planned it ages before and practiced it a thousand times. Her own blade was deflected, yes, but along with her body she dragged her arm, pushing around, the pommel now leading her hand in a strike.
Lythos’ eyes widened—the first time she had ever seen an expression of surprise from the centuries-old master—and he tried to duck, but he seemed astonishingly slow; the pommel of her greatsword actually struck the slender Artan and Lythos stumbled, chose to fall and roll.
She followed up, letting the fear and anger and pain flow, but flow as she channeled, as she directed. Lythos came up, a shield now raised, and she focused the power of her spirit into her hands as he had taught her, dropping her sword, seeing his eyebrow rise like a wing of a startled bird, and smashing her hands against the shield with an impact that sent the weaponsmaster staggering back.
Now the expression shifted, and there was the tiniest of smiles on the ancient, yet unaged, Artan face, as he came to meet her. For a moment she stood toe-to-toe with a being who had been fighting since before the days her grandparents were born, and she did not give in.
But she began to think, try to look beyond the moment—and she saw Urelle’s face, and suddenly an iron-hard hand whacked into her head.
She went to her knees, trying to defend. To her surprise, the expected attacks did not materialize. She looked up to see Lythos standing with arms folded, studying her.
“You are one of the most maddening students I have ever had, Kyri Vantage,” he said, finally. “For a moment—just a moment—you achieved the Ninth Wind. I saw it. I could see it in your eyes, watch its flow in your movements, that for just a moment you touched the eternity within the soul.” He shook his head. “Something, I will tell you, that not your brother, nor your father, nor your mother ever achieved, and indeed precious few in all my years have I ever seen achieve it, even for such a brief moment.”
She was amazed and felt a flood of warmth rushing through her, an elation she had never expected, at a compliment so extravagant from the man whose usual comments of praise were drawn from words such as “adequate” and “not terribly bad.”
“And then you suddenly lose that focus and forget the other Eight in the bargain!” Lythos tossed his hair back and traced the curve of his ears in the same habitual gesture she remembered from her youngest years. “You could be one of the finest warriors I have ever trained, but you need something to focus you. You have to learn control, and constancy, and not rely on this excellent but most unreliable instinct to carry you through a combat.”
“I know, Sho-ka-taida ,” she said contritely. That rather adequately snuffed out any overconfidence I might have gotten from his compliments . “But . . .”
The Artan master of weapons sighed. “Yes, I noticed. Something weighs upon your mind. Perhaps it is just as well that you tend to whatever distracts you; practice without focus can do as much harm as it could possibly do good, even if on occasion it produces admittedly spectacular results. I will not often be this lenient. You will have double practice tomorrow, and I will require meditation in at least four of the Eight Winds.”
“Yes, Sho-ka-taida .” She bowed and left, feeling his curious stare boring into her back until the door closed.
After paying respects at the shrine, she wandered slowly around the room, touching smoke-damaged wood and overheated metal remnants, pausing as something struck a chord of memory or to puzzle out the identity of some object that had been burned almost beyond recognition. A small object caught her eye and she found her hand reaching out, picking it up. She smiled fondly down at the little scorched box of toy figures—a golden phoenix, a dignified looking bronze griffin, a lightning-blue thunderbird, a sparkling dragon. They were my favorite toys when I was little, playing with Rion . . .
Lythos’ eyes widened—the first time she had ever seen an expression of surprise from the centuries-old master—and he tried to duck, but he seemed astonishingly slow; the pommel of her greatsword actually struck the slender Artan and Lythos stumbled, chose to fall and roll.
She followed up, letting the fear and anger and pain flow, but flow as she channeled, as she directed. Lythos came up, a shield now raised, and she focused the power of her spirit into her hands as he had taught her, dropping her sword, seeing his eyebrow rise like a wing of a startled bird, and smashing her hands against the shield with an impact that sent the weaponsmaster staggering back.
Now the expression shifted, and there was the tiniest of smiles on the ancient, yet unaged, Artan face, as he came to meet her. For a moment she stood toe-to-toe with a being who had been fighting since before the days her grandparents were born, and she did not give in.
But she began to think, try to look beyond the moment—and she saw Urelle’s face, and suddenly an iron-hard hand whacked into her head.
She went to her knees, trying to defend. To her surprise, the expected attacks did not materialize. She looked up to see Lythos standing with arms folded, studying her.
“You are one of the most maddening students I have ever had, Kyri Vantage,” he said, finally. “For a moment—just a moment—you achieved the Ninth Wind. I saw it. I could see it in your eyes, watch its flow in your movements, that for just a moment you touched the eternity within the soul.” He shook his head. “Something, I will tell you, that not your brother, nor your father, nor your mother ever achieved, and indeed precious few in all my years have I ever seen achieve it, even for such a brief moment.”
She was amazed and felt a flood of warmth rushing through her, an elation she had never expected, at a compliment so extravagant from the man whose usual comments of praise were drawn from words such as “adequate” and “not terribly bad.”
“And then you suddenly lose that focus and forget the other Eight in the bargain!” Lythos tossed his hair back and traced the curve of his ears in the same habitual gesture she remembered from her youngest years. “You could be one of the finest warriors I have ever trained, but you need something to focus you. You have to learn control, and constancy, and not rely on this excellent but most unreliable instinct to carry you through a combat.”
“I know, Sho-ka-taida ,” she said contritely. That rather adequately snuffed out any overconfidence I might have gotten from his compliments . “But . . .”
The Artan master of weapons sighed. “Yes, I noticed. Something weighs upon your mind. Perhaps it is just as well that you tend to whatever distracts you; practice without focus can do as much harm as it could possibly do good, even if on occasion it produces admittedly spectacular results. I will not often be this lenient. You will have double practice tomorrow, and I will require meditation in at least four of the Eight Winds.”
“Yes, Sho-ka-taida .” She bowed and left, feeling his curious stare boring into her back until the door closed.
After paying respects at the shrine, she wandered slowly around the room, touching smoke-damaged wood and overheated metal remnants, pausing as something struck a chord of memory or to puzzle out the identity of some object that had been burned almost beyond recognition. A small object caught her eye and she found her hand reaching out, picking it up. She smiled fondly down at the little scorched box of toy figures—a golden phoenix, a dignified looking bronze griffin, a lightning-blue thunderbird, a sparkling dragon. They were my favorite toys when I was little, playing with Rion . . .
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