Blackveil (35 page)
Among those who surrounded her was Brienne Quinn of the tombs. What was she doing above ground? Had she been transferred? No, she wore her fur-lined cloak that helped keep her warm in the subterranean world of the tombs, indicating she’d recently come above.
“Where are we going?” Karigan asked her. “What are we doing?”
“All will be revealed shortly,” Brienne replied.
Was that a fleeting smile from the Weapon? If so, Karigan was not terribly reassured.
It was hard to see around her wall of broad-shouldered escorts, but she sensed people scrambling out of the way as the formation swept through the corridors. She could well imagine herself doing the same if she were in their shoes.
Eventually they entered a large chamber and came to a halt. She’d been here before. The room was ornamented with statues of stern warriors carved from black onyx and somber black banners hanging on the walls. Tables were set in precise rows. The first time she’d been here she’d assumed it to be a meeting and dining hall of the Weapons, and seeing the place again did nothing to change her mind.
Maybe a dozen other Weapons awaited them there, and unnervingly they formed into one large circle around her.
“What—” she began.
Fastion gestured her to be silent, but in her mind she screamed in frustration, wanting to know what this was all about.
Yet another Weapon stepped between Fastion and Brienne to enter the circle. Karigan gasped in astonishment, for it was Colin Dovekey, who was not only one of the king’s primary advisors, but chief of the Weapons, having come to that position after serving as a Weapon since his youth.
“Greetings, sister-at-arms,” he said.
She’d been called such before by Fastion, Brienne, and some of the others, but it was somehow shocking to hear it from Colin.
“Your forthcoming journey is known to us all and we have decided we do not wish for you to enter that dark place without something of the Black Shields. Donal?”
The Weapon Donal stepped into the circle, halting beside Colin. In his hands he held a shaft of burnished black wood that looked like a country walking cane one would use for leisurely rambles along wooded paths and up scenic hills. She was surprised they would present her with so innocuous a gift, but perhaps they thought that without her horse she’d need the support of a walking cane to make it through the forest.
Colin must have perceived her underwhelmed impression for he said, “Do not be deceived by appearances.”
Suddenly Donal was in motion, the cane blurring through the air in patterns faster than her eyes could follow, the shaft of wood humming. All the other Weapons remained absolutely still, but when the cane inexplicably extended to twice its length without Donal pausing his dance, and the iron tip whistled within inches of her chin, over her head, and past her ear, she wanted to scream and run.
Then Donal stopped, became totally still, the tip of the cane-turned-staff a hairsbreadth before her nose. She went cross-eyed staring at it. She closed her mouth when she realized it was hanging open.
Donal withdrew the staff and held it horizontally before him so she might examine it. “See here,” he said. “It’s really a clever piece of work.” He touched an almost indiscernible protrusion just beneath the crook of the handle and jerked the staff. The shaft retracted to its original length. He pressed the protrusion again, thrust the cane outward, and the shaft extended into a staff once again.
“Motion, weights, and counterweights allow you to lengthen or retract it,” Donal explained. “The weights make it well balanced for fighting.”
He passed it to her. The wood was smooth and cool in her hands. Donal was right, it balanced well and felt strong and sturdy enough for a fight, but not too heavy to carry on a walking journey. The handle appeared to have a steel core wrapped in leather. This alone could prove a devastating weapon against an opponent. The only ornamentation was a shield carved into the shaft just below the handle, black against black, the symbol of the Weapons.
“With this staff,” Colin said, “you will represent us in the forest. Since our founding, we have fought against everything that is Blackveil Forest, yet none of us will be journeying into the heart of that ancient evil. Only through you, with this staff, may we remind those dark powers we’re still here and await the day of reckoning.”
Karigan’s mouth went dry. She was doing
what?
Representing
who?
what?
Representing
who?
“Now give it a try, won’t you?”
“Uh ...”
“The trigger is here,” Donal said, “next to your thumb.”
She pressed it and felt something release.
“Now jerk it back,” Donal said.
She did so and the shaft retracted so smoothly she felt only a subtle change of balance with the moving weights and heard a snick as it locked into place.
She pressed the trigger and shook the shaft out to staff length again. She was so delighted with it she continued to play with it almost forgetting her stern audience and Colin’s words of just moments ago.
“It’s like magic,” she said.
She perceived a stiffening in the attitude of the Weapons surrounding her.
Oops,
she thought. They were very uncomfortable with the topic of magic.
Oops,
she thought. They were very uncomfortable with the topic of magic.
“Not magic,” Donal said, “but craftsmanship. It was made by one of our own who has a knack for figuring out how things work. He studies constantly all our library and archives have to offer on the making of everything from buildings to ships, as well as smaller objects like your staff. However, it is not just the mechanism within it that makes it special, but also the wood. It is bonewood.”
“Bone ... ?” Karigan almost dropped it.
“Bone
wood,
” Donal said. “Not bone.”
wood,
” Donal said. “Not bone.”
“It is rare,” Colin explained. “A member of the oak family, and very strong. It is called bonewood by us because the only place we know that it grows is in our cemetery at the Forge.”
“The Forge?”
“Our academy on Breaker Island, or as the locals call it, Black Shield Island. The academy has become known as the Forge because it is where we forge Weapons out of mere warriors, if you take my meaning.”
Karigan did, and it was just the grim sort of wordplay she’d expect from Weapons.
“Many among us choose to retire to the island and teach, or to be of use in other capacities, such as Geron, who made your staff. When they pass on, they are buried there. Even those of us who do not end our days at the Forge may choose to be interred there.”
Karigan knew she was hearing details few outside of the Weapons were privy to.
“May I?” Colin asked, holding his hands out for the staff. Karigan did not hesitate to pass it to him. Colin ran his fingers over the shaft and gazed at it with a discerning eye. “The oaks grow straight and strong right out of the graves. Some believe that the bones of our dead are cradled in the roots, hence the name bonewood. The trees grow from strength into strength.
“No one knows where the first seedling came from or who among the earliest of Weapons brought it to the island, but legend holds the wood deflects evil intent. Dark magic.”
There was an almost collective shudder that ran through the circle of Weapons.
Colin shook the staff so it snapped back into the cane. “Recently, with the breach in the D’Yer Wall, we’ve taken to collecting deadfall from the bonewood trees. This staff is made from a limb struck down two winters ago in a storm, and it is the first of its kind. We may have others made in due course. In the meantime, we keep a bit of bonewood close to our hearts, as our predecessors did hundreds of years ago.”
Donal peeled back his leather jerkin to reveal a badge in the shape of a plain black shield pinned onto his shirt just above his heart.
“Whether or not the efficacy of the bonewood is true,” Colin continued, “we honor tradition.” He handed the staff back to Karigan. “Use it well, and may it protect you.”
“Thank you,” she said, now overwhelmed. It was as much the immensity of the Weapons revealing so much to her as the gift itself that awed her.
Colin nodded and turned as though to leave.
“There’s just one problem,” she said.
He paused. “Yes?”
“I’ve had very little training in staff fighting.”
“Oh, Donal will take care of that.”
THREE LETTERS
D
onal immediately set about taking care of “that,” much to Karigan’s chagrin, and with marked enthusiasm. He instructed his fellow Weapons to move tables out of the way so he could begin work with Karigan right then in their dining hall. Someone fetched Donal’s staff, and when he had it in hand he said to her, “We do not have much time before you leave. Therefore we begin now.”
onal immediately set about taking care of “that,” much to Karigan’s chagrin, and with marked enthusiasm. He instructed his fellow Weapons to move tables out of the way so he could begin work with Karigan right then in their dining hall. Someone fetched Donal’s staff, and when he had it in hand he said to her, “We do not have much time before you leave. Therefore we begin now.”
Several Weapons remained to watch while others, including Colin, excused themselves and returned to duty. The solemn, quiet presence of the watchers unnerved Karigan. Better the heckling she received on the practice field when at sword practice than this sepulchral attention.
Donal led her through several exercises, demonstrating with his own staff so she could get a feel for handling hers.
“The staff is a discipline unto itself,” Donal said, “though you will find like the sword, true masters make an art of it using many forms and movements. Unfortunately we do not have time to make you a master, so we shall settle for competency.”
That evening he showed her many defensive techniques. He played attacker, at first moving slowly so she could learn each move, then increasing his speed and power. Time after time, his staff blurred through the air and his feet glided over the flagstones, he pushed her back and back into the wall or a table. Time after time he knocked her staff out of her hands and sent it clattering to the floor.
Once when he got past her defenses and jabbed her in the stomach with the butt of his staff, she went staggering away, doubled over and retching. It was a good thing, she thought in retrospect, she’d not yet had supper.
“I will not do that to you again,” Donal said, “but I want you to remember what happens when you do not pay attention.”
Karigan could have sworn she was paying attention, but when she could stand straight and breathe again, he showed her in detail where she’d gone wrong. It turned out she’d been paying attention to his staff when she should have been watching his hands.
She discovered, as they continued with the exercises, staff fighting could take on a rhythm very like a sword bout and some of the techniques were not so very different.
When Donal finally called it a night, he ordered her to come back the next evening at the same hour to continue training. She returned to the Rider wing at half past seven hour, hair clinging to her sweaty brow and clothes damp. She was bruised all over and three fingers on her left hand were swollen and stiff. Her new staff, she noted, was entirely unscathed. It suffered not a scratch, chip, or dent. It was evidence, she supposed of the strength of the bonewood oak.
Lured by the sounds of chatter and laughter, she bypassed her own chamber and headed down the corridor to the common room, thinking maybe she’d get some sympathy from her friends. She found the room full of Riders playing card games and tossing dice, gossiping, or just lounging in front of the fire. A couple were engaged in horseplay. Most of these were the young, new Riders. She hadn’t had a chance to learn all their names yet, and it occurred to her maybe she never would with her journey to Blackveil fast approaching.
At one end of the long table in the center of the room sat Mara and Yates, as well as Elgin Foxsmith. They glanced up at her approach.
“Someone decide you were too old and frail to walk without a cane?” Yates asked, a smirk on his face.
Karigan considered giving him a good whack with it. “I have been hard at work while all of you have been loafing about here.” To her disappointment, her pronouncement aroused no sympathy. She stood there pointedly waiting for someone to offer her a chair, but no one took the hint. It appeared in addition to being unsympathetic to her condition, her knighthood, as usual, failed to elicit special treatment from her friends.
Other books
Passage by Connie Willis
The Masterpiece (Work of Art #3) by Ruth Clampett
Riding the Snake (1998) by Cannell, Stephen
Moonlit Feathers by Sarah Mäkelä
Enforcer Ensnared by Elizabeth Lapthorne
Desire in the Arctic by Hoff, Stacy
Saving Alexander by Mac Nicol, Susan
The Journey by Hahn, Jan
Blue Movie by Terry Southern