mortals, these talentless, visionless men and women, that she had made her life's responsibility.
She had never approved of his warriors. She had never approved of the tactics he had used to train them. She had nearly disbanded them three times when injuries had been, in her word,
unacceptable
. As if they played boys' games.
She was right, of course; they were games. His own students could not see it; he did not choose to enlighten them. Instead he filled their heads with glorious nonsense, all the more powerful for the truth it contained: that they were the men who would stand between the
Kialli
and the city when the
Kialli
at last showed themselves; that their lives were the lives that would shield and protect what the Twin Kings, over the centuries, had struggled to build.
A just society.
A free society.
His laughter was taken by wind. Sigurne, watching, had said nothing at all. But she had, in the end, given him leave to let his students prove their worth in the only way that mattered: against the enemy they had been trained, since a dark Henden many years ago, to fight.
Being old put him at a disadvantage.
There was a bitter, fierce joy that lingered at the edges of his awareness; he had met his chosen enemy, had named him, had defeated him. As promised, that name was committed perfectly to memory, as was the struggle itself.
But into the enjoyment of the battle had entered something that he had never thought would hamper him.
He had watched these callow, and often useless, students make mistakes and die for them, and he felt their deaths as if they were the physical blow his enemy had tried, unsuccessfully, to land. It came, a rawness and a regret that had never marred his composure on the field of battle. The wind sensed weakness, of course; he would have, in his youth, when all he understood was power.
Sigurne
, he thought, with a bitter envy,
what life shaped you, that you can be so cold in your failing years?
He could not afford to land while any of that weakness governed him, or the damage done by demons and magelings would pale in comparison to the damage done by the wind.
But he
wanted
to land. He wanted to go to the fallen,
his
fallen, and honor them. He wanted to see their faces, and commit them to the same memory that now held the details of his combat and his victory.
* * *
The Terafin was absolutely silent.
One step from her side, close enough at any time that he could reach out and touch her, could—had she been a different woman—offer her physical comfort, was her domicis, Morretz. He carried one thing for her; a simple, heavy _ cloak, proof against the sea wind and the inclement weather.
She almost never wore it; it had a value that only history could give an item. She would ask for it soon. The lights that mages had cast were dimming; the lamps that guards carried, flickering. The noises in the Common were night noises. Many weaknesses were forgiven in the darkness. He had thought in his youth that he had found a woman without weakness; he had learned with the passage of time that the ability to reveal weakness—for a woman of Amarais' stature—took a different form of strength. She understood the demands of her rank. She waited; he waited, watching in protective silence.
From a bitterly cold sunrise—surprisingly cold, given the geography—to a cool, star-broken nightfall, The Terafin watched her Chosen work at the side of Jewel's den. Noting the difference in armor, in arms, in the deference they were trained to give: The Chosen were perfect, and the den, handpicked in no less careful a way given the circumstances in which it had formed, far less polished. But she saw the potential in them. They were terrified. They worked through it, hid it. Served.
He knew what she observed by her expression. She knew, for instance, that when Captain Torvan ATerafin approached her and knelt beneath the rising face of the narrow moon, he would report failure. She knew that the Council of the
She had never approved of his warriors. She had never approved of the tactics he had used to train them. She had nearly disbanded them three times when injuries had been, in her word,
unacceptable
. As if they played boys' games.
She was right, of course; they were games. His own students could not see it; he did not choose to enlighten them. Instead he filled their heads with glorious nonsense, all the more powerful for the truth it contained: that they were the men who would stand between the
Kialli
and the city when the
Kialli
at last showed themselves; that their lives were the lives that would shield and protect what the Twin Kings, over the centuries, had struggled to build.
A just society.
A free society.
His laughter was taken by wind. Sigurne, watching, had said nothing at all. But she had, in the end, given him leave to let his students prove their worth in the only way that mattered: against the enemy they had been trained, since a dark Henden many years ago, to fight.
Being old put him at a disadvantage.
There was a bitter, fierce joy that lingered at the edges of his awareness; he had met his chosen enemy, had named him, had defeated him. As promised, that name was committed perfectly to memory, as was the struggle itself.
But into the enjoyment of the battle had entered something that he had never thought would hamper him.
He had watched these callow, and often useless, students make mistakes and die for them, and he felt their deaths as if they were the physical blow his enemy had tried, unsuccessfully, to land. It came, a rawness and a regret that had never marred his composure on the field of battle. The wind sensed weakness, of course; he would have, in his youth, when all he understood was power.
Sigurne
, he thought, with a bitter envy,
what life shaped you, that you can be so cold in your failing years?
He could not afford to land while any of that weakness governed him, or the damage done by demons and magelings would pale in comparison to the damage done by the wind.
But he
wanted
to land. He wanted to go to the fallen,
his
fallen, and honor them. He wanted to see their faces, and commit them to the same memory that now held the details of his combat and his victory.
* * *
The Terafin was absolutely silent.
One step from her side, close enough at any time that he could reach out and touch her, could—had she been a different woman—offer her physical comfort, was her domicis, Morretz. He carried one thing for her; a simple, heavy _ cloak, proof against the sea wind and the inclement weather.
She almost never wore it; it had a value that only history could give an item. She would ask for it soon. The lights that mages had cast were dimming; the lamps that guards carried, flickering. The noises in the Common were night noises. Many weaknesses were forgiven in the darkness. He had thought in his youth that he had found a woman without weakness; he had learned with the passage of time that the ability to reveal weakness—for a woman of Amarais' stature—took a different form of strength. She understood the demands of her rank. She waited; he waited, watching in protective silence.
From a bitterly cold sunrise—surprisingly cold, given the geography—to a cool, star-broken nightfall, The Terafin watched her Chosen work at the side of Jewel's den. Noting the difference in armor, in arms, in the deference they were trained to give: The Chosen were perfect, and the den, handpicked in no less careful a way given the circumstances in which it had formed, far less polished. But she saw the potential in them. They were terrified. They worked through it, hid it. Served.
He knew what she observed by her expression. She knew, for instance, that when Captain Torvan ATerafin approached her and knelt beneath the rising face of the narrow moon, he would report failure. She knew that the Council of the
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