salute.
Kellen copied the gesture, at the same time summoning up his spell-sight. At once there were two separate Belesharons: the living man, overlaid with a web of glowing red showing Kellen how he must strike, and a glowing ghost, indicating how Belesharon might move.
WHACK!
Kellen yelped and jumped back, jarred entirely out of battled-mind in time to see Belesharon step back into ready position. There was a stinging welt on his upper thigh.
“Too slow, Knight-Mage,” the swordmaster commented mildly “Perhaps you still think to spare my old bones.”
Resolving to ignore the peculiar doubling of his spell-sight, Kellen summoned it once again. No matter what else it showed him, it still showed him where to hit.
This time he struck without warning—the match was already begun, after all—but somehow, instead of a clean hit, he missed entirely. Belesharon swayed out of the way at the last moment.
Kellen paid no attention, moving on to the next target, and the next. But instead of one clear possibility, his spell-sight showed him a dozen, forcing him to think, to choose—
Forcing him out of battle-mind. Forcing him to be only Kellen.
Each time he summoned it anew, only to have it stolen away again. He realized as the match wore on that Belesharon could have hit him a dozen times. He realized everyone in the hall knew it too. The best he’d been able to manage had been to stay in the circle.
He began to feel a dull desperate anger.
Because if he couldn’t be good enough, people were going to die.
He fed his anger into his magic, making it his tool. The enemy’s confidence was also a weapon he could use. Once more he summoned up his spell-sight.
Once again the patterns before his eyes were as confusing as before. Kellen ignored them. He reached beyond them, to their source, to the Gods that made the patterns, the Gods who sent both Knight-Mage and Wildmage into the world.
And struck.
There was a gasp and a hiss of steel from outside the practice ring. Kellen realized he had closed his eyes. He opened them.
His wooden blade was pressed against Belesharon’s ribs.
The swordmaster’s blade rested gently against the side of his neck.
The swordmaster withdrew his practice blade.
Kellen stepped back shakily, lowering his own blade. He only hoped he hadn’t struck very hard.
“A most instructive bout, young Kellen,” Belesharon said, bowing with no evidence of discomfort. “Of course, you would have been dead as well, but I think time and practice will remedy that defect. And now, if you will be so good as to don your armor, we shall see how you fare against multiple attackers.”
Belesharon handed his sword to the nearest Master, and turned to go.
Kellen barely remembered in time to bow. He felt as if he’d been running for several leagues. Uphill. Carrying Shalkan.
“This way.” Jermayan stepped into the circle and led him out through the gathered crowd. Half of them were staring at him as if he were a Demon Incarnate, and the other half were talking among themselves in excited whispers, too low for him to catch.
