Human for a Day (9781101552391) by Jennifer (EDT) Martin Harry (EDT); Brozek Greenberg Page A

mouth, and it took a moment before he could make sounds emerge. He spoke with words he had known the Master to use.
    â€œWhere?” he asked. “Where is he?”
    The monk said nothing, however. He was dead.
    The Master had not realized this. He no longer sensed every drip of blood onto the ground or the ebbing of his victim’s soul. A man’s death felt different when he wore a man’s body.
    Good.
    He left the shrine, and passed into the open air. The sun was rising, and the wind cut warmly into his face. Cherry trees flanked the entrance, and the scent and color of blossoms overwhelmed him. He heard a stream trickling past, so loud it thundered in his ears. The world outside had so much more in it than he had ever known as a sword.
    A light rain fell upon his face. He looked up, marveling at the sensation of each individual drop breaking open on his skin. The rain caressed and seduced him, but he knew it could also drown him. Too much, and his life would end.
    The world wanted to kill him, but he would kill the world if it stood in his way.
    He saw lights in the distance—a village, just opening its doors to welcome the day. Men dwelt there—men to be killed.
    He started forward, then realized he was naked, with neither clothes nor sword. He turned back to the shrine.
    The monk’s robe would do. Only a single sleeve had touched the bloody pool. He dragged the body away from the blood and stripped the clothes. He was just sliding them on when he saw something at the altar.
    It was a sword, and one he remembered well. The only sword ever to defeat him. The sword of the Rival: the Soulsword.
    He strode forward and claimed the weapon for his own. The steel did nothing to protest—it could not speak to him when he was a man.
    With this, he could draw the Rival. He could bring such dishonor to this sword that the Rival would surely come to face him. And even if he did not, destroying the Rival’s sword would be like destroying him.
    One day would be enough.
    He slid the sheathed blade into his belt and turned toward the village.
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    He arrived at the village just as night fell. Shops closed their doors at the fall of darkness, and the lamplighters went about their business. Men and women walked briskly through the streets, talking and laughing.
    The time it had taken him to walk through the forest prepared him somewhat. There he’d learned the smells of trees and of animals—their flesh and their leavings—and had realized not every sound was a threat. He’d learned to walk in silence, such that he could place his hand on a deer before it heard him.
    The village was another matter.
    Thousands of sounds and scents filled this place, making him dizzy. Flowers hung in windows overwhelmed him, and bread and roasting meat made his mouth wet and his midsection ache. The villagers kept pigs in their yards, which had a particular smell—tangy and rich. It all struck his senses so sharply he could barely see where he was going.
    He passed among people and wanted to touch their clothes—to feel the different textures of the fabrics. He wanted to test their steel. He wanted to feel their blood on his hands.
    He heard deprecating words and laughter. He turned and saw three young men looking at him. Two wore swords, while the third leaned on a spear. The biggest and strongest of them pointed and spoke, and the others laughed all the louder. They had seen him wandering like a dazed child. Though he knew few words, he understood well enough that it had cut like a blade.
    He stepped toward them. “Apologize.”
    The two lessers looked to the leader, who scoffed. “Apologize for yourself, old man,” he said. “Trouble your betters and you’ll suffer for it.”
    â€œCalm,” said another. “He’s just lost and confused.”
    â€œBah, he’s an old man! Let him apologize!”
    The Master looked around at the three. They were young and