No one could prepare me for that but Brother Vironesh. No one else alive knew what it was like to be a shadow to one of the Sun-Blessed or even to serve in the House of the Ageless.
Thus I anticipated his arrival with great eagerness. I thought that perhaps with Brother Vironesh, I would not care so much that I was bhazim, for the thing that we shared in common was so much greater than the differences between men and women. It pained me to recall how ignorant I had been at the gathering of the clans, studying the girls and women of the Black Sands Clan as though they were a foreign species, unwitting of the fact that beneath our robes, we were the same. There was a part of me that wished I had known at the time. I could have gone behind the curtain; I could have had a greater glimpse of what the world of women was like.
I said as much to Brother Merik, who nodded in understanding. “That’s true, Khai. But like as not, the tribesfolk wouldn’t have let you join in the fight to settle the blood-feud if they’d known you were bhazim. Which would you have chosen?”
“I would have chosen to fight,” I admitted.
He nodded again. “Exactly so.”
It sparked another memory: Brother Merik ushering the belligerent Khisan out of the tent when I’d given offense by studying the women too closely, and the strange way Khisan had regarded me upon their return. “But you told Khisan, didn’t you?” I said. “The chieftain’s son, that night after the battle. You told him I was bhazim.”
Brother Merik had the grace to look abashed. “Only to keep the peace. It didn’t matter at that point, Khai. You’d already had your first battle and become a blooded warrior.”
I looked away. “It matters to me, brother. I feel a fool for not knowing what I was, and doubly so for knowing others did.”
To that, he could do nothing save offer an apology.
The winter months dragged mercilessly. Brother Yarit undertook to teach us the subtle and complex system of hand signs that the Shahalim used to communicate silently with each other.
I learned that his cousin Amal’s mission to steal the Teardrop was not unknown to the senior members of the brotherhood. As I had suspected, it was entailed in the missives that Brother Drajan had carried to Merabaht. The secrecy that Brother Yarit had employed was to protect his cousin from exposure within the Royal Guard itself, an extremely useful position for a thief. The Shahalim were willing to aid Brother Yarit—and even to forgive him for sharing clan training with me and the brotherhood—in exchange for the secrets he kept.
The spring rains came and the desert bloomed anew. I gained twelve years of age, and despite my fears, my body had yet to betray me.
At last, Brother Vironesh came.
We had warning, for Brother Yarit had Seen his impending arrival and posted a lookout. It rained that morning, a single hard downpour that darkened the skies for less than an hour and passed, leaving the world bright and refreshed, yellow gorse and snakeweed blossoming in its wake.
It seemed to me that the arrival of the only other living shadow in the world should be a grand affair. After all, he had been an honorary member of the House of the Ageless for more than a century. I expected him to arrive in state, perhaps escorted by an honor guard of the king’s men.
I was wrong.
Brother Vironesh came alone, riding at an unhurried pace across the desert, no pack-horse in tow. I should have liked to get a better look at him before he entered the Fortress of the Winds, but Brother Yarit forbade it, ordering us to train as usual in the Dancing Bowl while he sent a delegation to greet the returning shadow and usher him into the fortress.
I spent the morning training in a fever of impatience, expecting Brother Vironesh to enter the Dancing Bowl at any moment, but the sun climbed high into the sky without any sign of him. It was not until after the midday rest, when we resumed our training, that Brother Yarit escorted him into our midst. I cannot recall who spotted them first, but word raced around in a hushed whisper, until everyone ceased whatever activities in which they were engaged.
“All right!” Brother Yarit called. “Put down your weapons and come welcome the esteemed shadow Brother Vironesh back to the Fortress of the Winds after so many years.”
Sheathing our yakhans and kopars, we gathered in an attentive semicircle, folding our palms and touching our brows in salute, murmuring respectful greetings: welcome, Brother Vironesh, well met, Brother Vironesh, we are honored, Brother Vironesh.
It was hard not to stare.
Rumors of his appearance had not been exaggerated. Brother Vironesh’s skin was an unmistakable bluish-purple, the hue of a three-day-old bruise. His eyes were set deep in their hollows, and there were strange silvery, slashing lines below them that glittered faintly like mica, one on each cheek. It was hard to gauge his age, but he was older than I’d expected, which was foolish. Of course he would have aged in the forty-some years since Prince Kazaran died; by now, he would have the body of a man in his sixties. He was tall and heavyset, broad-shouldered but thick around the middle. He wore faded indigo blue robes, and it was hard to say whether they disguised or emphasized the odd hue of his skin. A yakhan with a well-worn hilt protruded from a scabbard hanging from his sash, but I could see no other weapon.
He did not look pleased to see us. “Just Vironesh,” he said curtly. “Been a long time since I counted myself a member of the brotherhood.”
“And yet here you are,” Brother Yarit observed in a neutral tone.
Brother Vironesh—Vironesh—looked sidelong at him. “I thought it was Brother Saan who summoned me.”
“Brother Saan had been seeking you for years,” Brother Ehudan assured him. “Ever since Khai was chosen.”
“Khai.” Vironesh’s jaw worked as though he were chewing on a wad of something. His disinterested gaze settled on me. “That’s you.”
I offered him another salute. “Yes, brother.”
“Huh.” He looked back at Brother Yarit. “And you want me to train him.”
“It seems fitting, yes,” Brother Yarit said. “I presume there are things you can teach him that we cannot.”
“Why?” Vironesh asked bluntly. “What I learned, I learned from the Brotherhood of Pahrkun. There was no living shadow to train me.”
Brother Yarit’s nostrils flared; he was nearing the end of his patience. “And look at how well that ended for you,” he murmured with acid politeness.
I caught my breath. It struck me as a mortal insult, the kind of thing a man could die for uttering. I was not alone, for around me, I heard feet shifting on the sand, hands dropping to hilts, preparing to defend the Seer from the violent outburst sure to come. But the blue man, the hulking shadow, only lifted his gaze to the empty sky as though looking for answers there.
“All right,” he said eventually, shifting the unseen wad in his mouth to the other cheek. “But only the boy. The girl, that is. Whatever you call him. Her.”
It was a thing no one had dared say in my presence, and it hit me like a blow to the gut. I found myself trembling with unexpected fury. Out of the corner of one eye, I saw Brother Yarit’s hand move at his side, giving me a sign that meant Wait, be patient, do nothing.
“Khai,” he said mildly. “We call him Khai.”
“Khai,” Vironesh repeated for a second time. He gave me a brusque nod. “We’ll start tomorrow. See to it that no one disturbs me in the meantime,” he added to the brotherhood in general.
With that, he turned and walked away unbidden, the hem of his blue robe brushing the floor of the Dancing Bowl.
I waited until he was out of earshot to let out my breath in a long hiss. “Elder Brother—”
Brother Yarit held up a hand to forestall me. “Come with me. We’ll talk in my chamber.”
Inside the Seer’s chamber I paced as though my anger had caused my heels to sprout wings, complaining bitterly of Vironesh’s callous demeanor, his unthinking incivility, his disinterest and discourtesy. Brother Yarit leaned against a wall of the cavern, picking at his nails, and suffere
d me to carry on until I’d talked myself dry.
“Are you quite finished?” he asked when I had.
I was ashamed. “Yes, Elder Brother. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. It’s just—”
“I know. You’re disappointed.”
“I’m angry!”
“You’re angry because you’re disappointed,” he said. “You expected a warrior out of legend, someone who could teach you what it meant to be a shadow, teach you about honor beyond honor, be a mentor to you in a way that no one since Brother Saan has truly been.”
I lowered my gaze. “You’ve taught me a great deal, Elder Brother.”
“But not necessarily what you wanted to learn,” Brother Yarit said. “It’s all right. I know. But Khai … listen. You’ve heard from the beginning that Vironesh was a broken shadow. I don’t think you can begin to understand what that means. I’m not sure any of us can, but I’ve been reading Brother Saan’s notes. Do you know what Vironesh said about the moment he met Prince Kazaran for the first time?” He checked himself. “No, of course you don’t. He said that the only way to describe it was that it felt like his heart had begun to beat in another’s breast.”
“Oh,” I murmured.
Brother Yarit nodded. “And he said that when Kazaran was poisoned, it was as though his own heart had stopped beating, and his dumb, useless body went on living without it.”
I stole a glance at him. “You’re telling me to be compassionate?”
“I’m telling you to try,” he said dryly. “I’m not saying he’s making it easy; all the fallen stars under heaven know I’m struggling. But you can’t expect him to take pleasure in your existence. Everything you are, everything that lies before you, reminds him of everything that he’s lost, reminds him that he failed at his sole purpose in life.”
I shook my head. “I understand what you’re saying, Elder Brother, but it doesn’t even seem like he cares.”
“Oh, he cares,” Brother Yarit said. “Far too much to bear the pain. I’d lay you a thousand-to-one odds that’s why he’s chewing gahlba.”
“Gahlba?”
He cocked an eyebrow at me. “You didn’t notice?”
“I noticed the chewing,” I assured him. “But gahlba isn’t anything the apothecary taught me about. What is it?”
“It’s a leaf,” he said. “It dulls the emotions while leaving the senses unimpaired. Right now, trust me, Brother Vironesh—Vironesh, that is—isn’t feeling anything. Probably hasn’t for years, maybe decades.” Brother Yarit pushed himself away from the cavern wall, his dark eyes intent in his plain, forgettable face. “Here’s the thing, Khai. I’ve Seen that Vironesh is meant to be here at the Fortress of the Winds, that Pahrkun himself wills it. Of that much, I’m sure. Brother Saan Saw the same thing. But what if he’s not meant to be here for your sake?”
I was confused. “Whose, then?”
“His own,” he said simply. “Maybe Vironesh is meant to find healing here in the desert. Maybe you’re meant to aid him.”
It was a humbling change in perspective, and perhaps all the more valuable for it. “I will try,” I promised. “But there was no call for him to insult me as he did.”
“To insult…” Brother Yarit paused. “Ah. First of all, there’s no shame in being a woman, Khai.”
“I didn’t mean it thusly,” I muttered.
“But you feel he disrespected you as a warrior by referring to you as a girl,” he said shrewdly. “I doubt he meant to. When I told him you were bhazim, he barely recognized the word. Remember, Vironesh has been away from Zarkhoum for a long time. Among the coursers of Obid, there are women who sail and fight alongside the men.”
I stared at him. “What?”
He laughed. “Different realms, different customs, kid. You didn’t figure that out when I mentioned that Barakhan courtesan-queen with a thousand lovers?”
“Oh.” I flushed. It had never occurred to me that there were different ways of being a woman in the world beyond Zarkhoum, that a woman might even be reckoned a warrior. “Yes, I suppose I should have.”
“That’s all right.” Brother Yarit extended his arm. “Listen, kid. You do your best to be patient and respectful with Vironesh, and I’ll do the same. Do we have a bargain?”
I clasped his forearm. “We do.”
FOURTEEN
I had my first lesson with Vironesh the next day.
It did not go well.
Mindful of my promise to Brother Yarit, I was resolved to be polite and respectful no matter how Vironesh treated me. I presented myself before him in the Dancing Bowl and saluted him.
Vironesh regarded me impassively. “Very well.” He drew his yakhan, holding it loosely in his right hand. “Try me.”
I hesitated. “You wish me to attack you?”
“Yes.”
I glanced around. “Would you like a kopar, brother?”
“No.”
“All right.” I drew my weapons and took a stance. Vironesh stood motionless. I felt awkward about launching an attack on him. I had two weapons to his one, and although he had the reach of me, I had youth and speed on my side. Still, it was what he’d bade me to do, and to disobey would be disrespectful. I essayed a low jab with my kopar, only to find it parried with a turn of wrist so subtle I barely saw it; not to the outside as I’d expected, but to the inside. His left hand closed on the central tine, and with another deft twist, Vironesh wrenched the kopar from my grip, using it to parry the sweeping slash of my blade. He took a single unhurried step backward and flipped the kopar, catching it by the hilt.
No question, I was overmatched; and I didn’t even know how he’d done it. Every motion had seemed so slight, almost negligible, and yet here I stood, half disarmed. I didn’t bother trying to press the attack with my remaining weapon. “How did you do that?”
Instead of answering, Vironesh tossed my kopar to me. “Try again.”
I did.
I tried a dozen times, using a dozen different attacks, and not a single one of them went anywhere. It was maddening and bewildering. It didn’t seem as though Vironesh’s defense should be so effective, so impenetrable. His movements appeared slow and deliberate, and yet when I played them over in my head, I could see that he somehow managed to anticipate my every move.
“How do you do it?” I asked again after another failed attempt. “It’s like you know what I’m going to do before I do.”
“I’ve had a century and a half’s worth of practice.” He shrugged. “That’s nothing you can teach. It comes with time and experience.”
Impatience rose in me, and I tamped it down. Vironesh had neither asked nor volunteered to teach me; maybe he didn’t even know how to be a teacher. Maybe my role was to help him discover it. After all, at least I had plenty of experience being a student.
“What of the inside parry?” I asked humbly, miming the motion. “That’s a move I’ve never seen. Can you teach it to me?”
He shrugged again. “I can try.”
It’s fair to say that in the days that followed, Vironesh did attempt to teach me. He had been at the craft of battle for a long, long time. Like me, he had been raised from a babe by the Brotherhood of Pahrkun, but he had also studied Granthian fighting techniques in the service of Prince Kazaran. He had sailed the four great currents of the world with the coursers of Obid, learning their skills; and, too, encountering the fighting techniques of the pirates and smugglers and raiders the coursers sought to police.
In many of the sparring sequences in which we engaged—I will not call them matches, for our exchanges were not worthy of the name—there was some element with which I was unfamiliar; a parry, a pivot, a two-handed blow. These things Vironesh deigned to teach me when I succeeded in identifying them. The other brothers gathered around to watch and learn when he did so, and although Vironesh had said he would train only me, he did not seem to care if they studied his technique any more than he paid heed to the buzzing flies that the summer’s heat broug
ht.
I learned the mechanics of each unfamiliar maneuver, but it availed naught. I was no closer to determining how Vironesh was able to anticipate my every move than I had been at the beginning.
There was something that evaded me, and I had no idea what it was. Vironesh the broken shadow was a lock I could not pick.
“Brother Vironesh is holding back,” Brother Merik observed in a conversation I chanced—well, not chanced, exactly—to overhear among the senior brothers.
“But what?” Brother Drajan asked in bewilderment. “And why?”
“I’m not sure he even knows himself,” Brother Yarit said thoughtfully. “On either count.”
While it was somewhat reassuring to hear that not even the Seer and the senior brothers could solve the mystery of Vironesh, it was also discouraging. I did not know what any of us could do.
Especially me.
If my existence galled Vironesh, he did not say so. Still, it felt very much as though he disliked me, although in truth Vironesh didn’t care enough to dislike or like anyone or anything, unless it was his ever-present wad of gahlba. He interacted with members of the brotherhood as little as possible, disdaining the common dining hall to take his meals in his private chamber. I tried to maintain sympathy for him, and if I did not always succeed, at least I managed to remain respectful, hoping that one day there might be a crack in his uncaring façade.
As time wore on, it began to seem less and less likely. I found myself spending evenings after training had ended venting my frustration on the spinning devil by the light of an oil-wood torch. At times I could not help but wonder if it would have been different if Brother Saan were still alive. Vironesh had respected him, that was clear; it was the only reason he had come. It was equally clear that he had little or no respect for Brother Yarit. Brother Saan with his kind, gentle, insightful manner might have been able to find a chink in the broken shadow’s armor and ease his way inside, to coax him into lowering his guard and seek healing in the desert.