the reflected light of the candles across his face.
A sword. It came up in his hand like a sliver of blue water. With a twist of his wrist he sent it spinning end over end toward Rol’s face. Rol twisted aside and plucked it out of the air as though he were catching a paper bird. Psellos laughed. “Good, good! Rowen’s time has not been wasted, I see. Its name is—well, it does not matter what its name is. You must give it a new one now. It is yours to wield, for a while at least.”
The surface of the blade was luminous as the shallows of a calm sea at evening. It was wickedly light, a snicker of cold laughter in Rol’s fist. Almost he felt it had a voice, a whisper which crooned of carnage. The voice was avid as a famished rat—but there was a delight in the perfect balance of the steel. It seemed somehow to connect with the very sinews of his arm, its curved brightness an extension of his limb. A light scimitar, its trappings were unadorned and workmanlike, but the bright, marvelous blade was exquisite as a faceted jewel.
“You think he is ready for it?” Rowen asked the Master, and there was an odd, contained urgency in her voice.
“We will see. What think you of your gift, Rol?”
“I think I could fillet the north wind with it. Thank you, sir.”
Rowen spoke. “It is an old blade, and it contains many memories. It will enhance your sword arm, but there is something—”
“Do not ruin the surprise, my dear,” Psellos said with sharp levity. “Let the boy have his trinket.” From the padded box he lifted a plain wood and leather scabbard chased with green bronze and tossed it to Rol. “You may go now.” And as Rol rose and bowed, he added: “Keep it with you at all times, and do not unsheathe it again unless you intend to shed blood.”
“But I will have to get to know it, to practice—”
“No. You will find that the blade adjusts to your style. There is no need to become accustomed to it. The sword will take care of that itself.”
Rol felt a prickle of unease. “What kind of weapon is this?”
“An ancient and unique one, which should be treated with respect. Now leave us.”
Rol did as he was told. He met Rowen’s eyes for one flashing instant as he turned to go, and realized some light that had come into them of late had been quenched again. The realization darkened the simple, lustful joy of the scimitar’s bright quiver in his hand, and he made his way down the Tower’s endless stairs with heavy feet, some part of him still with her at Psellos’s table.
He bedded Arexa that night, a tall, dark-haired girl from inland Gascar who worked in the middle regions of the Tower and had the neat hands of a seamstress. Her breath was quick and light under him as his pelvis slammed into her buttocks. He was staring at the sword as it hung on the wall before him, thinking of Rowen’s steel-spring strength straining against him. Somehow the two were connected in his mind. Absurd and hopeless though it might be, he knew he loved Rowen. He loved her rare smiles, her silence, the sense of wholeness and quietude her presence gave him.
He spent himself viciously in the girl whose white back strained below him. Psellos had recently brought in a whole new crop of maidservants, and every one was tall and slim and dark.
The Master knew of Rol’s infatuation, and it amused him.
Rol rolled the girl aside, wiping his forehead on the back of his arm. Arexa began dressing composedly. She was a placid girl, with a quick smile that lit up her face. How had she come to end up here? But Rol knew the answer to that question even as he asked it. Payment. Her father or her uncle or her brother would owe Psellos money, or a favor, or would want a certain deed done discreetly, and Arexa would go to the Tower to be subject to the whims therein. Rol felt suddenly ashamed, part of the machinery of Psellos’s intrigues. He handed Arexa her skirt. It was plain and homespun, but she had embroidered interlocking
A sword. It came up in his hand like a sliver of blue water. With a twist of his wrist he sent it spinning end over end toward Rol’s face. Rol twisted aside and plucked it out of the air as though he were catching a paper bird. Psellos laughed. “Good, good! Rowen’s time has not been wasted, I see. Its name is—well, it does not matter what its name is. You must give it a new one now. It is yours to wield, for a while at least.”
The surface of the blade was luminous as the shallows of a calm sea at evening. It was wickedly light, a snicker of cold laughter in Rol’s fist. Almost he felt it had a voice, a whisper which crooned of carnage. The voice was avid as a famished rat—but there was a delight in the perfect balance of the steel. It seemed somehow to connect with the very sinews of his arm, its curved brightness an extension of his limb. A light scimitar, its trappings were unadorned and workmanlike, but the bright, marvelous blade was exquisite as a faceted jewel.
“You think he is ready for it?” Rowen asked the Master, and there was an odd, contained urgency in her voice.
“We will see. What think you of your gift, Rol?”
“I think I could fillet the north wind with it. Thank you, sir.”
Rowen spoke. “It is an old blade, and it contains many memories. It will enhance your sword arm, but there is something—”
“Do not ruin the surprise, my dear,” Psellos said with sharp levity. “Let the boy have his trinket.” From the padded box he lifted a plain wood and leather scabbard chased with green bronze and tossed it to Rol. “You may go now.” And as Rol rose and bowed, he added: “Keep it with you at all times, and do not unsheathe it again unless you intend to shed blood.”
“But I will have to get to know it, to practice—”
“No. You will find that the blade adjusts to your style. There is no need to become accustomed to it. The sword will take care of that itself.”
Rol felt a prickle of unease. “What kind of weapon is this?”
“An ancient and unique one, which should be treated with respect. Now leave us.”
Rol did as he was told. He met Rowen’s eyes for one flashing instant as he turned to go, and realized some light that had come into them of late had been quenched again. The realization darkened the simple, lustful joy of the scimitar’s bright quiver in his hand, and he made his way down the Tower’s endless stairs with heavy feet, some part of him still with her at Psellos’s table.
He bedded Arexa that night, a tall, dark-haired girl from inland Gascar who worked in the middle regions of the Tower and had the neat hands of a seamstress. Her breath was quick and light under him as his pelvis slammed into her buttocks. He was staring at the sword as it hung on the wall before him, thinking of Rowen’s steel-spring strength straining against him. Somehow the two were connected in his mind. Absurd and hopeless though it might be, he knew he loved Rowen. He loved her rare smiles, her silence, the sense of wholeness and quietude her presence gave him.
He spent himself viciously in the girl whose white back strained below him. Psellos had recently brought in a whole new crop of maidservants, and every one was tall and slim and dark.
The Master knew of Rol’s infatuation, and it amused him.
Rol rolled the girl aside, wiping his forehead on the back of his arm. Arexa began dressing composedly. She was a placid girl, with a quick smile that lit up her face. How had she come to end up here? But Rol knew the answer to that question even as he asked it. Payment. Her father or her uncle or her brother would owe Psellos money, or a favor, or would want a certain deed done discreetly, and Arexa would go to the Tower to be subject to the whims therein. Rol felt suddenly ashamed, part of the machinery of Psellos’s intrigues. He handed Arexa her skirt. It was plain and homespun, but she had embroidered interlocking
Similar Books
