Seeds of Rebellion
Page 81
“Jason tells me you have been performing exercises with your sword for years,” Ferrin said to Corinne. “Show us an example.”
Corinne shot Jason a vengeful glance. She assumed a stance on the balls of her feet, holding the wooden sword poised, then began an elaborate routine, springing forward, shuffling back, wielding the weapon defensively and offensively, darting laterally, and occasionally rolling only to spring back into a balanced stance. Jason was impressed, especially considering she was wearing a lot of unfamiliar gear that should have disrupted her equilibrium.
She finished with a lunging thrust. “That should give you a general idea,” she said. “I always vary the combinations and improvise moves of my own.”
“I’m impressed,” Ferrin said. “You have solid fundamentals. I saw evidence of practiced footwork and graceful balance. You demonstrated a fluid command of your weapon. Your next step is to employ those skills against another combatant.”
“I have often wondered how that would feel,” she said.
“Let’s find out,” Ferrin replied. “Come at me. Focus on offense.”
She nodded and charged forward, mounting a spirited assault that kept Ferrin moving backward. Slowly retreating, he blocked her blows, and occasionally tapped her tunic with his sword to show where she was leaving herself open.
“Enough,” he finally said. “You have never faced an opponent?”
“Only in my imagination.”
“You either have a superlative imagination or else swordsmanship is inheritable. I’m curious. Prepare to defend yourself.”
Ferrin launched a vigorous attack, and the wooden swords clacked fiercely. Corinne held her ground at first, then faded back. After some time, Ferrin managed to touch the tip of his sword to her chest a couple times. He patted her on the thigh. Suddenly he lunged, and Corinne spun, deflecting his thrust, and whacked him on the side.
Ferrin stepped back, lifting off his helmet. “That was a trap!”
“You were falling into a pattern,” she said.
“You shouldn’t be this proficient.”
Corinne took off her helmet, grinning, her hair matted. “Truly?”
“I have never seen such natural talent,” Ferrin said, shaking his head.
“I may not have had opponents,” she said, “but my sword has provided my only recreation for years.”
Ferrin turned to Lodan. “What did you think?”
“I think she could give me trouble,” he replied.
“Work with her while I spar with Jason. You noticed when she was overswinging?”
“Yes.”
“And when she was sneaking in too close?”
“And when she was leaving her left side exposed.”
“Good eye. Make the corrections, and then have some fun.”
Corinne and Lodan moved away.
Ferrin and Jason sparred as the sun rose higher in the sky. The first hour was straight combat. During the second hour, Ferrin showed Jason some dirty tricks desperate opponents might attempt. Ferrin prepared him for foes who might toss sand, throw a knife, sneak in a kick, or use a number of simple but slippery feints.
By the time Jason finished, his lungs were burning and his clothes were drenched. But he felt more confident about his swordsmanship. The protective gear allowed for a much more authentic combat simulation, and he was beginning to grasp the practical application of many of the drills Ferrin had insisted he endlessly perform.
Lodan appeared with the handcart to collect the gear.
“How’d it go with Corinne?” Jason asked.
“She performed remarkably,” Lodan said. “Until Mother saw us. She insisted we quit so Corinne could start getting ready for the Conclave. Between the two of us, I think Mother was more concerned about me bruising a foreign princess with a wooden sword.”
“Everybody should get to clobber a princess at least once,” Jason said. “What now?”
“Time to wash up.”
Rachel sat alone, her back against an earthen storage bunker across the yard from Farfalee’s house. From three sides the bunker looked like a grassy hillock, but the side facing away from the house contained a heavy wooden door.
Speaking Edomic, Rachel lifted a stone the size of her head into the air. She held it there for some time, her will and focus constant, occasionally muttering phrases to raise it higher or lower. It was a strengthening exercise Chandra had taught her. This stone was one of the heavier objects she had tried to hold steady, but it felt within her limits.
She was already dressed for the Conclave, her formal robes loose in the arms and legs, but more fitted in the shoulders and waist. Artfully embroidered, the outfit looked fancy while remaining very comfortable. The soft moccasins on her feet were the comfiest footwear she had ever worn.
A phrase made the heavy rock rotate briskly. Another phrase made it stop. A third phrase turned it to glass. A final phrase, accompanied by a fierce jolt of willpower, shattered the vitrified rock, scattering angular shards in a cone-shaped spray. The power she had focused and released left her momentarily breathless.
As the pleasurable rush subsided, Rachel felt quiet contentment at the successful series of commands. She was improving daily—gaining strength, deepening her concentration, and discovering new ways to combine phrases.
The words Orruck had taught her for the summoning of lightning flickered through her mind. She had not yet tried to carry out the command, but she had often repeated the words internally, examining them. The language called for massive opposing charges, which would then become linked by a bolt of lightning. To cast the spell, she would have to pick two objects to charge. She wished she could figure out how to describe minor opposing charges, so she could attempt the spell on a smaller scale.
None of the other phrases she knew described the scope of the desired effect. The fire phrase, for example, just called to heat. It never specified how much heat. The quantity of heat summoned only varied based on what she was trying to accomplish and how much will she put into the effort. She could not figure out how to extract the Edomic equivalent of “massive” from the lightning phrase. For that matter, she couldn’t figure out how to add “massive” to the heat-summoning phrase. In Edomic, the words wove together in such a way that they often became difficult to untangle or rephrase. Combining commands was not too hard. Changing the phrasing got very slippery.
“Rachel!” Jason called, interrupting her reverie.
“I’m here!” she answered, standing and walking around the storage bunker. He stood beside an arching trellis of purple fruit, looking handsome in his robes. Apparently he had bathed after banging swords with Ferrin all morning. She crossed toward him.
Corinne shot Jason a vengeful glance. She assumed a stance on the balls of her feet, holding the wooden sword poised, then began an elaborate routine, springing forward, shuffling back, wielding the weapon defensively and offensively, darting laterally, and occasionally rolling only to spring back into a balanced stance. Jason was impressed, especially considering she was wearing a lot of unfamiliar gear that should have disrupted her equilibrium.
She finished with a lunging thrust. “That should give you a general idea,” she said. “I always vary the combinations and improvise moves of my own.”
“I’m impressed,” Ferrin said. “You have solid fundamentals. I saw evidence of practiced footwork and graceful balance. You demonstrated a fluid command of your weapon. Your next step is to employ those skills against another combatant.”
“I have often wondered how that would feel,” she said.
“Let’s find out,” Ferrin replied. “Come at me. Focus on offense.”
She nodded and charged forward, mounting a spirited assault that kept Ferrin moving backward. Slowly retreating, he blocked her blows, and occasionally tapped her tunic with his sword to show where she was leaving herself open.
“Enough,” he finally said. “You have never faced an opponent?”
“Only in my imagination.”
“You either have a superlative imagination or else swordsmanship is inheritable. I’m curious. Prepare to defend yourself.”
Ferrin launched a vigorous attack, and the wooden swords clacked fiercely. Corinne held her ground at first, then faded back. After some time, Ferrin managed to touch the tip of his sword to her chest a couple times. He patted her on the thigh. Suddenly he lunged, and Corinne spun, deflecting his thrust, and whacked him on the side.
Ferrin stepped back, lifting off his helmet. “That was a trap!”
“You were falling into a pattern,” she said.
“You shouldn’t be this proficient.”
Corinne took off her helmet, grinning, her hair matted. “Truly?”
“I have never seen such natural talent,” Ferrin said, shaking his head.
“I may not have had opponents,” she said, “but my sword has provided my only recreation for years.”
Ferrin turned to Lodan. “What did you think?”
“I think she could give me trouble,” he replied.
“Work with her while I spar with Jason. You noticed when she was overswinging?”
“Yes.”
“And when she was sneaking in too close?”
“And when she was leaving her left side exposed.”
“Good eye. Make the corrections, and then have some fun.”
Corinne and Lodan moved away.
Ferrin and Jason sparred as the sun rose higher in the sky. The first hour was straight combat. During the second hour, Ferrin showed Jason some dirty tricks desperate opponents might attempt. Ferrin prepared him for foes who might toss sand, throw a knife, sneak in a kick, or use a number of simple but slippery feints.
By the time Jason finished, his lungs were burning and his clothes were drenched. But he felt more confident about his swordsmanship. The protective gear allowed for a much more authentic combat simulation, and he was beginning to grasp the practical application of many of the drills Ferrin had insisted he endlessly perform.
Lodan appeared with the handcart to collect the gear.
“How’d it go with Corinne?” Jason asked.
“She performed remarkably,” Lodan said. “Until Mother saw us. She insisted we quit so Corinne could start getting ready for the Conclave. Between the two of us, I think Mother was more concerned about me bruising a foreign princess with a wooden sword.”
“Everybody should get to clobber a princess at least once,” Jason said. “What now?”
“Time to wash up.”
Rachel sat alone, her back against an earthen storage bunker across the yard from Farfalee’s house. From three sides the bunker looked like a grassy hillock, but the side facing away from the house contained a heavy wooden door.
Speaking Edomic, Rachel lifted a stone the size of her head into the air. She held it there for some time, her will and focus constant, occasionally muttering phrases to raise it higher or lower. It was a strengthening exercise Chandra had taught her. This stone was one of the heavier objects she had tried to hold steady, but it felt within her limits.
She was already dressed for the Conclave, her formal robes loose in the arms and legs, but more fitted in the shoulders and waist. Artfully embroidered, the outfit looked fancy while remaining very comfortable. The soft moccasins on her feet were the comfiest footwear she had ever worn.
A phrase made the heavy rock rotate briskly. Another phrase made it stop. A third phrase turned it to glass. A final phrase, accompanied by a fierce jolt of willpower, shattered the vitrified rock, scattering angular shards in a cone-shaped spray. The power she had focused and released left her momentarily breathless.
As the pleasurable rush subsided, Rachel felt quiet contentment at the successful series of commands. She was improving daily—gaining strength, deepening her concentration, and discovering new ways to combine phrases.
The words Orruck had taught her for the summoning of lightning flickered through her mind. She had not yet tried to carry out the command, but she had often repeated the words internally, examining them. The language called for massive opposing charges, which would then become linked by a bolt of lightning. To cast the spell, she would have to pick two objects to charge. She wished she could figure out how to describe minor opposing charges, so she could attempt the spell on a smaller scale.
None of the other phrases she knew described the scope of the desired effect. The fire phrase, for example, just called to heat. It never specified how much heat. The quantity of heat summoned only varied based on what she was trying to accomplish and how much will she put into the effort. She could not figure out how to extract the Edomic equivalent of “massive” from the lightning phrase. For that matter, she couldn’t figure out how to add “massive” to the heat-summoning phrase. In Edomic, the words wove together in such a way that they often became difficult to untangle or rephrase. Combining commands was not too hard. Changing the phrasing got very slippery.
“Rachel!” Jason called, interrupting her reverie.
“I’m here!” she answered, standing and walking around the storage bunker. He stood beside an arching trellis of purple fruit, looking handsome in his robes. Apparently he had bathed after banging swords with Ferrin all morning. She crossed toward him.
