Chapter Thirteen The Second Lesson #2
Master Dothilos started at her question, staring at the reddened patch of mottled skin on his arm.
It had come into sight when he removed his cloak.
For a second, she thought he looked rather sad looking upon it.
But then he hardened, saying quietly, “No, this was someone else. A traitor, someone who tried to destroy me when I was on the cusp of digging myself out of poverty. You see, Lythlet, escaping the cycle of poverty won’t be easy.
Obstacles will pop up at every turn: those above you will try to hobble your ascent and invasion into their territory, all while your peers try to tear you down in jealousy, in a deep desperation to ensure you don’t succeed before they’ve gotten the chance to.
That’s when you’ll have to rely on the very thing I taught you: conviction.
You must steadfastly believe you are on the right track, or you’ll inevitably be pushed and dragged down by everyone else.
But I have a second lesson for you if you’re willing to learn. ”
She leaned forward. “What?”
He smiled. “Always a pleasure having a keen student. Tell me, how did you kill the bugbear today?”
She frowned at the simplicity of the question. “I stabbed it.”
He shook his head. “You stabbed it, but would a single stab from an undernourished woman like you kill a mighty bugbear? Desil might have been able to pull it off with his brute strength, but you’re not him. How did you kill the bugbear?”
She furrowed her brows. She had jumped from the yutrela. “Gravity,” she tried, “speed, velocity, momentum—”
“Mo-men-tum!” he repeated, enunciating every syllable into a divine melody. “The mass of an object multiplied by its velocity, as per the workings of Scholar Rossova, and the most powerful force to have by one’s side. Now, what’s one of the requirements of momentum?”
“I didn’t get to attend school consistently,” she said, sheepishly. “We couldn’t afford it. They might’ve taught this while I was gone.”
“That’s perfectly fine,” he assured her.
“The answer I’m looking for is direction .
Momentum requires one direction of travel.
To leap from the slums into the highborn circles, you’re going to require a tremendous amount of intentional momentum, and you cannot waver for even a split second in your conviction that you deserve what you seek.
A crossbow bolt only has power as long as it’s focused on its target as it zips along from string to prey.
A grand tale like those you used to read must hurtle from beginning to end with a sense of momentum behind every scene.
Would the adventures of Rentavos the Gentleman Thief be half as exciting if he sat down for a very long, pointless cup of tea in the middle of a heist instead of getting on with the story? ”
“Rentavos actually did have many long teatime chats with his confidants in the unabridged versions,” Lythlet corrected modestly. “I always thought those slow, slice-of-life vignettes were charming and cozy.”
“Well, that’s because you had no friends in real life besides Desil, so you wanted to experience camaraderie vicariously through them,” he said bluntly. She shut up at that.
He’s not wrong , she thought sadly.
He went on, undistracted: “From now on, everything you do must induce forward momentum. Anything that hinders you is the devil, and you must exorcise them before they send you spiraling in the wrong direction. Your rage at that bully—use it. Get drunk on it and come back to the next match ready to slaughter a beast with that anger. Think of everyone who has ever belittled and beaten you, and slaughter each and every one of them in your mind.”
“Did the spectators really enjoy watching me kill the cub so cruelly?” she asked quietly. “Had they no pity for it?”
He burst out laughing. “My dear, these people mount the heads of bugbears on their walls and stuff their cubs to showcase their wealth. Pity ? Oh, Lythlet, you have severely overestimated the quality of the spectators. They’re literally folk who choose to spend their weekends watching slumdogs get slaughtered by wild beasts!
No, they have no mercy, nor should you. It may be a fine, noble quality in those storybooks you grew up stealing, but the serpent you call mercy is nothing more than a fairytale notion that sinks its venomous fangs into the young, weakening them to the brutality of the world.
Don’t let lofty ideals poison your cunning, dear girl.
Stubbornly sticking to childish creeds will get you nowhere—learn to cunningly adapt to the world around you instead. ”
One argument floated to the top of her mind, but she left it unvoiced, fearing she’d come across as childish: isn’t one who lives like that no longer in possession of a moral compass but a moral weathervane?
“You needn’t have mercy for the beasts, anyway,” Master Dothilos continued.
“They wouldn’t have any for you. Just like I wouldn’t expect you to have any mercy for those in your past who hurt you.
Why should you? Hate them, despise them, treat them with the contempt they deserve.
I’m not going to implore you to love thy enemy, I’m not one of those barmy reciters of the Poetics—no offense to Desil, of course.
That pure, unfiltered rage you channeled today was a gift to behold, and I want you to hold on to it.
After all, far more satisfying than succeeding despite your naysayers is to succeed in spite of them. ”
“I wonder why the cub suddenly attacked me,” she said, still bothered by what had happened. She circled her finger over the jagged lump in her pocket.
Master Dothilos reached over for a lock of her hair, holding it between them. “Same color,” he murmured, glancing sideways into the arena. His gaze led to the mother bugbear’s corpse being heaved out in chunks.
She paled. “Did it think I was its mother?”
“I doubt so. But perhaps it thought it could play with you the way it usually does. They like to yank on their mother’s fur to get their attention.”
She buried her face in her hands.
“Don’t feel too bad, Lythlet. Those beasties don’t know their own strength, and I don’t doubt you had no choice but to kill it.
” He reached over and raised her chin, guiding her gaze from the ground to the height of the arena, to the now empty seats covered in the glaze of Inejio’s baltascar lights.
“Forget all that. Nothing but inconsequential trivialities. Look at all these seats instead. Stay with me a few more rounds, and you’ll be staring at an arena filled to the brim with people who’ve heard your name.
Those who bid against you, those who doubt you—prove them wrong.
Make them recognize you as a thorn in their side, one they cannot ignore. ”
She could not unsee what he had shown her: the vision of thousands, tens of thousands overflowing the arena, calling her name, cheering, whooping—every soul knowing her, every soul unwittingly contributing to her coffers.
“Consider me a merchant extraordinaire of entertainment, and I’m about to make it possible for you to leave your mark on the canvas of revolution.
You put in your blood, sweat, and tears, and I’ll transform your story into the zigatanos , the spirit of the age,” Master Dothilos promised.
He seemed the type to slip in Vas Terrim words whenever he wanted to show off his prowess.
“The Rose and the Thorn! You may get second billing, but don’t think you’re any lesser for it.
It has more oomph at the end, does it not? ”
She wavered.
“Come, girl, look at me. What’s the matter?”
“I think it’s missing something.” His baritone made it velvet, the syllables rolling off the tongue like golden syrup, but it sounded lackluster when anyone else said it.
He laughed shortly. “Not my best work, you mean to say? But a prickly girl with a spear, none too pleasant to look at—what could fit you better?” He spoke benignly, yet his words were clipped minutely.
Few would notice, but Lythlet had spent enough time around bad-tempered men to recognize one on the brink of losing his.
He’s sensitive to criticism.
“Well,” she said cautiously, tiptoeing around that temper, “the Thorn may suit me, but as you say, am I not more than an ugly, unpleasant girl? I am cunning and I am quick—I am nothing if not a golden bet to make.”
He paused at her words, something new washing over him. “Yes,” he said, nodding slowly, “you’re on to something. The Thorn is too plain, too single-faceted for someone of your caliber. A golden bet to make deserves a royal name, does it not? What say you if we call you the Golden Thorn?”
Lythlet smoothed down her shirt, staring at the bloodstains as she dwelled on it. “The Golden Thorn.” The syllables tumbled out easily; it was no longer his voice alone making it sound dulcet.
Against her will, a smile tugged on her lips.
Grokking her silence, Master Dothilos grinned. “My dear girl, you and I are about to begin something wonderful.”