Eventually Sarene left them to practice their thrusts—she wouldn’t trust them to spar with one another until they had proper face masks and clothing—and seated herself beside Lukel with a sigh.
“Exhausting work, Cousin?” he asked, obviously enjoying the sight of his mother trying to wield a sword in a dress.
“You have no idea,” Sarene said, wiping her brow. “Are you sure you don’t want to give it a try?”
Lukel raised his hands. “I may be flamboyant at times, Cousin, but I’m not stupid. King Iadon would blacklist any man who took part in such a supposedly demeaning activity. Being on the king’s bad side is fine if you happen to be Eondel, but I’m just a simple merchant. I can’t afford royal displeasure.”
“I’m sure,” Sarene said, watching the women trying to master their lunges. “I don’t think I taught them very well.”
“Better than I could have done,” Lukel said with a shrug.
“I could have done better,” Kaise informed from her seat. The little girl was obviously growing bored with the repetitious fighting.
“Oh really?” Lukel asked dryly.
“Of course. She didn’t teach them about riposting or Proper Form, and she didn’t even bother with tournament rules.”
Sarene raised an eyebrow. “You know about fencing?”
“I read a book on it,” Kaise said airily. Then she reached over to slap away Daorn’s hand, which was poking her with a stick he had taken from Sarene’s pile.
“The sad thing is she probably did,” Lukel said with a sigh. “Just so she could try and impress you.”
“I think Kaise must be the most intelligent little girl I’ve ever met,” Sarene confessed.
Lukel shrugged. “She’s smart, but don’t let her impress you too much—she’s still only a child. She may comprehend like a woman, but she still reacts like a little girl.”
“I still think she’s astounding,” Sarene said, watching as the two children played.
“Oh, she’s that,” Lukel agreed. “It only takes Kaise a few hours to devour a book, and her language-learning ability is unreal. I feel sorry for Daorn sometimes. He tries his best, but I think he just feels inadequate—Kaise can be domineering, if you haven’t noticed. But, smart or not, they’re still children, and they’re still a pain to take care of.”
Sarene watched the children playing. Kaise, having stolen the stick from her brother, was proceeding to chase him around the room, cutting and thrusting in parodies of the methods Sarene had taught. As Sarene watched, her eyes fell on the doorway. It was open, and two figures watched the women practice.
The ladies fell still as Lords Eondel and Shuden, realizing they had been noticed, slipped into the room. The two men, though very different in age, were reportedly becoming good friends. Both were something of outsiders in Arelon—Shuden, a foreigner with dark skin, and Eondel, a former soldier whose very presence seemed to offend.
If Eondel’s presence was distasteful to the women, however, Shuden’s more than made up for it. A serious wave of blushing ran through the fencers as they realized that the handsome Jindoeese lord had been watching them. Several of the younger girls clutched friends’ arms for support, whispering excitedly. Shuden himself flushed at the attention.
Eondel, however, ignored the women’s reactions. He walked among the would-be fencers, his eyes contemplative. Finally, he picked up a spare length of wood, and stepped into a fencing posture and began a series of swipes and thrusts. After testing the weapon, he nodded to himself, set it aside, then moved toward one of the women.
“Hold the wood like so,” he instructed, positioning her fingers. “You were gripping it so tightly you lost flexibility. Now, place your thumb along the top of the hilt to keep it pointed in the right direction, step back, and thrust.”
The woman, Atara, complied—flustered that Eondel had dared touch her wrist. Her thrust, amazingly, was straight and well aimed—a fact that surprised no one more than Atara herself.
Eondel moved through the group, carefully correcting posture, grip, and stance. He took each woman in turn, giving advice to their several individual problems. After just a few brief minutes of instruction, the women’s attacks were more focused and accurate than Sarene would have thought possible.
Eondel backed away from the women with a satisfied eye. “I hope you aren’t offended by my intrusion, Your Highness.”
“Not at all, my lord,” Sarene assured him—even though she did feel a stab of jealousy. She had to be woman enough to recognize superior skill when she saw it, she told herself.
“You are obviously talented,” the older man said. “But you seem to have had little experience in training others.”
Sarene nodded. Eondel was a military commander—he had probably spent decades instructing novices in the basics of fighting. “You know quite a bit about fencing, my lord.”
“It interests me,” Eondel said, “and I have visited Duladel on numerous occasions. The Dulas refuse to recognize a man’s fighting ability unless he can fence, no matter how many battles he has won.”
Sarene stood, reaching over and pulling out her practice syres. “Care to spar then, my lord?” she asked offhandedly, testing one of the blades in her hand.
Eondel looked surprised. “I … I have never sparred with a woman before, Your Highness. I don’t think it would be proper.”
“Nonsense,” she said, tossing him a sword. “Defend yourself.”
Then, without giving him another chance to object, she attacked. Eondel stumbled at first, taken aback by her sudden offense. However, his warrior training soon took control, and he began to parry Sarene’s attack, with amazing skill. From what he’d said, Sarene had assumed that his knowledge of fencing would be cursory. She was mistaken.
Eondel threw himself into the bout with determination. His blade whipped through the air so quickly it was impossible to follow, and only years of training and drills told Sarene where to parry. The room rang with the sound of metal against metal, and the women paused to gawk as their two instructors moved across the floor, engaged in intense battle.
Sarene wasn’t used to sparring with someone as good as Eondel. Not only was he as tall as she was—negating any advantage she had in reach—he had the reflexes and training of a man who had spent his entire life fighting. The two of them pushed through the crowd, using women, chairs, and other random objects as foils for the other’s attack. Their swords cracked and whipped, lunging out and then snapping back to block.
Eondel was too good for her. She could hold him, but was so busy with defense that she had no time to attack. With sweat streaming down her face, Sarene became acutely aware that everyone in the room was watching her.
At that moment, something changed in Eondel. His stance weakened slightly, and Sarene struck reflexively. Her round tipped blade slipped past his defenses came up against his neck. Eondel smiled slightly.
“I have no choice but to yield, my lady,” Eondel said.
Suddenly, Sarene felt very ashamed for putting Eondel in a situation where he had obviously let her win, lest he make her look bad in front of the others. Eondel bowed, and Sarene was left feeling silly.
They walked back to the side of the room, accepting cups from Lukel, who complimented them on the performance. As Sarene drank, something struck her. She had been treating her time here in Arelon like a contest, as she did with most political endeavors—a complex, yet enjoyable, game.
Arelon was different. Eondel had let her win because he wanted to protect her image. To him, it was no game. Arelon was his nation, his people, and he would make any sacrifice in order to protect them.
This time is different, Sarene. If you fail, you won’t lose a trade contract or building rights. You’ll lose lives. The lives of real people. The thought was sobering.
Eondel regarded his cup, eyebrows raised skeptically. “It’s only water?” he asked, turning to Sarene.
“Water is good for you, my lord.”
“I’m
not so sure about that,” Eondel said. “Where did you get it?”
“I had it boiled and then poured between two buckets to restore its flavor,” Sarene said. “I wasn’t going to have the women falling over each other in drunken stupors while they tried to practice.”
“Arelish wine isn’t that strong, Cousin,” Lukel pointed out.
“It’s strong enough,” Sarene replied. “Drink up, Lord Eondel. We wouldn’t want you to get dehydrated.”
Eondel complied, though he maintained his look of dissatisfaction.
Sarene turned back toward her students, intending to order them to their practicing—however, their attention had been captured by something else. Lord Shuden stood near the back of the room. His eyes were closed as he moved slowly through a delicate set of motions. His taut muscles rippled as his hands spun in controlled loops, his body flowing in response. Even though his motions were slow and precise, there was sweat glistening on his skin.
It was like a dance. Shuden took long steps, legs rising high in the air, toes pointed, before placing them on the floor. His arms were always moving, his muscles stretched tightly, as if he were struggling against some unseen force. Slowly, Shuden accelerated. As if building in tension, Shuden swept faster and faster, his steps becoming leaps, his arms whipping.
The women watched in silence, their eyes wide, more than one jaw gaping open. The only sounds came from the wind of Shuden’s moves and the thumping of his feet.
He stopped suddenly, landing in a final jump, feet pounding to the ground in unison, arms outspread, hands flat. He folded his arms inward like two heavy gates swinging shut. Then he bowed his head and exhaled deeply.
Sarene let the moment hang before mumbling, “Merciful Domi. Now I’ll never get them to focus.”
Eondel chuckled quietly. “Shuden’s an interesting lad. He complains repeatedly about the way women chase him, but he can’t resist the urge to show off. Despite it all, he’s still a man, and he’s still rather young.”
Sarene nodded as Shuden completed his ritual, then turned sheepishly as he realized how much attention he had drawn. He quickly wove his way through the women with downcast eyes, joining Sarene and Eondel.
“That was … unexpected,” Sarene said as Shuden accepted a cup of water from Lukel.
“I apologize, Lady Sarene,” he replied between gulps. “Your sparring made me want to exercise. I thought everyone would be so busy practicing that they wouldn’t notice me.”
“Women always notice you, my friend,” Eondel said with a shake of his gray-streaked head. “Next time you complain about being mauled by adoring women, I’ll point out this little fiasco.”
Shuden bowed his head in acquiescence, blushing again.
“What was that exercise?” Sarene asked curiously. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“We call it ChayShan,” Shuden explained. “It’s a kind of warm-up—a way to focus your mind and body when preparing for a battle.”
“It’s impressive,” Lukel said.
“I’m just an amateur,” Shuden said with a modestly bowed head. “I lack speed and focus—there are men in Jindo who can move so quickly you grow dizzy watching them.”
“All right, ladies,” Sarene declared, turning to the women, most of whom were still staring at Shuden. “Thank Lord Shuden for his exhibition later. Right now, you have some lunges to practice—don’t think I’m going to let you leave after just a few minutes of work!”
There were several groans of complaint as Sarene took up her syre and began the practice session anew.
“They’ll all be devilishly sore tomorrow,” Sarene said with a smile.
“You say that with such passion, my lady, that one is inclined to think you’re enjoying the prospect.” Ashe throbbed slightly as he spoke.
“It will be good for them,” Sarene said. “Most of those women are so pampered that they’ve never felt anything more serious than the prick of a stitching needle.”
“I’m sorry I missed the practice,” Ashe said. “I haven’t watched a ChayShan in decades.”
“You’ve seen one before?”
“I’ve seen many things, my lady,” Ashe replied. “A Seon’s life is very long.”
Sarene nodded. They walked down a street in Kae, the enormous wall of Elantris looming in the background. Dozens of street vendors offered their wares eagerly as she passed, recognizing from her dress that she was a member of the court. Kae existed to support the Arelish nobility, and it catered to very pompous tastes. Gold-plated cups, exotic spices, and extravagant clothes all vied for her attention—though most of it just made her feel sick to her stomach.
From what she understood, these merchants were the only real middle class left in Arelon. In Kae they competed for King Iadon’s favor, and hopefully a title—usually at the expense of their competitors, a few peasants, and their dignity. Arelon was quickly becoming a nation of fervent, even terrified, commercialism. Success no longer brought just wealth, and failure no longer just poverty—income determined just how close one was to being sold into virtual slavery.
Sarene waved off the merchants, though her efforts did little to discourage them. She was relieved to finally turn a corner and see the Korathi chapel. She resisted the urge to sprint the rest of the way, keeping her pace steady until she reached the doors to the broad building and slipped in.
She dropped a few coins—nearly the last of the money she had brought with her from Teod—into the donations box, then went looking for the priest. The chapel felt comfortable to Sarene. Unlike Derethi chapels—which were austere and formal, hung with shields, spears, and the occasional tapestry—Korathi chapels were more relaxed. A few quilts hung on the walls—probably donations from elderly patrons—and flowers and plants sat lined up beneath them, their buds peeking out in the spring weather. The ceiling was low and unvaulted, but the windows were broad and wide enough to keep the building from feeling cramped.
“Hello, child,” a voice said from the side of the room. Omin, the priest, was standing next to one of the far windows, looking out at the city.
“Hello, Father Omin,” Sarene said with a curtsey. “Am I bothering you?”
“Of course not, child,” Omin said, waving her over. “Come, how have you been? I missed you at the sermon last night.”
“I’m sorry, Father Omin,” Sarene said with a slight flush. “There was a ball I had to attend.”
“Ah. Do not feel guilty, child. Socializing is not to be underestimated, especially when one is new in town.”
Sarene smiled, walking between a set of pews to join the short priest next to the window. His small stature wasn’t usually so noticeable; Omin had constructed a podium at the front of the chapel to fit his size, and while he gave sermons it was hard to distinguish his height. Standing next to the man, however, Sarene couldn’t help feeling that she was towering over him. He was terribly short even for an Arelene, the top of his head barely reaching her chest.
“You are troubled by something, child?” Omin asked. He was mostly bald, and wore a loose-fitting robe tied at the waist with a white sash. Other than his strikingly blue eyes, the only color on his body was a jade Korathi pendant at his neck, carved in the shape of Aon Omi.
He was a good man—something Sarene couldn’t say about everyone, even priests. There were several back in Teod who absolutely infuriated her. Omin, however, was thoughtful and fatherly—even if he did have an annoying habit of letting his thoughts drift. He sometimes got so distracted that minutes would pass without his realizing someone was waiting for him to speak.
“I wasn’t sure who else to ask, Father,” Sarene said. “I need to do a Widow’s Trial, but no one will explain what it is.”
“Ah,” Omin said with a nod of his shiny hairless head. “That would be confusing for a newcomer.”
“Why won’t anyone explain it to me?”
“It is a semireligious ceremony left over from days when the Elantrians ruled,” Omin explained. “Anything in
volving the city is a taboo topic in Arelon, especially for the Faithful.”
“Well, then how am I going to learn what is expected of me?” Sarene asked with exasperation.
“Do not get frustrated, child,” Omin said soothingly. “It is taboo, but only by custom, not by doctrine. I don’t think Domi would have any objection to my assuaging your curiosity.”
“Thank you, Father,” Sarene said with a sigh of relief.
“Since your husband died,” Omin explained, “you are expected to show your grief openly, otherwise the people won’t think you loved him.”
“But I didn’t love him—not really. I didn’t even know him.”
“Nonetheless, it would be proper for you to do a Trial. The severity of a Widow’s Trial is an expression of how important she thought her union, and how much she respected her husband. To go without one, even for an outsider, could be a bad sign.”
“But wasn’t it a pagan ritual?”
“Not really,” Omin said with a shake of his head. “The Elantrians started it, but it had nothing to do with their religion. It was simply an act of kindness that developed into a benevolent and worthy tradition.”
Sarene raised her eyebrows. “Honestly, I am surprised to hear you speak that way about the Elantrians, Father.”
Omin’s eyes sparkled. “Just because the Derethi arteths hated the Elantrians doesn’t mean that Domi did, child. I do not believe they were gods, and many of them had inflated opinions of their own majesty, but I had a number of friends in their ranks. The Shaod took men both good and bad, selfish and selfless. Some of the most noble men I ever knew lived in that city—I was very sorry to see what happened to them.”
Sarene paused. “Was it Domi, Father? Did he curse them as they say?”
“Everything happens according to Domi’s will, child,” Omin answered. “However, I do not think that ‘curse’ is the right word. At times, Domi sees fit to send disasters upon the world; other times he will give the most innocent of children a deadly disease. These are no more curses than what happened to Elantris—they are simply the workings of the world. All things must progress, and progression is not always a steady incline. Sometimes we must fall, sometimes we will rise—some must be hurt while others have fortune, for that is the only way we can learn to rely on one another. As one is blessed, it is his privilege to help those whose lives are not as easy. Unity comes from strife, child.”