CHAPTER XLII
AS THE BOY AWAKENED, HE AGAIN FOUND HIMSELF LYING on a cold stone floor. Something hard lay between him and the stones, biting into his skin and causing him pain. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up. The familiar room was dark, but this time a burning candle in a golden holder stood atop the usual wooden stool. The candle seemed out of place, the boy realized, but it provided some welcome light.
Coming to his feet, he felt an unexpected heaviness clinging to his left hip. He looked down, and what he saw surprised him. A short sword in a tooled leather scabbard lay there. The scabbard was attached to a leather belt cinched around his waist. Reaching down, he grasped the sword hilt and slowly drew the weapon. As the blade came free, it produced a ringing sound.
Holding the sword before the faint candlelight, the boy regarded it carefully. It was at once a beautiful and a terrible thing, and its weight felt good in his hands. Lowering the sword a bit, he ran one finger across the blade to find that it was razor sharp.
Still wondering why he had been given such a magnificent weapon, he slid the sword into its scabbard, then walked to the shabby stool. Taking the candleholder into his hands, he climbed atop the stool to wait in silence for his master to arrive. Although the sword was a mystery, the boy believed that he would have the answer soon.
Unlike the times before, today he was unafraid. During his last training session with the still unidentified master, the boy had lost something but gained far more. His dreaded fear of the faceless man in the hooded robe was gone, replaced by a strange gift that the master calledK’Shari. With the coming of that gift, rather than dread the imminent arrival of his teacher he hungered to learn the object of today’s lesson. He was sure that the sword lying at his hip would be instrumental in his understanding, although he couldn’t imagine how.
The door slowly opened and a shaft of light streamed into the room, hurting the boy’s eyes. This time I will not look away, he resolved, nor will I cover my face with my hands. I will stay strong and look into the light with courage.
The robed figure walked into the room. Saying nothing, he placed his hands into opposite robe sleeves. The boy gazed unafraid into the dark recesses of the empty hood to again see nothing but blackness. This time the sight did not frighten him, and for a time neither student nor master spoke. Finally the hooded master took a step nearer.
“You didn’t shield your eyes from the light this time,” he said. “Did its sudden brightness not hurt them?”
“It did,” the boy answered. “But I now know that keeping my eyes open was needed, despite the pain it brought.”
“And why would that be?” the master asked.
“Because a warrior cannot fight what he cannot see,” the boy answered. “I could not know who was entering the room. The pain caused by the light would surely be less than that of being killed by an unseen enemy.”
“Well done,” the master said. “It is time for your next lesson.” Reaching out, he beckoned the boy to leave the stool and follow him.
The hallway was just as the boy remembered it. Endless and stark white, it held countless doors with golden handles. Saying nothing, the master turned left and started walking. The boy followed willingly, the heaviness of the sword at his side a reminder of its still unexplained presence.
After a long walk the master stopped before a door. He pointed a finger at the golden handle, and it levered downward. The boy and his master entered the room beyond, the door closing behind them with quiet finality. The scene before the boy was surprising. Like the hallway, the room was stark white. Two incongruous things stood before the boy, neither of which made sense to him.
On one side of the room stood a huge white bull. An iron ring was secured through its nostrils, and a chain led from that ring down to another one embedded into the floor. The bull was magnificent. Two wide black horns protruded from the top of his skull, each curving forward to nearly touch the other’s point. His face was broad, his dark eyes wide apart, large, and lustrous. Strong muscles rippled beneath his skin, and as he stood there he turned to look at the boy. Everything about the animal conveyed power, courage, and strength.
On the other side of the room stood a large artist’s easel. The simple wooden tripod was two meters high and one across. It held a stark white canvas, its four sides framed with simple wooden slats. An identical canvas stood propped against one wall. Save for the deep, rhythmic breathing of the great bull, the room was silent. Although the scene was bizarre, the boy did not ask about it, for he knew that the answer would come soon enough.
The master stepped forward to face the boy. The darkness of the hood seemed limitless, all-knowing.
“Slaughter the bull,” the master ordered. “Do not question my order-simply follow it. Draw your gladius and kill the beast with a single stroke across its neck.”
The boy did not hesitate. Reaching down to grasp the sword hilt, he pulled the weapon free with a quickness and economy of movement that he didn’t know he possessed. As the blade appeared, it shone in the bright light of the room. The boy took three steps toward the white bull and raised his sword.
Without hesitation he brought the blade around in a perfect arc, slicing the bull’s throat. At once the arterial spray from the gaping wound showered the boy’s hands and face, but he remained undaunted. The boy again raised his sword, ready to strike again if need be.
The beast screamed in agony, then slumped to the floor on its massive cloven forelegs. As its blood poured onto the floor, the mammoth creature’s hind legs also collapsed, and the bull crashed heavily onto its side. Moments passed as the exsanguination became complete and deep red blood flowed across the floor to approach the boy’s boots. As if it were second nature, the boy started to wipe the sword blade against the simple robe he wore, but the master reached out to stop him.
“No,” the master said. “Do not clean your weapon. Instead, dip it in the warm blood and collect more of it onto the blade.”
Again the boy obeyed. Walking toward the dead bull, he bent down and ran the flat side of his sword as best he could through the growing blood pool. When he lifted the blade, the blood ran freely down the groove and onto his hands. The sight did not deter him.
“Come here,” the master said. “Bring your sword and stand before the easel.”
The boy did as he was told. The stark white canvas was devoid of markings. The master then walked nearer and reached out to touch the bloody sword. At once it shrank to the size of a dagger, its blade still covered with dripping blood.
“Hold the dagger not as you would a weapon, but as you would an artist’s paintbrush,” the master ordered.
The boy scowled, not from a wish to disobey but because he found his master’s words bizarre. Even so, he adjusted the dagger in his grip, awkwardly holding it as best he could the way an artist might hold a brush. To his surprise, the blood no longer ran down the blade, but magically collected near the dagger’s tip.
“Good,” the master said. “Now look at me. Take in my robe, my hands, my faceless hood. Then use the dagger to paint my image on the canvas in blood. Do the best that you can. When you have finished I will comment on your effort.”
Again the boy did as he was told, and to his amazement the blood flowed evenly from the dagger blade onto the canvas, just as paint would from a brush. He did the best he could, but when he was finished the result was unremarkable. Standing back from the canvas, he told the faceless one that he was done.
“A poor likeness of me, is it not?” the master asked. “Do not fret, my young charge. The results were as I expected. Can you tell me why you failed?”
The boy thought for a moment. “The tool was wrong for the task,” he answered.
“True,” the master answered. “But there is more to it. Think. ”
Again the boy pondered the question. “I am the wrong person for the job,” he answered. “I am a warrior, not an artist.”
“Also partly correct,” the master answered. “You are a warrior-that much is true. But because your blood carries the gift ofK’Shari, you are also an artist-amartial artist.”
The master reached out and again touched the bloody blade. At once the dagger morphed back into the
