He smiled then-that too-friendly smile that I didn’t like. “But more such lessons later. We’ve had a long journey, and for the moment we are safely out of the reach of your enemies.” He waved his hand in the air. “This house and everything in it are yours for as long as you stay in the fortress of Zhev’Na. It is not so large as Comigor, but finer, I think, and well suited to your situation.”
“Mine… all of this?”
“Yes. Your hosts… the Lords of this place… had the house and clothing made ready for you when they heard you were coming. Do you approve?”
I gawked at everything all over again. “It’s very fine.”
The other man had knelt down beside the doorway, bowed his head, and stretched his arms out to either side. Darzid poked at the man’s back with his boot as if he were something not quite nice lying in the road, but the man didn’t change his position. “This slave Sefaro will be your chamberlain. He will run your household and see to all your needs. He-as all Dar’Nethi slaves-must have permission before he speaks or you must cut out his tongue. Command him as you will. Kill him if he does not please you. He is very capable, but there are many more to take his place if he does not serve.”
The kneeling man didn’t look at all surprised at the captain’s terrible words. His skimpy gray tunic left his arms and legs and feet bare, and his hair was cut off very short. Wide metal bands were wrapped about his neck and his wrists. We didn’t have slaves in Leire. Prisoners were usually killed or maimed, unless they were needed in the quarries or mines. Enemies who were not soldiers were left to work and pay taxes to our king.
As I stared at the slave and thought about what it must feel like to cut out a man’s tongue, Captain Darzid went on talking. “… look in on you from time to time, but you’ll not lack for entertainment. A swordmaster will begin your training this afternoon-and he will not be a gibbering dancing master in pantaloons like Philomena hired for you. Tomorrow you will begin lessons in hand combat and to learn to ride like a soldier instead of a child. You’ve never in your life ridden such horses as we have in Zhev’Na.”
“But-”
“Is this not your wish? To become a strong and ruthless warrior like your father and grandfather?”
“Yes… yes, of course it is,” I said. I was just surprised at it happening so fast. And I wasn’t certain I ought to stay so close to Captain Darzid. Surely he would find out about my sorcery and arrest me. To think of burning to death made my stomach hurt.
All happened just as Darzid said. That afternoon I met Calador, my swordmaster. He was tall and thin. His arms looked like a thin layer of skin stretched over a bundle of ropes, and his eyes were strange, like the eyes in a statue where they forgot to put any pupils in them. He wore a plain gold earring in one ear. On that first day he made me run and jump, stretch, bend, and twist for hours until every muscle was sore. Never once did I get to pick up my new sword. When he said we were finished for the day, I guess he saw that I was disappointed.
“Soon enough, young Lord. We have a great deal of work to do before you take up a weapon.” His voice was cold. “You have decent reflexes, but you are weak and poorly disciplined.”
A whole week of sword training passed before I got to try my rapier, and then only to poke at dry leaves and shavings of wood that a slave would drop from the top of a wall. By that time I already hated Calador. He was forever taunting me and telling me how like a dainty girl I was, and how I was too stupid to know which end of the sword was sharp. When I did something wrong, he would make me squat for an hour with my hands extended in front of me, holding a brick in each one. He said he could not believe I was kin to a great swordsman and that perhaps swordsmen in my country were not of the same quality as those of Ce Uroth. All I could think of in those hours was how I had to keep getting better so I could beat Calador someday.
I rose at dawn every day, ate some fruit and cheese, and went straight to sword training for several hours. At mid-morning I ate again, only a little, for after another hour of sword practice I went straight to the wrestling ground, a small courtyard of packed sand, for training in hand combat. Two hours later, after only a brief rest and a drink, I would walk out to the stables for my riding lessons. I didn’t need to worry about sorcery. By sunset, I was so tired I could hardly stay awake to eat before I fell into the bed.
A big, burly slave named Xeno taught me hand combat. He was patient and coaxed me along when I was so black and blue that it hurt even to clench my fist. He said he wouldn’t go easy just because I was inexperienced. But I knew he could have snapped me like a twig, and that he truly did hold back when things got too hard. He wore one of the iron collars, too-all the slaves had to wear them. I wanted to ask Xeno how he got to be a slave, but like all the slaves he was not allowed to speak beyond our business. All the slaves were afraid all of the time, even one so strong as Xeno.
My riding master was called Murn, and he was like Calador-not a slave. Like Calador he wore a gold earring and had eyes that prickled your skin when you looked at them. He wasn’t quite so nasty as the swordmaster, but then I was a better rider than I was a swordsman. The problem with Murn was that I always came to him last in the day, and it didn’t matter if I was bleeding from sword fighting or bruised from hand combat, he never changed his lesson at all. Some days I was so tired I couldn’t stay on the horse when we were practicing jumps, or even control the beasts, they were so wild. It seemed like I spent half the riding time sprawled out on the ground. Murn shook his head and said that was just too bad. My technique needed to improve.
It felt good to fight and train, though. After only two weeks I had grown stronger and faster than I ever had been in my life. And no one bothered me about dressing properly or dancing lessons or being polite. This was just what I had always wanted.
Thousands of soldiers were camped around the fortress. At night you could see their fires dotted all over the plains like stars that had fallen out of the sky. In the daytime they marched and drilled and fought with each other, looking like ants there were so many. They were allowed to fight to the death in their training, which was never done in Leire. Sometimes they marched crowds of people-slaves and servants-out onto the plains and made them play the part of the enemy. They killed lots of them. On almost every day I saw bodies thrown onto piles and burned. Some days I just saw and smelled the nasty smoke that hung over the desert. You didn’t have to be in Ce Uroth very long before you knew that the Lords of Zhev’Na were at war with somebody.
One day after I had lived in Zhev’Na for several weeks, my swordmaster Calador came to watch my hand-combat training. Xeno was teaching me how to disable an opponent without damaging him permanently. As our practice progressed, Calador’s face turned red and angry. After a while, he called Xeno over and commanded him to kneel down. Xeno did so, which looked strange since Xeno was about twice Calador’s size. “What are you are doing here, slave?”
“I’m teaching the young master hand combat as I was commanded, Swordmaster.”
“You are teaching him to be killed.”
“No, begging your pardon, Swordmaster. I am teaching him how to survive, how to deal with attackers that are larger or stronger or quicker, how to disarm them with guile.”
“Leaving an opponent undamaged will allow the opponent an opportunity to take revenge on the young Lord. His enemies are unmatched in their wiles and cannot be dealt with in such a fashion. You are implanting weakness, setting him up to be killed.”
“Swordmaster, it was never my intent to-”
“Tell me, slave, who is your master?”
Sweat dripped down Xeno’s wide face. It was not from fighting with me. “Who but the Lords of Zhev’Na, Swordmaster?”
Calador curled his lip and laid his hand on Xeno’s slave collar. Xeno suddenly looked pale and sick, and began shaking like he was horribly cold or afraid. Calador stuck his face right up to Xeno’s, still pressing on the collar. “I do not think you answer me, slave. Can we be a little more clear?”