Nanamarvion: Adventures of a Reluctant Heroine

By P. A. Moore

Growing up in the jewel-studded caves of the Iron Mountain trolls didn’t seem strange to Nanamarvion Seracor. After all, one of those large, aloof beings had helped raise her.
And Nanamarvion took for granted having a part-elf Father and a human Grandfather and Great-Grandmother, who were all master savants.
And she accepted as normal that her family should load her down with five powerful talismen back when she was still a child...
...and having one of her best friends be a unicorn...
...and some of her other friends being dragons.

What was strange was other humans and how they reacted to her when she ventured amongst them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: P. A. Moore
• Release date: Sep 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301004263

P. A. Moore

P.A. Moore was born on July of 1951 in the USA. Moore pursued a Bachelor’s Degree in Science and Master of Science in her early 20s. After achieving her degree she took up teaching Microbiology at the same University. She later moved on to teaching Limnology at a Community College. During that time she met and married the love of her life, Don, and wrote her first book. The first novel was a mystery story, which she produced on her typewriter between 1976 in 1979. Shortly after she bought her 1st microcomputer, an Apple II, and rewrote that book on it. Moore then worked for the US Army Corps of Engineers for 7 years. Firstly, as a supervisor of the Michigan state scuba diving team. Later in Oregon as Head of her boat crew responsible for collecting water and sediment samples from the ocean and estuaries. Moore’s crew were the first responders, after the National Guard, following May 18, 1980’s major volcanic eruption at Mount St. Helens located in Washington state. Moore welcomed her first daughter in 1981 and succeeded in starting a microcomputer business that same year partnering with her husband. Knowing that the microcomputer business was a technology field with its ups and downs, she wrote her first business plan predicting that she would leave the microcomputer business when they started selling microcomputers out of Sears. Her second daughter was born in 1986. In 2004, she decided to pass over full Management of the business to her husband to attend Nursing school fulltime. In 2009, she became nationally board certified as a psychiatric mental health nurse practitioner. Moore currently in that practice and expects to continue for the next 2 years. Her future hopes are to retire into a fulltime Author, writing fiction novels to occupy the rest of her life. Moore has written dozens of research papers for the Corps of Engineers; 4 books in the Nanamarvion series; 3 books in the Imperial Consort series; Western novels and she continues to write fiction novels in her available time. Moore most recently started her own YouTube channel to provide her insight on psychiatric and spiritual matters.

Book preview

Chapter One

Adistant horn blew, marking the hour. The Captain shouted. The early morning drill ended. Dawn’s calm enveloped all for a moment. Then the guards came to attention with one, last, noisy, double stamp.

Gramps said that the stamp was, historically, a way for Ikuzuan officers to test their troop for frostbite, but it had morphed into their traditional, casual salute. They thumped their hearts for a more formal acknowledgement.

The new recruits immediately started dispersing with much clatter. Over the racket, one deep, young voice, which cracked a little in the middle, commented on breakfast. My stomach growled in response. The half-hearted Ablaton meditation, into which I’d fallen to escape the boredom, faded.

It was my favorite meditation—one of the simplest of those that contained true magic. The Savant Ablaton had created it to allow one to quickly create a quiet spot of calculation and reason inside oneself, even when confronted with confusion or strong emotion. Since fear or anger, in particular, cut down blood flow to those parts of the brain used for strategy, the Ablaton was useful for a warrior to know.

I’d also made the happy discovery, never divulged to my seniors, that in one of the meditation’s upper states while ignoring the higher chakras, daydreaming was easy. Not quite Dreamland, but close enough for my purposes.

So I practiced the Ablaton often and had gotten to the point where I could slip into its state automatically, without even trancing or silently repeating the spell. Usually. This morning my concentration was split between it and trying not to yawn.

Chryssi hadn’t noticed my mental defection, though she’d recently caught on to when I wasn’t quite present…and was prone to sarcasm when she noticed. Her narrowed eyes still watched the Guards as they lined up to deposit their practice weapons in the wheeled racks on the near side of the courtyard. Their eyes carefully avoided hers. Finally, a tiny grimace, as if she tasted something rotten, rippled across the smooth skin of her face.

She turned suddenly, her dark cloak swirling. Its lining flashed scarlet before the folds fell back into place over her black leathers and high boots.

Her eyes, pregnant with disgust, met mine as she turned. She looked down a bit to do it, for she was a half-head taller than my barely average height. I pivoted to follow her, saying stoutly, They did well. True. It was just a matter of perspective.

She cast me a sideways glance, her generous lips thinning. Damn! She was usually so much fun, but ever since the King made her Commander of the new recruits, she’d started becoming almost as grim as him. I think she took it as a slight on herself that they were improving so slowly.

I tried again, Well, they’re just raw apprentices and you have to admit they’re much better than when the King first made you Commander.

Maybe. At least they know which end of their swords to hold now. But she gave a little smirk more like her old self.

They’re young. They’ll improve!

There came the eye roll. Nana! They’re older than we are!

Not all of them. And only by a couple of years even then! And presumably they’d had better things to do while growing up than to labor with weapons for half of every day like we did. But I bit back the arguments.

Watching troops beat each other at dawn each morning was stupid. Arguing about how well they did it was even stupider. Why did Ikuzuans have to be so masochistic, anyway? There had to be more productive ways to toughen up.

Though, come to think about it, Mother never waited for breakfast either. That came after an hour of centering, balancing, and extension warm-ups. But somehow, it didn’t seem as early when she did them. Probably because we lived in caves, and I couldn’t see if the sun was up or not.

Daunted, I wondered if Mother ever felt this disappointed in my performance? Her troop of one? Well, at least she didn’t chew over my imperfections all of the way through breakfast, as Chryssi certainly would over her first command. Again.

Unless, I could get her mind off the subject.

I opened my mouth to do so. But before words could emerge, my eyes crossed those of two young warriors. They leaned against one of the massive, square pillars that supported the terrace that encircled the upper, main floor of the castle. The men were sneering at me and whispering.

My half-formed words and thoughts went adrift. I shut my mouth and looked quickly away. The men snickered as we passed them. I tried to ignore the stab of hurt that it caused. There was little enough that I could do about it, after all.

But, this time, Chryssi noticed the insulting manner and shortened her long stride. People usually walked softly and maintained a certain respectful silence when Princess Chrysala was about.

It would do no good to bring her into this fight. How do you battle prejudice? Finding my voice with an effort, I said, Mother showed me a new, backhand disengage for spear work. After breakfast, I’ll show it to you.

She frowned at the two men, who immediately turned their still smirking faces toward the dispersing guards, obviously waiting for the court to clear so that they could use it. It was tightly scheduled and older warriors got preference for the better times later in the day.

Still frowning and with a question in her eyes, Chryssi turned toward me, saying absently, Lady Wilmere’s expecting us. Remember? We’re going to practice the fourth set of steps to the Boolango this morning.

And I was the one distracted. The Boolango! Again? Can’t she find something better to do? No one else around here has ever even heard Orehian music, much less learned how to dance to it!

She suddenly grinned. It will improve your posture. Think graceful! Think flowing! Her dulcet tone lilted in imitation of Lady Wilmere’s and her black, slanted eyes crinkled in amusement. As she spoke, she automatically stepped to one side of the recessed doorway that led into the courtyard’s storage room and halted to allow passage of two clanlings who were dragging a heavy cart of shields and short swords into the swordcourt.

`Don’t get in a clanling’s way. They work for you.’ One of the King’s more common sayings to us. The young clanlings each gave their princess shy smiles and bobbed their heads. She nodded back at them regally, albeit with a slight smile.

Ignored by all, I joined her against the wall, still muttering. Lowlanders! Twelve forms just to the Boolango! Over a hundred other dances—some of them even harder! They don’t really learn all of them, do they? By `They’, it was understood that I referred to Orehians.

King Martzin had visited the Orehian Empire’s court at Northport six years before. A reasonable political move given that the huge Empire lay along half of the Ikuzuan border.

The Orehian gentlehomes impressed him with their manners. Desiring that Chryssi not be at a disadvantage in such company during future diplomatic negotiations, he had hired Lady Wilmere, the youngest daughter of an impecunious, Orehian noble, to be Chryssi’s governess. Mine, too, when I was in the City of the Iron Mountain.

I admit that, when the King introduced her just after dismounting and greeting us upon his return to Iron Mountain, I was excited by the prospect of a lowland governess. Well…I was excited by anything that smacked of the greater world. And she, in her long, lowland riding gown and elegant demi-cloak, certainly looked exotic enough.

But, the anticipation didn’t last long—just until the King received the castle chatelaine’s report. The King then told Lady Wilmere, I don’t care how you do it! Beat them, chain them up, or put ‘em on trail rations until their hair falls out. Whatever’s necessary! I want them to at least act civilized. And if they give you any backtalk, tell me!

He didn’t have to be so angry! It wasn’t like we burned the castle down while he was gone. Flooded the dungeon a little, though. But only a little! And it had almost dried by the time he returned.

Besides, only one of the evacuated prisoners had escaped. And she had immediately found a way to prove her innocence! We should have been rewarded!

But the King didn’t see matters that way. And he actually seemed serious about the hair thing. One never knew with King Martzin…

So, Chryssi and I obeyed her—mostly. But I had never since been in a particularly receptive frame of mind for Willie’s teachings. For one thing, before her advent, I was used to visit the City to get away from endless tutoring.

However, I sometimes suspected that Chryssi actually enjoyed the lessons. Then again, Willie was the closest thing that Chryssi had to a mother.

Her tone turning droll, Chryssi needled me, Count yourself fortunate. She could be teaching mathematics… For which, Lady Wilmere had an unfortunate passion. She said it helped the brain to develop. Right. A headache. …or worse yet, etiquette. Which was, of course, an unsubtle stab at my lack of such. Then Chryssi made a face. …or elocution! Which I actually enjoyed, but Chryssi detested. This was strange, given that she had a talent for it and I didn’t.

Still, I grimaced with her in empathy. But, in the back of my mind, I felt mildly grateful that Chryssi had forgotten both the unfortunate left-handedness of her guards and the two, sneering bucks.

Chryssi knew that my background caused talk and that my light coloring drew the eyes of her black-skinned, Ikuzuan subjects. But—perhaps because she more often visited my home than the other way around—she didn’t know how much talk occurred; nor was she aware of the covert, warding, hand signs or open sneers that some of her subjects accorded me when she wasn’t near.

I preferred to keep it that way. She accepted insults a little too hastily. Well, not by Ikuzuan standards, but still…

Only—wouldn’t you know it—as soon as we stepped past the cart, I stumbled over something and had to windmill ungracefully to keep from falling on my face. It felt like a big crack in the flagstones, though nothing marred the flat expanse.

In the process, I bumped one of the clanlings who was struggling with the cart. He, in turn, jerked, causing some spears on one side of the cart to tumble. The other clanling yelled, released his hold on the cart, and jumped back to avoid being hit and, now unbalanced, the whole cart tipped over, dropping the shields, too.

The racket was tremendous, but not loud enough to cover the derisive sound of laughter which rose behind us.

Chryssi whipped around to demand an explanation. Of course, I turned, too, to back her up; though, inside, I was silently cursing the Ikuzuan’s absurd honor code for forcing one to take note of such a small matter. Well…a hurtful one; but not large enough to justify potential bloodletting.

Before more than a few words were exchanged with the two bucks, guards thankfully separated us.

The hecklers were Giog Notron, a well-known troublemaker, and Parlo Histurb, a weak, destructive, little leech of a warrior, who acted as Giog’s shadow.

The former presented a problem. Giog’s clan was well known and powerful. His father, Chief Notron, had long been a leading opponent of King Martzin’s innovations.

His older brother, Captain Hawton Notron, had earned a deal of notice in his own right in the palace circle—largely as the target of every chieftain who had daughters of marriageable age. Hawton, most likely, would one day be the chief of his large clan. A powerful ally. Or enemy.

Not that he needed to be a chief in order to attract the daughters themselves, for he was easily the most handsome man in the city. Or, at least, so I thought.

An hour following our quarrel in the courtyard, King Martzin finished an unusually long tirade by slamming his fist down on his desk and bellowing, …and I WILL NOT risk a feud with the Notrons just because a couple of dew-headed girls feel an itch to start a fight! His curly, black beard looked like it bristled with a life of its own. His eyes flashed white in his black skinned face.

Feuds were a touchy subject with the King. During a legendary one in his youth, another clan wiped out his entire family, excepting himself. Then, he had, in the best—or, perhaps, worst—Ikuzuan tradition, killed all of the opposing clan.

I had a hard time believing the tale, having seen mostly his kindness; but it was widely known.

Chryssi said, Father, we didn’t do anything!

I said, They started it, Sir.

Enough!

But, Father, they laughed…

Sir, they…

SILENCE! NOT ANOTHER WORD! I don’t care who started it. It ill befits either of you to even take notice of worms such as Giog Notron or Parlo, let alone let them provoke you to fight. He passed a hot glance over our still rebellious faces and roared, Augh! Get out of here before I lose what little patience I have left!

If I thought he really had any, I might have kept arguing. As it was, we turned to leave. As we passed through the heavy, wooden, metal-bound door to his study, he shouted after us, And, both of you stay out of Histurb’s and Notron’s way! Nana, no more of your magic tricks! For it was the Ikuzuan’s fear of magic even more than my light coloring that caused the continual antagonism that I faced.

His orders were direct ones. The tone meant that the King gave them, not just Chryssi’s father. That made it dangerous for anyone—even a pair of sixteen-year-old girls—to disobey. Particularly this pair of sixteen-year-old girls.

But could he fault us if we happened to be lurking…uh… Did I say lurking? I meant standing behind the statue of the hero, Tartken, in the inner courtyard that evening as Giog Notron passed?

At any rate, I don’t accept responsibility for what followed!

I stepped forward, a small shadow emerging from the great one cast by the statue in the bright, mountain moonlight. Giog stopped abruptly when he saw me. Then he turned a full circle with his cloak swirling about him. His eyes flashed as if looking for my companions. His eyes slid past Chryssi for she was hidden in the shadows of the statue behind me. Intentionally. She’d agreed that it was primarily a matter concerning me and was holding back.

Facing me again, his eyes narrowed and his lips twisted in a wide, sneering grin. White teeth glinted in his dark, bearded face. Well! If it isn’t the little wizardling. Though his move to draw his sword was hidden by his cloak, I heard it. The blade’s tip came out to reflect the moonlight.

I simply gaped at him, my planned speech knocked seven ways to winter. Even hereditary enemies needed the King’s sanction to duel inside the city walls. Failure to seek such a sanction resulted in banishment or execution. Usually the latter.

It had been two years since the last unsanctioned duel; but the last time, the skins of the two combatants, both the one slain in the duel and the less fortunate man who won it, had been stretched upside down, with their partially severed heads dangling, on the outer walls of the castle for three months where most of the city could see them. Torches around them assured that the view was unhampered at night.

And they’d both been sons of the King’s allies.

I wondered a little at the hypocrisy of the punishment, coming as it did from the King.

Then again, if anyone would know the rights and wrongs of feuding, it would be him.

At any rate, I certainly didn’t want to copy their example. Chryssi and I had come to the garden only with the intention of settling our differences with Giog, thus getting us off the hook with the King—and with Giog’s brother, Hawton.

Oh, naiveté! I’d even imagined Giog apologizing!

An apology that would have eventually, logically, led to his older brother inviting me to a Thrano.

Well…even I thought that a little far-fetched.

Giog snarled, You look surprised. Why? The only reason I haven’t beat you bloody before is because that coward who calls himself King or his frunking lackeys are watching over you. He crouched slightly and advanced. I admit that I jumped back like a scared wittle.

His grin widened at my retreat. Oh, you needn’t worry too much. I don’t intend to kill you. His voice dropped to a snarl. But I shall give you a halwening that will teach you to think twice before insulting a Warrior again! He said `Warrior’ as if the rank was equivalent to king. He had only recently been awarded the distinction, several years later than most apprentices his age. And I doubt your pretty, white skin will be so pretty hereafter!

Halwening involved being beaten about most unpleasantly with the flat of a blade. Some warriors used it to discipline clanlings, with fatal results all too often. To do it to another member of the warrior class was a gross insult.

Not quite believing he was serious and trying to keep him from seeing Chryssi, I scuttled away at an angle as he advanced.

I squeaked, Insult! How did I insult you?

The question gave him pause for a moment. Then he blustered, The very presence of wizards on Iron Mountain is an affront to Frunk and Ikuzua. It will be an honor to be the one to put you and yours in your place!

Weak, Giog. Very weak.

Well, so much for using logic to talk him out of it. In quick succession, I considered running or casting a spell. Each action had various potential consequences. All unpleasant.

Anyway, Chryssi was there and Giog had just mortally insulted her father. Now or later, she’d take up the fight if I didn’t settle it by conventional means. Unfortunately, the Ikuzuans have a narrow definition of conventional means. And it did not involve running. Or magic.

In fact, I could think of no one, including my family—particularly my family—who would be pleased if I used magic to stop a liquam, non-savant, like Giog. That was a lesson that had been drummed into me since my first spell.

But I still hesitated to draw sword. I’d thought ahead to my first real test of courage—a desperate stand on the side of right. A miraculous victory. Cheering crowds.

But which way led to righteousness? Break the law by pulling sword? Or accept a halwening and shame the King. In either case, Giog’s skin would be tacked to the castle wall. But in the former, my skin might end up there, too. It had taken the King more than a decade and over a dozen executions to stop the asinine dueling in the City. That dueling had previously resulted in most of the clan feuds outside of the City. For either Chryssi or I to take part in one could have horrendous consequences.

If I fought and actually killed Giog and the King didn’t punish me, the Notrons would cause trouble with me and the King for years. And I was under the King’s protection, so any feud would fall onto him. Sides would be taken. Old angers and differences could flare up. Would he back me and plunge his country into war or use me as the ultimate example?

I really, really didn’t want my skin stretched out on the castle wall.

Though, dying at Giog’s hand appealed even less. And my family would probably destroy the City afterward if I died or suffered in any substantial manner.

There was no way to win.

To complicate the already stumped logic tree, serious doubts suddenly arose concerning my suitability as a warrior. My stomach flipped. The Ablaton meditation, which I started before stepping from behind the statue, wasn’t producing an inner calm, though I still held onto it and my reasoning.

And even that stuttered when I remembered that Giog was reputed to be one of the better swordsmen in Ikuzua.

For a moment, my inclination actually leaned toward letting him just inflict the halwening. But, ooh, that would hurt! Anyway, Chryssi would try to stop it.

There was no helping it. I’d have to fight.

Then, belatedly, I became aware of Baeco changing its weave and tightening around me, forming a carapace. The tunic talisman felt like the softest wool, normally. But when activated, it became a body shield, feeling hard as steel on the outside, though to the person wearing the tunic, it continued to feel nearly the same, retaining its flexibility wonderfully. Its magic could be activated by command; but, in times of stress or danger, it automatically hardened and stretched.

Usually. My ancestors had never removed all the kinks from its sensing capabilities.

Cheering thought! While I wore the talisman undertunic, Giog would have a hard time hurting me even if I stood still and let him halwene away, provided I protected my face, hands, and feet!

With a whoosh, I expelled a breath. How could I have forgotten about it? Then again, I wore it most of the time, but seldom needed its protection.

Well, with the tunic as an edge, perhaps I could disarm him. He’d be too embarrassed to say anything afterwards, and I know Chryssi and I wouldn’t tell tales.

Perfect!

On the next breath, I gave the orders, Ien! Pruo! in an undertone.

In response to the commands, the short-sleeved, scoop-necked undertunic abruptly hardened to its maximum except for strands that twined down to circle my arms and legs. And its neckline lengthened until it reached my chin. In back, it grew up to form a hood. As the hood grew, I hastened to put my hands up to make it look like I pulled it. The dark and my cloak prevented Giog from seeing what the talisman did to my limbs.

Of course, using the magical armor was a ghastly offense against Ikuzuan dueling protocol—not to mention, the King’s recent order not to use magic. But, really, hardly ten minutes passed during the day when I didn’t use some form of magic, whether he knew it or not. When one is born with a significant amount of manple, it was hard not to have wishes and intent occasionally manifest as magic, even if one is untrained. And I came from a long line of well trained master savants.

And that didn’t even take into account that I carried five powerful talismen. Though most talismen were supposed to wait for spoken intent, the Tomom that I bore had a certain amount of independent action.

In fact, I suspected that they even had a great deal of independence.

For example, Neveah. The ring granted me nightsight, among other things. I couldn’t stop that magic if I wanted. Another advantage in this fight. Giog would be fighting in the dim torchlight and wouldn’t imagine that I could see as well as in day. Chryssi was the only Ikuzuan who knew of it, for she had a nightsight amulet in the form of a ring, too—a gift from my family on her tenth birthday.

What if my talismen weren’t enough and I couldn’t disarm him?

Well, I didn’t want to die, or be maimed like old Sergeant Milisten, who’d lost an arm and an eye in a border fight when she was young.

If worse came to worse and we were discovered fighting, I could always run for it. The Ikuzuans had been looking for a safe way into my family’s caves for three hundred years with no success. They wouldn’t be able to reach me there. And the King could call it a banishment, thus avoiding repercussions.

I also carried the Tomom sword, Dnuorg, and a non-magical dagger. Once Baeco was in place, I drew the weapons cross-wise and stopped my backward sidling. The chunk of fire obsidian in the tip of Dnuorg’s hilt glowed a faint, rusty red in the darkness—not enough to make someone suspicious, but noticeable if you looked for it. Another magical talisman. Well, Mother had often spoken of `full commitment to the fight’. Now I understood what she meant. As the poem went, `give a purse, give a life, win a kingdom, win the fight’.

I hoped the King didn’t suspect that I had the talismen and accuse me of unfair advantage. I couldn’t get over the feeling sometimes that he was omniscient.

Giog straightened a little, his sadistic grin widened, and he said, So the little witch is going to fight back, heh? Well then, hah!

He made a wide, low sweep at my legs with the flat of his blade, intending to trip me. It was an almost insulting attempt on his part. I stooped slightly to block, using a dagger braced against my lower leg—a tricky, be de Yilka move. A mistake in balance or positioning could break my leg, or, more likely, without Baeco, end in a nasty cut; but I seldom made such mistakes anymore.

Anyway the blow didn’t land very hard on my dagger.

And my sword’s special magic cushioned most of the heavy blows that followed though I found myself wishing for my shield to block them. But I seldom carried it around with me when in the city. The blows became abruptly more frequent and stronger when Giog finally caught sight of Chryssi.

We closed for a moment. The reek of mead drifted to me as he panted, which provided an explanation for his unprovoked attack, not to mention his lack of skill. Not that he wasn’t good. He was! But he wasn’t the dragon slayer that castle gossip reported him to be.

In fact, after only a short bit of hammer and anvil work, which was surprisingly clumsy on both of our parts, I pinked him on his dagger arm! He lost his grin, jumped back, and cast his arm an affronted look.

I wondered that he didn’t look pained. And then wondered exactly how much he’d drunk.

His scowl came up along with his sword. Skipping quickly forward and swearing obscenely, he drove me back with a flurry of buffets.

Rattled by the fact that I’d drawn first blood—for the first time—and both entranced and scandalized by his vocabulary, I moved slower than I should have. He struck through my guard with a nasty slash to my left side. The blow made me stumble sideways, but Baeco protected me. While my cloak and leather vest might have new openings, I didn’t even have a bruise.

But Giog obviously considered me the standing dead and whirled quickly toward Chryssi without waiting for me to fall. She now stood two manlengths away, sword drawn and waiting silently.

I recovered my balance and called, Giog!

He jerked back around. I lunged just enough to put him on guard. He parried with sword and dagger. I jabbed with my own dagger with more serious intent. He swayed sideways and used his upper arm to fend my arm upwards. By flipping my hold, the blade cut him on the cheek on withdrawal.

If mother was watching, she’d yell at me for getting too fancy with the dagger. But, given his parry, he might have disarmed me of the dagger if I hadn’t turned it. The fact that it cut him was just a fortuitous accident.

Well, not exactly an `accident’, for I was trying for it.

It made him disengage and stumble back again. Glaring at me, he lifted the back of the hand that held his own dagger to his cheek, lowered it, and looked down at the dark stain on his knuckles. He raised his eyes back to mine, lifted his weapons, and advanced on me—slower this time.

I waited for him to attack, a little sickened. It was amazing how much blood curtained down his cheek from such a small cut. It reflected the scant torchlight.

Whirling his blade, he suddenly skipped forward. Strangely, after the initial nausea, the sight of his blood steadied me. I finally sank into true fighting mode and, somewhere during the following flurry of blows, found my pace. The Ablaton meditation, which I’d never released and which had been clinging stubbornly, albeit weakly, to my consciousness, steadied. Finally, I could spare a thought to strategy. I still hoped to disarm him. That way we’d both escape with honor—or, at least, without anyone else knowing.

But he tried a fancy touch feint. Perhaps weird is a better term than `fancy’. Bad timing and he batted my blade inwards, instead of aside. Awkwardly. Then, instead of giving it up for a bad move and jumping back, as I expected, he carried through on his lunge. His sword passed, squealing from contact with my dagger, over my left shoulder.

He was so intent on the touch feint that he ignored his own dagger. But I guarded against it with Dnuorg before realizing his dagger was not a threat. And then I had no place, no time, to point Dnuorg away. So, the sword went into him, effortlessly, all the way to the hilt at an angle downward through his stomach and out his back.

At Mother’s behest, Grandfather, who was the one who tended our few livestock, had had me hack at animal carcasses a few times with normal swords to get the feel of the surprising amount of force that one had to apply to actually kill something. Incongruously, I found myself suddenly thinking of that and of how it didn’t require as much effort to skewer Giog as it did to go through a side of antelope. But then again, the sword had hit only Giog’s soft tissue, not bone.

Not that bone was much of an issue when one wielded a spelled blade.

Then I wondered that such a thought could run through my mind at such a moment. Inconsequential. Curious. Almost studious.

But the Ablaton was working now.

Then Giog’s mouth gaped. His hands opened. His weapons fell. He stood on tip-toe, wheezed, and leaned on me while his hands groped at the sword wound. I pulled back in revulsion. My meditation melted into shock.

Dnuorg, which had gone in so easily, came out with difficulty, slowly, with an awful sucking sound. Aghast, I stopped pulling with it only a quarter of the way out. Giog tottered on his toes like a fish flopping on a spear. His mouth gaped soundlessly.

It was horrible. I heaved him away with my shoulder and jerked my sword out with a sudden wrench. He tried to hold in his guts with hands that got sliced to the bone in the process.

He continued to stand, wavering, for a long moment, staring first at my dripping sword, then at me, and then at his stomach, which was mercifully hidden in his cloak. But his expression wasn’t hidden. Horror in his eyes. Mouth still agape, but now in disbelief, not pain. It was like looking in a mirror—a moment when our feelings meshed perfectly.

Then he sank to both knees; fell forward onto his stomach; gave two, little kicks; and lay still. The cold mountain wind gusted, his cloak stirred, then settled again.

I continued to gawk at the body. Chryssi sheathed her sword as she stepped toward me and said on a guttural note, Come on! Wipe it off and let’s get out of here! When I didn’t respond, she stepped closer and shook my arm. In an even hoarser voice, she said, Come on, Nana!

My stomach convulsed, bile rose to my mouth. Swallowing hard, I hesitated, wondering how to clean Dnuorg, then crouched to wipe the sword on Giog’s cloak, battling a fear of him rising and grappling with me.

Three, large, dark drops dripped from the blade to the thigh of my leathers as I knelt. I rubbed them with one gloved hand. The spots spread.

My tunic, Baeco, had already shrunk back to normal size—it took only a few heartbeats to do it—and it was none the worse for wear. It had its own way of disposing of grime, sweat, or blood.

Once again, Chryssi tugged on my sleeve and hissed, Come ON! She looked off to one side, from which came the faint sound of a laughing group of men. They approached the entrance to the courtyard, which connected two, much used wings of the castle. We were lucky—unlucky—to have not been disturbed sooner.

The torchlight etched her dusky face in moving planes of shadow and light as she pivoted and started away in the opposite direction.

I rose and followed her at a stumbling run from the courtyard. We went from it directly into and through the small formal garden, following a stone path that was familiar to us from our childhood days. Behind us came a single shout then raised voices. We continued to run until the sound dwindled to a murmur in the background.

She stopped in a small, secluded spot, where we used to play on our weekly, free afternoons when only a little younger, hidden from everyone’s sight by a semicircle of evergreens. Little light reached it from the windows above at this time of night, but our spelled rings made it appear illuminated as if it were a cloudy day. We leaned against the castle wall to catch our breath, which came far faster than the short run justified.

I pulled Dnuorg from its sheath to check for more blood. The sword didn’t have Baeco’s capacity for cleaning itself.

Nana? It was a question. I felt her eyes upon me.

Crumbling inside, I let the sword’s tip droop to the ground and wailed, Damn it, I didn’t mean to kill him! He…he just ran onto the blade!

Shh. Someone’ll hear. She paused, then added, Anyway, it had to be done. He didn’t give you any choice. Her voice was thick.

That doesn’t make it any better.

After another pause, she said, Perhaps I should have done it.

That would have really been wonderful. Then there would be a feud—maybe even an all-out war. At least this way, the King can just kick me out of the city or something.

She said quickly, Even if he finds out, he won’t do it.

No? And I think the stretched skins on the castle wall were in both our minds.

Her voice sounded slightly more doubtful when she next spoke. How could he? It wasn’t your fault. Giog drew sword before you said a single word and he said he would halwene you. That’s simple self-defense. Besides, Beblew won’t tell anyone that she told us that Giog was going to that Thrano tonight. With luck, no one will guess we were there to meet him.

But if the King finds out…if anyone finds out…what will they think? We didn’t even stay by the body.

We can say we ran for a medicine woman…or something. When I groaned, she said in a stronger voice, Or just tell the truth. With even greater emphasis, she repeated, He pulled his sword without one word from you. It’s not our fault!

Desperately then, I replied, Wasn’t it? We were waiting for him. I closed my eyes. Do you think there’s any chance he’ll live?

She shook her head. It was center. Stomach and, maybe, kidney. Hope he doesn’t live, for it wouldn’t be for long and I’ve heard the pain from gut wounds is tremendous.

Seeing him like that is going to give me nightmares!

She didn’t speak for a long moment. When her voice came again, it held something less than her normal assurance. I asked the King about it once—when I was young. How you go on after killing someone. He said, try not to think about it and just do the next thing that needs doing.

And how do you sleep!

Her momentary qualms, if that’s what they were, were gone when she replied impatiently, You work so hard and long you can’t help it. Now, get to your chambers! You have to wash up. I’ll go tell the King before anyone else gets to him. He should be in the stables now. Part of his nightly rounds.

I opened my mouth to volunteer to go with her, but then closed it. It wouldn’t look as bad if they didn’t find us together. The castle staff had a saying, Two’s trouble. I’m pretty sure that the saying originated with us.

I reached my room in the tower. The leathers wiped clean; but, after a pause, I decided to take the pants off. The leather vest with the cut in its side already lay on the floor.

Then I exchanged Baeco for my one other undertunic, a more ornate, embroidered, but non-magical undertunic that I kept at the castle but almost never wore. Finally, I pulled on the matching, wool leggings and a quilted vest rather than my one other sets of leathers. Proper, informal attire for the city. Appropriate for someone who’d been lounging in their room.

A knock came at the door. I peeked out. Lieutenant Greaves, the night officer for the platoon of the female warriors who guarded the royal family’s tower, stood outside. Very formally, she said, His Highness requests your presence in the throne room, Apprentice.

I thought to query her in an innocent voice, but only managed some raised eyebrows, then added, I’ll be ready in five minutes. I closed the door, pulled on my boots, and stored my leather pants, slashed vest and cloak at the bottom of my clothes chest. Then I put a repulsion spell on the area to keep any snoops away.

That took less than two minutes. I sat down cross-legged and went into a trance for the remainder of the five minutes. The game would be up if I still shook when I got in sight of King Martzin.

The throne room was much smaller than the great hall where meals and celebrations took place. But it was big enough that a half dozen torches and the two chandeliers, each of which held over three dozen candles, cast more shadow than light on the faces of the two hundred, somber-faced warriors who were in the City representing the leading families of the country. The warriors filled the areas on either side of the central rug.

No tapestries, such as hung in profusion elsewhere in the castle, relieved the bleak, grey, granite walls. Instead, a double row of clan shields hung on each wall between the high, tiny windows. A single, narrow, purple rug stretched from the doorway up to the dais steps and onwards until it reached the base of the carved marble Great Throne.

Normally, the rug drew one’s eyes toward the dais and the dominating, martial figure that sat on the throne.

However, that evening, King Martzin had competition for attention in the form of the corpse that lay on the carpet at the foot of the dais steps.

Princess Chrysala had already arrived. She stood tall, slim, and straight a step below and to her father’s right within a halo of flickering light cast by the sconced candles that encircled the dais. The jewels in her small, informal crown, which was nestled amidst the tight, immaculate braids of her black hair, glittered beneath the candlelight.

The light outlined her slim form. Her sharp planed face with its large, slanting eyes held just the right mixture of wide-eyed innocence and excitement. She reached up with her left hand and adjusted her cloak, then glanced over at her Father. Modified troll sign. She hadn’t had time to tell the King.

I turned my eyes to gawk in what I hoped was a manner just as innocent at the corpse while walking behind the courtiers to a position as honored guest below Chryssi.

Funny thing. Giog’s face sneered just as insolently in death. Someone must have wiped it, for the cut on his cheek barely showed. But his arm, stomach, and hands, which curled upwards, bore splotches of gore. They looked…neater…than the mess made when butchering meat. That didn’t seem right somehow and I found myself staring at his stomach, looking for something more horrible. Repulsed more by my intent than the appearance of his corpse, I jerked my eyes away and upwards.

I had made that dead thing. My stomach turned.

The King hadn’t missed my response—or lack of it. His eyes met mine and, involuntarily, mine shifted away and then back. His eyes sharpened and flickered toward me several more times as I took my place. He continued to listen to the officer in charge of the detail that had recovered the body.

As I came within hearing, the man finished speaking. …no footprints could be found. Fortunately, we’d fought on flagstones.

The King summarized the findings. For my benefit? So, a sword killed him from the front. His weapons were drawn. Judging by his other wounds, he’d fought for a while before the end. That’s all? No blood on any of his weapons?

None, Sire. Whoever it was, must have been good. Unlikely to have been more than one opponent, since all wounds came from the front. At each of the guard’s replies, murmurs ebbed and flowed among the warriors gathered below. A few warriors cast Chryssi and me grim looks. The argument we’d had with Giog earlier must have been common knowledge by that time.

No witnesses? The ones who found the body didn’t see anything?

No, Sire. But it had just happened. Giog was still breathing when they arrived. The person who killed him was cool about it. He took time to wipe his blade on Warrior Notron’s cloak…while he yet lived. The wound was serious enough that he could not have lived for more than a few minutes after receiving it.

Was he conscious?

When we found him… Before the guard could finish his sentence, a stir occurred at the throne room’s thick, iron, double doors, which opened outward and were manned by two castle guards to either side. Captain Notron with his sister, younger brother, and mother rushed into the room. Chief Notron was apparently not present in court at the moment. His wife, a fair-skinned woman from Oreh, dressed in lowland skirts, clung to the Captain’s arm until she saw Giog. Then she cried out hoarsely, released the Captain’s arm, and ran forward to throw herself onto the corpse, sobbing and murmuring denials and endearments.

A lump rose in my throat.

My family’s constitution had a section called, Observations, all of which I had to memorize as a youth. After a family member reached their sixtieth birthday, they had the right to fill one page with their most brilliant thoughts or beliefs.

One of my ancestors had succinctly written only, Even beggars have mothers. The short note was an oddity amongst the other, esoteric, verbose theorizing and I remembered it for that reason. But that knowledge hadn’t conveyed wisdom to me until that moment. It certainly hadn’t prepared me for the anguish that Giog’s death caused.

At that, I found it hard to believe that even a mother could actually care for him, for he’d been trouble. Beblew, Chryssi’s dresser, once told Chryssi and me that he and his friends had robbed and vandalized several merchant houses while the owners were away on trade missions. He’d done other things too, about which Beblew only hinted and then turned uncharacteristically tight-lipped when questioned. I’d assumed they were the reason that he was so late in achieving warrior status. Beblew said his family always covered for him, but I know the King had been disapproving when he finally awarded the warrior’s badge to Giog.

Ikuzuans might be savage, merciless warriors, but they were also maniacal sticklers over certain moral issues. Criminal activities were rare.

About as rare as the unauthorized drawing of a sword inside the castle.

The Captain patted his sobbing mother and murmured in a rather embarrassed, subdued voice for a time. That time stretched painfully for me as thoughts bounced about in my writhing brain. Then he looked up at King Martzin. May we take my brother home, Your Highness? The Notrons, as one of the wealthier clans, maintained a house in the City.

The King nodded. A hearse is ready for your use. and motioned to some guards. They stepped forward to lift the stretcher at either end. Giog’s youngest, still-apprentice brother dragged his mother to her feet and supported her as they followed the stretcher out. Captain Hawton and his sister, both warriors, stayed behind.

The former turned and straightened after his mother left, and said, Who did this thing? He used formal Ikuzuan, a flowery, stylized version of common Ikuzuan. It made people sound like they were making speeches whether they wanted to or not. The errant thought occurred to me that, in the Captain’s case, he rather wanted to. I squashed the thought. He really was a very handsome man!

The King dropped into the same formal dialect, but somehow managed to sound phlegmatic. That’s what we were trying to determine when you arrived. He turned back to the guard who was reporting. Continue!

The guard’s voice came quietly, When we found him, he spoke…one word. And then died. The murmurs in the room stilled. The guard took a deep breath. He said, `Hitch’.

Nearly every set of eyes in the room turned toward a warrior who stood near the doorway. Just as well. That way they didn’t see the open-mouthed look that Chryssi and I cast each other. But, the King did. His gaze held mine for a moment. I felt a telltale blush burn my cheeks and turned back abruptly to face forward; but not before I saw the King’s eyebrows clash together.

Meanwhile, Llarand Hitch, youngest son of the Hitch clan and the only Hitch currently in attendance at court also looked surprised—to say the least. Llarand, a short, stocky man in his late twenties, stuttered, But…I’ve never exchanged more than a half dozen words with Master Giog Notron. Ever!

Captain Hawton’s fine features writhed into a scowl. He made an impatient movement with one hand. Well, you’ve done more than exchange words tonight, haven’t you! Account for your time this evening!

Llarand’s round, pleasantly ugly face looked taken aback, but he earned my admiration by meeting Hawton’s glare. I have not even seen Giog for weeks! My evening was spent alone in my room.

Bah!

Llarand hesitated only a moment before adding, If you need proof, I will be happy to provide it! Frunk will aid me! Which was as smooth an opening for a challenge to Tour that I’d ever heard—not that I’d heard many. Well…any. But one reads things, after all.

But Hitch’s intelligence wasn’t as impressive as his style in this case. He should have played for time to have the matter straighten itself out. But his were a religious folk. Given the difference in his reach compared to Hawton’s and their respective reputations with swords, Llarand must be a religious fanatic to expect Frunk to guide his hand to victory in a Tour.

Hawton’s mouth opened, but before he could issue what would almost have to be an insult or challenge, I said quickly, I don’t think that Giog Notron’s last word was Hitch. My words were rushed and my voice, unbecomingly squeaky. Chryssi behind me made a tiny sound, half grunt, half sigh.

Hawton jerked around, Wha…?

I swallowed and repeated louder, lower and slower, I don’t think that Giog Notron’s last word was Hitch. I glanced over my shoulder at the King, whose face still held that glowering expression. I had the feeling that his eyes had not left my face. Trying not to hunch under the weight of them, I turned back to face the room. I think he was trying to say, `Witch’

Everyone was silent, staring. I continued, At least, that is what he called me, just before he first swung his sword at me.

I met Hawton’s open-mouthed stare. Hitch had nothing to do with this matter. I killed Giog Notron.

Well, I could hardly let Hawton hack Hitch to pieces.

You? The Captain’s face was still slack with amazement. You’re naught but a child! Not true. Some Ikuzuans married at sixteen. Not many. But some! And I hated always being judged younger than I was! You beat the best swordsman in the City of Iron Mountain?

It didn’t seem polite to disagree with his assessment of his dead brother’s skill. I almost blurted, He was drunk. by way of excusing my victory. Fortunately, I restrained myself; hunted for more tactful, formal words; failed to find them; and settled for a nod.

Silence stretched and the King finally spoke in a quiet rumble. Explain, Apprentice Seracor!

It’s not our fault!

No. It was our…my fault. Anyway, it seemed too childish an answer by far.

Mother always said that putting a brave face on your actions and not making excuses was half the battle. Of course, she meant battle. Not conversations. It was Gramps that said excuses revealed more than they concealed.

I stepped back so that I had my side to the room and faced the King. Then I lifted my chin and tried to make my breathy voice strong. I was walking through the garden. When he saw me, he drew his sword and said he was going to halwene me. I hadn’t spoken a single word to him before he drew sword! I was forced to defend myself. I didn’t have the practice in formal Ikuzuan that the others did. The words sounded stilted and clumsy even to my own ears.

After silence stretched for a long moment, the King asked, Is that all? I knew he was wondering if I’d commit Chryssi. There was no need.

Her voice rang out, "I was there. It happened as Apprentice Nanamarvion says. I was following her past the statue of Tartken. As soon as he saw Nanamarvion