Sigquaya, Page 8

  “That hurt!” he yelled.

  “It was supposed to hurt, stupid,” she said matter-of-factly. “That was a dumb opening move. I could see it coming for miles.”

  He huffed, bellowed his frustration, and attacked again, stepping in this time with a wide arc from left to right. She leaned back, and his blade zinged inches from her nose. Instantly she thrust upward with both swords, tips to the sky, catching his blade on either side. With sheer strength, she stopped his swing solid, holding firm.

  She held it for a moment, locking eyes with him, grimacing with exertion, and raising an eyebrow to drive home her point before stepping back and, with a wicked twist, spinning the sword out of his grip, sending it bouncing across the grass and pine needles of the forest floor.

  Arteura twirled her blades once more before thrusting them into the scabbards at either side of her hips. She crossed her arms and looked at her brother sternly.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she said. “You’re letting your emotions guide your attack. That’ll do nothing but get you killed, little brother.”

  He turned from her, humphing his irritation, hunching his shoulders, and trudging off to retrieve his sword. “Maybe I should try that infernal two-handed method you’re so fond of.” He pouted. “Maybe then I could best you.”

  “I doubt it,” she answered sarcastically.

  He stopped and wheeled on her, glaring.

  “What?” she asked innocently. “Am I wrong?”

  “I—”

  “Remember when I said I’d already beaten you?” she interrupted. Then she shrugged as if saying, “See?”

  He turned his back on her and raked up his sword.

  “So,” he asked, sarcasm dripping from his own voice, “what’s my problem then?”

  “You’re not fighting me,” she answered simply.

  He looked around, throwing his arms wide as if trying to find someone else there. Arteura waited him out, bored.

  “There’s no one else here,” he said.

  “You’re not fighting me,” she repeated. “You’re not fighting me because you’re too busy fighting yourself.”

  Marcus’s face scrunched in confusion.

  Arteura sighed and stepped forward. “You fight with emotion. That is an opponent as much so as anyone standing across from you, and one much harder to defeat.

  “You fight angry, upset, and frustrated,” she went on. “The only thing you don’t do is fight smart.”

  He huffed, and the corners of his lips turned down.

  “See?”

  “I—” He humphed again. “I can curb my emotions.”

  She shrugged. “Then show me.”

  He came closer and squared off. She drew her blades and set herself to match. Marcus breathed heavily through his nose and set his jaw in determination.

  He stepped forward and swung—left, right, left—then stepped back. His movements were slower and measured. He didn’t expect the blows to land, but he was doing his best to fight with skill and patience rather than emotion and zeal.

  “Better,” Arteura said. “Now counter.”

  She thrust out with her left sword, low, at his leg. He began to counter, and she threw a riposte to his shoulder with her right. He stepped back and batted the swords, clack-clack, and sidestepped to the right in the direction of her upheld hand. She backed off and smiled.

  “Better,” she repeated.

  “Stop saying that and fight.”

  “Don’t get cocky.”

  “Don’t get arrogant.”

  She bowed her head. “Touché.”

  She bent her knees and held her swords crossed in front of her at chest height. Crouched, Marcus slowly began to circle her once again, his eyes wide. She turned with him, watching and waiting.

  He moved in and thrust low, this time to her right leg. She dodged left, blocking the attack, and danced back.

  “You’re giving it away,” she said as she squared herself once more.

  “What?”

  “You’re giving away your attack. With your eyes. I could see where you were going.”

  She lowered her swords and stepped forward, pointing a blade tip to her heart. “Look here. Lock your eyes here, wherever it is you plan to strike. That way, not only can you see your point of attack, you can see my hands, my weapons. You can see my legs, you can see all of my movements and, in time, learn to anticipate. You won’t need to move your eyes at all. Use your peripheral vision.”

  “My perry . . . full–”

  “Peripheral.”

  “Pera—”

  “Never mind, just do it. Look here”—she pointed again—“and try again.”

  He turned with a dismissive eye roll. “Whatever.”

  She fidgeted with her weapons with white-knuckled hands and bit her lip in frustration. “Not whatever!” Exasperation dripped from her voice. “This is important, Marcus. This could be your future. I know full well the reputation you’ve started to earn in your training, despite our godsforsaken family name. You’re considered quite good. Maybe even one of the best. I’m not saying I have anything to do with it, but I know our time together out here”—she pointed to the hole-ridden targets then to the circle they stood in—“and the practice and the experience has everything to do with it.”

  “But how did you get so good?”

  The exasperation she’d felt ebbed away.

  “I don’t know, honestly,” she said in earnest. “It’s just instinct. I know what feels right, and I know what seems to work best for me. This is all I’m trying to teach you: not only what seems to work for me, but also to allow you to find what works best for you.”

  “But we use two totally different fighting styles.”

  “Yes and no,” she answered. “Yes, I like the feel of two blades in my hands. But in a way, fighting is fighting. It’s up here”—she pointed to her temple with the tip of a sword, then to her heart—“and in here, as much or even more so than it is here,” she said, holding out her sword-filled hands.

  Marcus paused and then nodded in thoughtful agreement, which surprised her.

  “Okay then,” she said. “You ready?”

  “Ready.”

  Arteura assumed her stance and Marcus stepped back, assuming his.

  For the next several minutes, their fighting was slower, disciplined, and structured. He would thrust, and she would parry. She would slash, and he would counter. It was a dance of technique more so than attack. All points of bravado and ego had been proven. Now came the time to grow serious in actually learning something.

  Arteura swung with a left and he blocked it, holding the blade with the momentum of her blow. She spun around the swords as they grated against each other, bringing forth a backhanded, roundhouse swing with her right hand aimed at his back. Marcus parried away her left, shifted his hips, dodged her right, pushed away, and spun.

  Arteura anticipated the move, tensing her arms and thrusting out, stabbing at his chest with both blades. He stepped back with a feint to the right, then he slashed upward, his blade sideways, meant to brush away her weapons and expose her chest. She saw the move and arched backward, almost bending double. She landed on her hands and backflipped once then twice, and landed on her feet a dozen feet away from him.

  He smiled at her. “That was new.”

  She shrugged, chuckled, and stepped back in, slashing with lightning speed—left, right, left—over and over, driving him back, her arms a blur. His eyes were fixed on her chest, blocking her blows as wood clashed with wood, sounding like a woodpecker on a hollow log.

  Suddenly she spun, flipping around with another backhanded blow. Marcus crouched, tucked, and rolled.

  He sprang to his feet, wheeled, and saw that her arms were crossed, finishing out her spin. He stepped in with a quick thrust aimed at her stomach. She saw it at the last second and blocked it away with a swing of her exposed left arm—a blow to flesh, not wood.

  She stepped back, cursed, and winced, not so much i
n pain but in the fact that her brother had accomplished a rare besting of her skill. She was frustrated, but also a little impressed.

  Bouncing back, he smiled. “You’re now bleeding.”

  “Indeed,” she said with a nod. “Nice move. How badly?”

  “Not mortal, but you can only use one sword now.”

  “Aww,” she cooed with a mocking pout. “Too bad.”

  “For you,” he said and stepped in with a slicing blow to her ribcage, coming at her from the same side as her “injured” arm. Arteura crossed her body with her right-hand sword, parrying it away and then stabbing out with her own advance. He blocked it easily and shuffled away to her right. His smile widened. He was gaining confidence.

  She held up a hand for time.

  “Only one hand, huh?” she asked.

  “Yup,” he answered, still bouncing.

  “All right,” she said with a sigh and a shrug, sheathing the sword of her left hand. Then she thought for a second and unsheathed the blade once again. “I’ve got a better idea.”

  Arteura laid the two swords down at her feet, then picked the first up with her right hand. She spun it so she held the sword backhanded and picked up the other with the same hand.

  She held both together now, each gripped in her right hand and the blades pointing in opposite directions. Her hand was barely large enough to hold both grips with the small pommels, but she smiled as she admired her new, single-handed weapon. She held her fist straight out at Marcus. The improvised, dual-bladed sword was now almost as long as Marcus’s.

  “What are you going to do with that?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” She smiled. “Attack and we’ll see.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Who said anything about fair? Besides, I’m the injured one here. I have two blades. I want to see if I can still use them both.”

  He let out an exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes as he resumed his stance, mumbling protests under his breath.

  He circled her. Arteura continued to hold her blades out as she slowly turned to face him.

  He gave her a half-hearted thrust and she clack-clacked it away with both blades and a flick of her wrist. Her smile widened.

  “I could get used to this,” she said.

  He swung a blow to her left side, more serious this time, and again she blocked. Clack-clack.

  “Yes, yes indeed.” She smiled. “Now attack!”

  He yelled with his mounting annoyance and lunged forward. Once again the blow came from overhead, faster this time. She raised her blades to block. Wood met wood with a loud crack! The momentum bent Arteura’s wrist and she went with it, bending her arm and flicking her wrist, grunting with exertion and accelerating through, pushing him off balance.

  She stepped forward and struck with a lightning-fast thrust, parting the hair at the side of his head, barely missing his temple. He winced, trying to slow his momentum as he stepped past her. She cocked her arm and swung, a full-force roundhouse, just at the edge of her reach, landing with what would have been a devastating blow to his back and midsection. He flinched and staggered with a howl.

  She stepped forward again, following him. She was now on the offensive, her brain on automatic.

  Marcus was bent as he took another step away, catching himself, setting his foot, and spinning. As he straightened, his eyes flew wide. Arteura had closed the gap, lunging with a third step and landing a jab of her fist squarely on the end of his nose, sending him staggering onto his back.

  He dropped his sword and grabbed his nose, screaming. Crimson flowed freely through his hand as he looked up at her. His face behind the shaking hands and flowing blood was a cascade of surprise, shock, and disbelief.

  Arteura stopped short, adrenaline coursing through her but realizing what she’d just done. Her mind whirled. The blow should have been to the back of his head. It should have sent him tumbling, embarrassed but uninjured. She didn’t know that he would stop so suddenly. She didn’t know he would turn so quickly. She’d forgotten that her fist held the added weight of two swords behind it as she threw the punch. This was something that the other kids did, not them, not to each other.

  “Owwwww!!”

  “I-I’m so sorry, Marcus,” she stammered as she dropped her own swords and knelt beside him. “I got carried away.”

  He flinched and cowered, turning his face away. “I tink you boke it,” he said with a nasal whine and exaggerated pout.

  “Yes, I probably did.” She had to agree. “May I see?”

  “No!” he said, though it sounded more like, “Doh!”

  “Please?”

  “No!”

  “Marcus?” she said softly, almost a whisper, as she gently laid her hand on his shoulder. He flinched but slowly turned so he was fully facing her.

  His hand was now covered in blood. Gingerly, she pulled it away.

  “Id id bad?” he asked, reading her face despite her efforts and not liking what he was seeing.

  “It will be fine,” she lied.

  His nose didn’t look bent, but there was a sizeable cut across the bridge, and swelling had already begun to set in. It was definitely broken. Blood seeped from his nostrils and from the wound. The whole area was red and crusted. He ran his tongue across his upper lip.

  “Eww, don’t lick it!” She winced.

  “Whud? I can’d wipe id. Id hurz!”

  She stood, still holding his arm. “Can you stand?” she asked.

  He struggled to his feet with her help. Arteura tugged at the hem of her undershirt and tore off a wide swath of cloth, balling it up and offering it to her brother to stem the slowing flow from his nose.

  “Let’s get you to the Mihtcarr and wash off that blood. The water will probably feel good anyway. I am so, so sorry, Marcus.”

  She quickly untied her waist belt and gathered up both of their swords. She prompted Marcus to take off his now bloodied guardsman’s uniform, wrapping it with her own and securing them and the weapons in their hiding places amid the tangled roots of a fallen tree.

  Then, she returned and gently laid an arm around her brother’s shoulder, turning him in the direction of home, down the path and through the forest.

  “I dod’t know ib I wadda fight you adymore,” he said as they walked. His eyes still watered and his lip quivered. Sometimes it was easy for Arteura to forget that her little brother was still not yet in his teens.

  She squeezed his slumped shoulder.

  “I know,” she answered calmly. “I understand, and I’m sorry, Marcus. It won’t happen again. I don’t know what came over me. I guess I assumed you would keep going away from me, but instead you turned, right when I punched.”

  “Yeah,” he moaned, stopping and facing her. “You pudged me.”

  “Yes, that’s what I mean,” she said with a nod, prompting him to continue walking. “And you’re right. We’re supposed to be sword-fighting, not brawling. It won’t happen again.”

  “Promid?”

  “Promid,” she answered, smiling, mimicking his stunted speech.

  “Dod’t be fuddy.” He frowned. “Dis hurts.”

  “I know,” she said, suppressing a further laugh. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  They came to the pool at the base of the Mihtcarr. Arteura shuddered as she looked at the odd face above them; it was supposedly the face of a god that determined the fate of the entire Empire. The scenery should have been beautiful. The waterfall fell like a bridal veil, and the foliage was lush and deep green. It all should have been serene and peaceful. Instead, there was something she just couldn’t overcome. It was the smell permeating the place, an odd and foul mixture of moss, earth, damp foliage, and death. The smell of decay was faint, but everywhere: dead leaves, dead moss, and just death in general—including Tristan.

  She turned her back on it and tore off another swath of her undershirt. She reached to dip it into the water and a tingling sensation, like a faint electric current, raced up her arm. She flinche
d, pulling her hand away, and the sensation faded. Curious, and more than a little intimidated, she set down the cloth and gently placed her hand over the water. It felt like resting her palm on the soft fuzz of a spring bloom. She touched the surface. The sensation returned then faded as her palm began to warm where it made contact with the water. Slowly, she sank her hand beneath. The warmth enveloped her fingers, her knuckles, and up her arm, like a glove. She pulled her hand out again, and again the feeling receded. She reached for the cloth and soaked it in the water. The feeling returned, and she could actually feel it weaving its way into the dripping cloth.

  Sigquaya.

  She indeed had the gift. She could sense it, as if the water wanted to do her will, wanted to heal, despite the aura of death surrounding her there. Or, maybe it was precisely because of it.

  “Like water, Sigquaya’s basic essence is to heal,” her mother had said. “To fill, to nurture, and soothe. It is a life-giving power that longs to be poured out.”

  She remembered the conversation all those years ago, asking about Sigquaya, asking how her mother did it, asking if she too had that power. She had forgotten the topic over time, as life and the struggles of her family and the Empire had taken their toll. But now? Now she knew.

  And, like her mother, she had no idea what it was or how it worked. But there it was, coursing through the cloth she held and pulsing through her hand, racing up her arm, and igniting her mind.

  She squeezed the water through her fingers, reveling now in the sensation that, moments ago, had filled her with a twinge of fear. She turned and gently applied the cloth to her brother’s nose. Immediately she felt the warmth flowing from her hand, through the cloth, and into her brother’s wound.

  “Whad’s dat?” he asked. “Dat feels fuddy.”

  “Of course it does, silly,” she said, dodging his question. “Your nose is broken.”

  “No, I mean it’s—it’s . . .” He flinched back. “What are you—”

  “Shut up and let me finish.” She eased him back. “I’m not doing anything but wiping off your nose. You don’t want Mother to see all this blood, do you?”

  “Umm, no.”

  “Me either. Now hold still.”