She returned her attention to the weapons practice session down in the courtyard, where Sorak and his instructor engaged in mock combat with wooden practice swords. Tamura was the head weapons instructor at the convent, and at the age of forty-three, she was still young for a villichi. Her physical condition was superb, and none of the other priestesses could even come close to matching her skills with weapons. Yet, though still in his teens, Sorak was already a match for her. That, Varanna thought, was his particular gift. Each of his personalities possessed a talent of his or her own, and Sorak’s was mastery of the blades. He handled the sword and dagger as well as any champion gladiator, and Tamura took great pride in her prize pupil. She yelled encouragement to him with each well-placed blow he struck, and as her other pupils watched their match, no one looked on with more admiration than Ryana, whose own skill with the blades was almost the equal of Sorak’s.
The two had always been extremely dose, Varanna thought, but as they had matured, Ryana’s feelings toward Sorak had grown unmistakably stronger. And they were not the feelings of sister toward brother. There was, on the surface, nothing wrong with that, Varanna thought. They were not related by blood. However, with Sorak, there was a great deal beneath the surface, and Varanna felt concern about this new development.
Ryana was villichi, but she was still human, and Sorak was an elfling—perhaps the only one of his kind. If they were to spend the remainder of their days at the convent, a relationship between them might not pose a problem, but in the outside world, it would not be easily accepted. Further, Varanna did not know if Sorak was capable of fathering any children. Half-breeds were often sterile, but not always. As a villichi, Ryana would never bear any children of her own, whether Sorak would want them or not. These potential problems were, perhaps, insignificant, but there were others that were not.
“He fights like a fiend,” Neela said, coming up behind the high mistress. She stood beside her, watching the contest in the courtyard below. “He is still young, yet already he has surpassed Tamura. Perhaps it is time he took over as instructor.”
Varanna nodded. “Indeed, he is masterful, but he still has much to learri. Perhaps not about the blades, but about himself, the world, and his place in it. I do not think he will be remaining with us much longer.”
Neela frowned. “He has spoken of leaving the convent?”
Varanna shook her head. “No. Not yet. But soon, Neela. I can sense it.” She sighed. “This has been a good place for him to grow, to get his two feet firmly on the ground, but now he must set those feet upon the path that he will walk in life, and that path shall take him away from us.”
“He may have a compelling reason to remain,” said Neela.
“Ryana?” Varanna shook her head. “No, she will not be reason enough.”
“They love each other,” Neela said. “That is clear for anyone to see.”
Varanna shook her head again. “That Ryana loves him, I shall not dispute. But as for Sorak...” She sighed. “Love can be difficult enough for ordinary people. For Sorak, it poses problems that may well be insurmountable.”
Neela nodded. “Then he shall leave us, and that will solve the problem. Ryana will be broken-hearted, but broken hearts can mend.”
Varanna smiled, sadly. “Tell me, Neela, have you ever been in love yourself?”
Neela glanced at her with surprise. “No, Mistress, of course not.”
Varanna nodded. “I did not think so.”
2
The courtyard echoed with the cracking of wooden practice swords as Sorak and Tamura moved back and forth in the intricate choreography of combat. Sorak was less than half Tamura’s age, and despite having just gone through an intense workout, he was still possessed by the energy of youth. However, Tamura was by no means at a disadvantage. She was the head weapons instructor at the convent for one reason only—she was the best.
At the age of forty-three, Tamura’s physical condition was superior to that of most women half her age, and her reactions were as quick as ever. She fought in a light robe to protect her pale skin from the sun, her blond hair tied back loosely behind her neck. Sorak, having already worked up a sweat during the training session, fought bare-chested, his darker skin far less vulnerable to the sun’s rays. His black hair hung loose past his shoulders and his lean muscles stood out sharply, defined by the glistening sweat. Ryana felt excited as she watched him.
For years, she had looked upon him as a brother, though they were not related by blood and were not even of the same race. Recently, however, Ryana had become aware of a dramatic change in her feelings toward Sorak. These feelings had come upon her gradually, so there had never been a moment when she found herself shocked to suddenly discover that she wanted him. There had been time for her to analyze these feelings and to become accustomed to them, though it was something she and Sorak had never actually discussed. Still, she knew he must be aware of how she felt. They were too close for him not to know. Yet, he had never said or done anything to indicate to her that he felt the same way.
The others all knew, Ryana was certain of that. Everybody knew. It was something she simply could not hide, nor did she wish to hide it. She told herself that there was nothing wrong in what she felt. With only rare exceptions, villichi priestesses were celibate, but that was not as a result of any rule, it was simply their choice. She felt sure her love for Sorak did not violate any taboos at the convent. Nevertheless, there were those among her sisters who sought to discourage it.
“You are treading on dangerous ground, Ryana,” Saleen had told her while they were working at their looms. Saleen was older, almost twenty-two, and saw Ryana watch as Sorak walked past their window. He was on his way to see the high mistress and had Tigra trotting along at his heels. “What do you mean?” Ryana replied. “Sorak,” said Saleen. She smiled. “I have seen the way you look at him. Everyone has seen.”
“What of it?” asked Ryana, in a challenging tone. “Are you saying it is wrong?”
“Perhaps not,” Saleen had replied gently, “that is not for me to say, but I think it is unwise.”
“Why? Because he is an elfling and a tribe of one?” Ryana had said. “That makes no difference to me.”
“Yes, but it may make a difference to him,” replied Saleen. “You are closer to Sorak than any of the rest of us, but your very closeness may be preventing you from seeing what the rest of us have seen only too dearly.”
“And what would that be?” she asked defensively.
“You look upon Sorak as a woman looks upon a man she loves,” Saleen said. “Sorak looks upon you as a brother looks upon a sister.”
“But he is not my brother,” Ryana protested.
“That makes little difference if he merely looks upon you as a sister,” said Saleen. “Besides, you know that loving Sorak could never be the same as loving any other male. I do not pretend to be wise in the ways of the world, Ryana, but from all that I have heard, it is often difficult enough for just two people to find love together. With Sorak, there are more than two people involved.”
“I am well aware of that,” Ryana said sharply. “I am not a fool.”
“No,” Saleen said. “No one is saying that. Nor am I suggesting that you do not know what is involved. His other aspects speak through him only to you and the high mistress. The rest of us have never been so favored. But that is still no indication that all of Sorak’s inner aspects can feel love for you. It is not enough for you to love all of Sorak. All of Sorak must also love you. And even if they could, where would it lead? Where could it lead? Villichi do not marry. We do not take mates.”