Six Celestial Swords (65 page)

Alere was walking away before she finished, hearing nothing more of what she said, though her uncle’s voice carried down the passageway.

“How’s that for arrogance?” Tarfan blustered. “Not a care in the world, save for himself!”

TRISTUS WAS FINISHED crying. There was no sense weeping over what he couldn’t control. And he couldn’t control life. It simply traveled its course, and those who tried to alter that course were fools.

Yes, you’re a fool
, he told himself.
You’ve always gone against the current. Time to join the others in the world. Time to walk the path that was given to you...or what’s left of it.

He looked away from the fireplace—he’d been watching the modest blaze from the end of the bed for more than an hour—and glanced over his shoulder at
Dawnfire
, propped against the wall at the head of the bed, his armor resting nearby. Elven smiths had been kind enough to polish the white-gold plates and repair the dents. His father’s sword was missing, but somehow the suit seemed in place beside the Dawn Blade. Tristus felt his emotions churning his blood again and sighed.

I don’t feel that I’m worthy of this task, but I will see it through.

The faintest sweep of wood over stone drew Tristus’ attention toward the door. Somehow he failed to be startled when his gaze settled on Alere.

The white elf hovered in the doorway, typically expressing nothing. He said simply, “The door was unlocked.”

“I must have forgotten,” Tristus replied, trying not to sound as miserable as he felt. Not only was his heart shattered, but his head had begun to hurt as well. Still, that was no reason for his deportment to suffer. “What can I do for you, my elven friend?”

Alere seemed to study him for a moment, then said, “I would ask for a moment of your time.”

“And you would have it,” Tristus said, standing. “Is anything the matter?”

Alere let himself into the room and closed the door behind him. In no particular hurry, he approached Tristus, and then stood quietly before him. His gray eyes flashed in the firelight while they moved over every detail of Tristus’ face.

It did not take Tristus long to sort out what the matter was, and he was not oblivious to the lovely shape of the elf’s nearly colorless eyes, nor was he unaffected by the secret warmth they offered. Before that warmth could ensnare him—something that would not be particularly difficult in his current state of susceptibility—he took a step back and used conversation to escape the dangerous silence.

“Have you eaten? I didn’t see you at the banquet. I’m sure there are still plates out.” He started to take steps around the elf. “If we go now, perhaps...”

Alere caught him by the arm.

His grip was gentle, easy for Tristus to escape. Tristus pulled free, but did not walk away. He looked at the floor. “We can talk elsewhere, Alere.”

“I’m not going to force myself on you,” Alere told him in a quiet, taut voice.

Depressed by the elf’s timing, and afraid of the convenient escape he offered, Tristus waited several moments before finally whispering, “You wouldn’t have to force yourself.”

“Then why do you resist?”

Tristus frowned helplessly, angry with the elf for not leaving—angry with himself for not giving in. Why shouldn’t he? He would be loved, at least. Wasn’t that enough?

No, of course it couldn’t be. Alere may not have known his own heart.

“Forgive me for saying this, Alere, but I honestly believe you’re too young to understand. Your heart is, anyway.”

“Inexperience,” the elf said, not quite sounding mocking in his careful tone, “does not necessarily speak also of ignorance. I will admit that I am young by elven standards—perhaps by human standards as well—but I am not a child.”

Tristus dared to look at him. By appearance, he was right.

“My people have changed as the elves of this region, and of others, can never comprehend,” Alere furthered to say, as if sensing that more explanation was required to make Tristus understand. “The rapidity of the slaughter that took place during the war against the shadows changed us in order to save us as a race. Lifespans decreased. We still do not suffer decrepitude and the withering effects of aging, but our youth is nothing we take for granted anymore. Trust me when I say that my childhood ended long ago.”

“I did not mean to offend you,” Tristus replied in earnest. “I only...don’t want to see you hurt. I don’t want to be the one to hurt you. And I would, Alere.”

He finally summoned the courage to face the elf, but it didn’t last. Alere was too composed, too patient as he waited to hear words that came to Tristus as laboriously as breath to a dying man. Tristus stalked toward the fireplace, casting his gaze into the fire, as if he could burn away the painful images that came to his mind.

“I did not come here to catch what has evidently been cast aside,” Alere finally said, and if Tristus didn’t happen to know that the elf wasn’t as heartless as he seemed, he’d have told him to leave at once. Recalling the sparingly offered warmth he’d witnessed in the elf’s eyes just a moment before, he waited and Alere continued. “I simply came to be assured that you were not suffering too greatly.”

The elf spoke as if in reference to a wounded animal he had planned to put out of its misery, if its suffering had indeed turned out to be so great…and Tristus couldn’t help the smile that escaped him. It was difficult to believe that this outwardly dispassionate individual had even dreamt of expressing himself as meaningfully as he had in Upper Yvaria. Except Tristus doubted it was anything Alere had dreamed of. Alere had always been wondrously unplanned with his words, and in that instance, with his actions. He stated what seemed true to him automatically, and without reservation.

“When I arrived moments ago,” Alere said, filling the silence Tristus had set between them, “you were more concerned with my peace of mind than with your own. I am constantly amazed by your generosity, and by your strength.”

Tristus laughed now. The sound came out more bitter than he intended. “I wouldn’t call it strength, my friend. Perhaps I am simply too stubborn—or too afraid—to back down. Anyway, we have our vows to uphold now. Our promise to see this mission through to its end, to trust and support one another.” Warmth filled Tristus, a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire he stared at. After some length trying to form further words where none may have been required, he said, “I’m glad you decided to come, Alere.”

Another brief silence trailed his words, and then the elf’s hand came down gently on his shoulder. Tristus made the mistake of lifting his hand to Alere’s. He meant to acknowledge his friend’s concern, and found contact…a physical warmth with connection that traveled quickly to the rest of his body, promising to fill the empty places, if he would allow it.

Alere gently squeezed his shoulder, and Tristus turned to face him slowly, more to blame for the kiss that followed than the elf was. Alere was guilty simply of being there, and of offering sympathy and love to someone who had gone too long without either. Tristus wanted it, desperately, but this was not the source from which he had hoped to gain it, even now. His mouth drank in Alere’s sweet taste, but his mind was absent from the deed, his heart set on someone else.

Alere’s affection was eager, but not forceful or possessive, and it enabled Tristus to pull away when he became aware of the dire wrong he was committing. He went to the mantle for support, feeling breathless, and held out his hand to ward off any further advance the elf might have made.

“Please, don’t,” Tristus said. “I could love you, Alere, but...I could also betray you. I don’t want that. I... don’t want to hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“I understand,” the elf said, as if he genuinely did understand, though his tone made it sound as if only a legitimate child would not. “It is not my ambition to harm you either. You said once before that you seek my friendship, Tristus. Know that you have it...and that I will always welcome more if you are ever ready to give it. Goodnight.”

With that said, the elf left. He was gone from the room before Tristus could do anything more than gape in his amaze at just how selfless and caring Alere actually happened to be. It saddened him to think that no one outside of himself and Alere’s family might ever truly realize that hidden fact.

T
HE MORNING BEGAN before the sun rose, with meditation and incense; a prayer to the Ancestors, that they would be permitted safe passage to Sheng Fan. In the light of early morning following the prayer, Xu Liang exercised his body that was still somewhat weak from the extreme spiritual effort he had made up until now, that had resulted in dire physical neglect. He performed a series of stretches first and felt the awakening of disused muscles. He had been too lax in his training, even before setting out on his journey to the West. Strength alone could not win wars. Xu Liang knew that well, but he was often forced to admit to himself that Xu Hong was right. Intelligence by itself would also fail to claim an ultimate victory. The mind and the body must work together. He had learned harshly that magic could assist in that effort, but it could not lead.

After stretching, he practiced various techniques with
Pearl Moon
. When he’d worked hard enough to feel winded, but not exhausted, and to feel the healthy ache of labored muscles, he stopped and proceeded to a silver basin further into the vast room, where recently heated water awaited. Originally, elven servants had kept the tub refreshed with clean, steaming water, and perfumed oils, but shortly after Xu Liang survived Ahjenta’s fire healing, his own servants took up the task, along with all other duties required of them as his personal guards. There would not be much for them to do once they left Vilciel, with most of their equipment lost due to the ice giant’s attack. They would be sleeping under the canopy of the Heavens. They may not even have enough bedrolls to lay out, let alone tents to set up.

Hoping for a swifter journey back to Sheng Fan than he’d endured leaving it, Xu Liang bathed, redressed in his layers of silk that had seen far better days, and set about the task of combing out his hair. The length of his hair—even apart from his beauty—was what distinguished him from other men. It was as symbolic and identifying to him as Fu Ran’s dragon tattoos and his broad, sinister grin that gave him the title ‘Laughing Devil’. On a more personal level, Xu Liang’s ability to grow such a healthy length of hair set him apart from his brothers, all of whom followed Xu Hong by keeping their hair relatively short, tying up what couldn’t be hidden beneath a helmet. Fang, his youngest brother in Du—Xiang Wei of Ying was actually the youngest of his half-siblings—had for some time been trying to grow a long beard, but he’d managed thus far only to achieve a bushier aspect to his broad countenance.

“I suppose that we can’t all grow silk, brother,”
Fang would often say good-naturedly to Xu Liang, who smiled now, thinking positively for once about his family. It was difficult to honor them properly, living under Xu Hong’s double standards. The Governor of Du could have adopted Xu Liang. Xu Mi was his wife. He had more right to her son than Xiang Wu, but pride overruled his sense of truth and honor. He chose to lie, and therefore to force that lie and the act of lying upon Xu Liang, while still expecting otherwise right and honorable behavior from him.

With the thought, a pain that had been lingering since his morning exercise stabbed suddenly behind his breast. It felt as if the muscles had suddenly pinched themselves together. Xu Liang placed his hand over the area of aggravation and breathed the kink out, then continued with his hair, tying and pinning it away from his face. He preferred it mostly freed.

Recognizing that in the past, Xu Hong thought to demonstrate during training what could happen to vain men on the battlefield by pulling Xu Liang’s hair more than once. Xu Liang quickly learned how to evade the brutal maneuver, and Xu Hong naturally took it for defiance. Xu Liang narrowly escaped having his head shaved, so great was Xu Hong’s anger at being outwitted by Xiang Wu’s son. Quickly, it was decided that Xu Liang’s hair be bound whenever he practiced his martial skills.