden just below the surface of the great hill. Such scale wasn’t possible beneath the trees of Erivan. This was a place open and free, a land of heroes, a home for adventure. Even seeing it from afar, Mawyndulë fell for the romance, the grandeur, and the excitement he imagined as daily realities.
No one is forced to learn how to make string patterns in a place like this. No one needs to practice juggling inside a thrusting spearhead.
Mawyndulë wondered how often Alon Rhist was attacked. Regrettably, the war with the Dherg had ended long before Mawyndulë’s birth. But the little cretins still existed, cowering in their dark places under the earth, seeking revenge and a return to the world of light.
Once a month maybe? Once a month would be good.
Mawyndulë knew Gryndal wouldn’t linger at the outpost long, only a week or two, but he hoped they might be around for at least one assault. As the son of the fane, he would, of course, command a battalion of soldiers. And as one of only three Miralyith on the frontier, he would also command their awe.
Mawyndulë imagined hordes of Dherg scaling the cliffs and walls, emerging like droves of armored crabs or hairy spiders from every cleft and crevasse. Mawyndulë’s troops would be shrieking in fear, but their young prince would boldly step forward and refuse his counselor’s pleas to don armor. Fearless, he would look down at the enemy from the balcony of the—
“Miserable desolation,” Gryndal muttered as they began the final climb toward the outpost. Mawyndulë’s new teacher was scowling—no, it was more of a sneer. “Look at this.” He gestured at the fortress of Alon Rhist. “They practically live in a cave. Little wonder they’ve become animals. This whole land is worthless, the armpit of the world, an empty, forgotten basin of rock. Even trees shun it.” A black scorch mark off to their left caught his eye. “At least some of the vermin have been exterminated.”