In quick motions, he began to move, shifting his front foot to copy likely scenarios, to compensate for balance or to pull back as if he slipped. Adding his rooted back leg to the movements, he pushed off into lunges, side steps, and blocks, his charm bouncing on his chest. At times, he dropped his weight onto his front foot to press forward. The entire time, his legs remained slightly bent, his joints loose, his back straight, body facing forward and his arms relaxed. He imagined his father or Teacher Calestis calling out the positions from left, right, back and front as he ran through the exercises called the Bonadotors, his feet making precise steps in every direction, his arms whipping out, loose and fast.
“Dexterity and sword handling are as important as strength. Speed kills,” his father would say. “The Bonadotors are the keys. Practice them daily.”
He repeated the Bonadotors several times before he moved into basic swordplay. First came the eight basic parry positions, from head, to shoulder, to flank and to his legs on each side. He imagined his assailant attacking him from each position, and he defended. When he found his opening he struck with the cuts, slices, and thrusts he’d been taught. Elancose for all attacks on the right. Carnean for those on the left. His repertoire sped faster and faster, and he hardly noticed the sweat on his brow.
The burning in his arms and shoulders became a sweet sensation, the weight of his legs, a feather. The stick became a sword in truth.
He shifted into the Stances his father had taught him. Flowing like water, absorbing every attack was the art of the Namazzi. Rumbling and strong, strength like the mountains themselves was the Svenzar. Swift, faster than an eye could follow, like light itself, were the Ashishin arts. If only he knew the Styles to go with each. Regret touched him as he realized how far along in his training he could be at this moment.
Teacher Calestis’ voice echoed in his ear. “Your sela isn’t just a combination of life and death essences. It’s the combination of your heart and mind, as your gaze is your perception and sight, as your hearing is a connection to locate anything close, as your touch can be as useful as what you perceive. Thrust all you sense into yourself, so deep until you reach a calm pool. There resides your sela. All that makes you who you are. Embrace it. When you have, then you will have attained the Eye. Within the Eye, all and nothing exists. There is no speed, no strength, no dark, no light. There is just you and what your heart desires. Commit to that and what seems impossible will become possible. Ultimate control will be yours to reap.”
Ancel embraced the Eye, and floated upon the calm pool at his center. Outside, all his emotions and feelings raged. They tugged at him from every direction. He could pluck any he wished to use or none. In the Eye, control belonged to him.
As before, at the river with Kachien or when he was overcome with emotions, a sight rose within him. Every living thing glowed with their own luminescence, with their own shades, like an aura of light around a candle, lightstone or lamp.
The glow drifted over Mirza and Danvir in vibrant hues. Ancel could tell them apart like the calluses on his palms. Whites, reds, and blues swirled around Mirza as if he was swathed in fire then surrounded by sky and clouds. Danvir’s was heavy with browns and greens, which somehow reminded Ancel of the mountains and forests. When he turned to Kachien, he stared with his mouth open.
Colors roiled around the woman as if they fought for supremacy-a white glare, many shades of brown, yellowish light, faint blue. And dominating them all, squeezing them in was darkness. Ancel knew the darkness for what it was. Shade. Somehow, he knew. This hue was what encroached on her sanity, made her kill, caused her lack of control. And as he watched, the shade was devouring the other colors in tiny increments. Ancel wanted to run to her, to hold her, to tell her she would be fine. He could tell the pain being inflicted on her by the battle around her body. Each time the shade gained ground, a near imperceptible shiver passed over her body, too tiny for a normal eye to notice but not for his new sight. Not able to bear anymore, he tore his eyes away from her.
His gaze passed over Charra, and he lost a hold on the Eye. The glow around everything melted like snow into a geyser. But he knew what he witnessed, what caused him to lose his grip on the Eye in the first place.
Charra had no hues. Looking at the daggerpaw had been like looking at a blank slate. How could there be nothing?
A groan from Kachien broke Ancel from his thoughts. Her eyes opened.
Danvir and Mirza rushed to her side. Ancel looked on, not quite sure what to do now he’d seen the suffering existing around her. After a moment, and one more glance at where Charra lay, he joined his friends.
They prepared a meal for Kachien and helped her get comfortable. She ate, and before long, she was shooing them away.
“You three remind me of Tae, one of the old menders in my village. Fussing over me as if I am about to die. I am fine and strong.” Kachien stood.
As Ancel and his friends watched, she closed her eyes and danced. First left, then right, back, front, a side step, her shoulders dipping or rising with each rhythmic movement. Her movements were achingly slow at first, mesmerizing. She swayed delicately, but not as sensual as the Temtesa. Her movements were sharper, more pronounced. Ancel found himself smiling as he recognized what she did. The Bonadotors, but in a more flowing way than he’d ever seen, like the lapping movement of tiny waves on a calm sea. In tiny increments, she sped up, until she flitted so quickly he could no longer follow her movements. When she finished, he and his friends stood jaws unhinged in awe. Kachien bowed.
How she could perform as she did with what Ancel witnessed around her, he didn’t know, but for now he possessed no desire to question it. She appeared fine for the moment.
“Now that you three are done staring, it is time to go. The dartans I have hidden are not far from here. They should still be safe.” Kachien headed to the door. “Come, we must hurry. The other part of me is in need.”
Ancel squeezed his eyes shut. Although she hadn’t said it, he knew. Kachien’s power needed to be fed.
CHAPTER 38
Just before dawn, Ryne received Varick’s summons. Twilight tinged the cloudy horizon to the east in deep orange, while above the encampment, the skies remained dark, the moons having already fled from view to the west. The camp bustled with preparations of a mass exodus. Firepits smoked and smoldered, and the sweet aroma from early breakfast lingered on the air. Already soldiers on horseback, followed by those on dartans, formed a long line, all facing west. Behind them, Dagodin infantry stood in neat rows, most appearing bored and impatient. Varick’s tent was the only one still standing.
With a nod to the two guards, and a signal for Sakari to wait, Ryne ducked inside. Varick, in his resplendent silver armor, the Lightstorm insignia engraved into the chest plate in gold, stood at his table tracing a finger along a map next to his helmet. He glanced up when Ryne cleared his throat.
“Ah, you’re here. Good,” Varick said. He went back to his map for a moment. “What do you know of a town named Ranoda?” His attention remained on the map as he spoke.
“Small town as Ostanian towns go.” Ryne joined Varick at the table near the tent’s center where he could finally straighten to his full height. “Up northwest, not far from the Nevermore Heights. There’s a Granadian barracks there. Well fortified from what I could tell the last time I passed anywhere close. Why?”