Chapter 3 #3
“I don’t know.” Fenn glances at the wall clock that hangs over the small refrigerator in the corner.
It’s shaped like a walrus, with whiskers that tremble with each second.
Isre bought it for him. “Regardless of what it means, Elegy Rosyk is now in considerable danger from the Talusar—-and from Rava Vidar, specifically. The Sword believes it’s best for her to have as much protection as she can. ”
Fenn’s dark eyes fix on Theren’s, and Theren understands. The Sword wants Elegy Rosyk to have her own Knight. There’s no protection quite like someone who’s sworn to give their life for yours, after all.
“An oath, once made, can’t be changed. And you’re the only one of us who hasn’t taken his oath yet. The Sword would like you to swear it, not to her, but to Elegy, who those in the know are now calling the Hope of Cedre.”
“When?” Theren asks softly.
“This is an urgent matter,” Fenn says. “You’re to come with me back to Losan tonight, and swear your oath tomorrow afternoon.”
Theren wants to scream.
Tonight.
“He has a year left,” Kesia says hotly. She brings her hand down hard on the table, making Fenn jump a little. “The Sword wants to take that time from him? When she didn’t take it from any of the others?”
“Yes, and what a critical year it would have been,” Fenn says dryly. He looks Theren over. “Judging by that hickey, you were engaged in something very important this evening.”
Theren doesn’t react. He’s learned not to take anything Fenn says personally—-one of the other Knights, Maeve, insists that he doesn’t like anyone except his own parents.
But he’s surprised when Kesia rises to his defense.
“You will not shame my son for savoring what little time he has before signing his life over to the state,” she snaps. “Particularly when your own twentieth year was replete with mischief.”
Fenn looks away. But Theren can’t help but stare at her.
Her eyes are sparkling—-with tears, he thinks, and he’s never seen his mother cry, not even five years ago when his stepfather died and they flew to the planet, to Austra, to scatter his ashes.
But it’s anger, not sorrow, that burns in her stare now.
For the first time, he wonders if she regrets the bargain she made with his future. If she hates it.
“I’ll call your brother,” she says to him. “Is there anyone else you’d like to say goodbye to?”
He thinks of his friends in the library, who he’s kept at a distance, knowing his life as a Knight would take him far away from them; his old friends from school, who he only gets to see every few months, now that everyone is so busy.
He thinks of the expression on Zuza’s face when she said his name.
He wants to walk back to the rare books room and breathe in its familiar smell, wants to steal one last kiss in the stacks, wants to watch a film in his next--door neighbor’s apartment, projected on the wall, wants to try one of the dumplings near the temple.
He wants to remember what this life feels like, before it’s gone.
But there’s no time, no choice, no path other than this one.
“No,” he says. “Just Isre.”
Fenn leaves soon after that, to arrange transport back to Losan. Kesia leaves, too, to find Isre at the noodle shop and to grab a few things for Theren to pack. Theren stands in his kitchen for a long time, watching the seconds pass.
Then he picks up the practice sword by the door, and moves into the center of the apartment.
There’s not enough space to practice in here, not really.
There are fourteen postures for the longsword, according to the Talusar; they practice them in a fluid sequence, as a warm--up or a meditation.
He steps into the middle of that sequence almost without meaning to, the sword held out from his chest, his legs staggered.
The other Knights went through a mere month of training, just enough to keep up the charade that they’re actually bodyguards.
But while the Sword wants to showcase the children of Talusar exiles as a kind of triumph over their enemies, she doesn’t actually trust them to fight for her.
She has her own cadre of soldiers for that.
But Kesia wanted to pass along the knowledge she suffered so much for, and Theren was happy to learn, even if he had to keep the lessons quiet so no one thought he was becoming dangerous.
He shifts the sword up to high guard—-over his head, the blade angled down. Then he swings the sword down, narrowly missing the bed frame, to low guard.
He’s gone through the sequence twice by the time she comes back, tapping on the door to open it. She carries a garment bag by the hanger at the top. Theren has seen it before, in her closet, but he doesn’t know what’s inside it.
She looks at the sword in his hand—-his left hand, always, since he’s almost useless with his right—-and offers him a grim smile.
“I had this made for you,” she says, holding up the garment bag. “It’s modeled after something my father used to wear. I thought you could wear it to swear your oath, to send a message . . . but I’ll understand if you don’t want to be provocative.”
Theren isn’t sure how a suit jacket can be provocative, but he unzips the bag.
Talusar formalwear is like armor. Strict, almost bulky shoulders, a sturdy collar. The design is only provocative in combination with the color: a deep blue with copper detailing at the collar and buttons. Talusar colors.
Theren warms at that, his mother surprising him, thinking of him. He puts the jacket on, and though it’s a little loose in the shoulders—-she always insists he has one last growth spurt left in him, and she won’t be dissuaded—-the rest of it fits.
Kesia sucks in a breath at the sight of him.
“You look so much like your father,” she says.
Theren’s father died long before he was born. Also a soldier, Kesia told him, his body buried under a tree outside of Valla. Most of the time, her grief seems to keep her from speaking about him, so Theren doesn’t know much more.
He hears footsteps on the stairs outside. “Isre’s here.”
“I’ll fill him in,” she says. “Start packing.”
He does, running a fingertip over the framed picture of his stepbrother and stepfather that he keeps on a shelf.
His mother married Harun when Theren was a child, and it took a while to think of him and Isre—-four years younger than Theren and twice as obnoxious—-as his family.
But now it’s hard to imagine a family without them.
He’s just zipping up his bag when Isre walks into the apartment, a troubled set to his mouth.
He’s almost Theren’s height, but narrower through the shoulders.
In the last year, he’s settled into his face, learning to shave the scraggly hairs on his upper lip, to put gel in his hair when it’s wet so the curls don’t turn to frizz.
He’s starting to fill out a little. He’s becoming something, and Theren wishes he could be around to watch it happen.
“Nice jacket,” Isre says. Theren forgot he was wearing it. He looks at himself in the wall mirror, blue--clad, his face wan.
He can’t come up with a response. Isre comes to stand behind him.
“I hate them,” Isre says.
Theren shakes his head. “You don’t hate the Sword of Cedre. And it’s not Fenn’s fault.”
“Solidarity in hatred is one of my jobs as your brother,” Isre says sternly. “You can be mature and above it, but I’m sure as hell not going to be.”
Theren smiles a little, despite himself.
“You’ll still get Imbued after you swear your oath, right? Like you planned?” Isre says. “That way we can talk, even when we’re far apart.”
“Yes,” Theren says firmly.
They make eye contact in the mirror.
“I’m sorry this is happening to you,” Isre says.
Theren waits for the “but,” for the reassurance he’s sure is coming. But it doesn’t. Isre just grips Theren’s arms and lets that simple statement hang between them.