original sword.
“Go to the blood pool and again dip your ‘brush,’” he ordered. “Then return to me.”
As the boy again dipped his sword into the blood, the master waved one arm. The crude, bloody painting sitting on the easel rose into the air and flew to the far side of the room to land on the floor. The second blank canvas then levitated to take the place of the first one. The boy returned with his bloody sword and stood before the fresh canvas.
“This time I want you to call on your gift ofK’Shari, ” the master said. “I know that the sword is cumbersome, but wield it as best you can. Use it like a great paintbrush and again try to fashion my portrait.” Standing back a bit, the master clasped his hands before him and he waited.
The boy called on his new gift. As it came, he felt his blood tingle, telling him that its arrival was a matter of letting it rise to overtake his senses rather than trying to summon it from his blood. As it came, he surrendered to it willingly. Soon his sword blade glowed azure beneath the blood.
Again the boy painted his master’s portrait, and this time the result was far different. As he used the sword, his movements became more abandoned, his strokes surer and more unthinking. Soon he was wielding the sword as it was intended, using great, swinging strokes and stabbing lunges as he cast the bloody “paint” onto the canvas. Exhausted, the boy finally stopped, then stood back from the easel and lowered the bloody sword. What he saw astonished even him.
The once blank canvas now held a perfect image of his master, fashioned from the blood of the bull. Every nuance of the faceless one had been captured, right down to the haunting feeling the boy always experienced when looking into the empty hood. Coming nearer, the master laid one hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Excellent,” he said. “I could not have hoped for more. Can you tell me the object of today’s lesson?”
All that the boy could say was to repeat his earlier answer about being the wrong person using the wrong tool. The master’s hood shook to and fro, telling him he was wrong.
“There is far more to it than that,” he said. “Because the answer is unusually elusive, this time I will tell you, rather than force you to search for it. As I said before, you are a martial artist, not a painter. Your task in this world is to take life, not to create beauty. When you summon your gift, wield your sword like a paintbrush, and your death-dealing will be as flawless in its own way as the portrait that you just created. Use your sword like a paintbrush, my young charge, and every stroke of your deadly art will be perfect. As it is now, your sword will again become bloodied, but no enemy will defeat you.”
“I understand,” the boy said quietly. Lifting the sword before his face, he looked at the drying blood that still lay on it. How long will it be before my sword blade drips with human blood? he wondered.
“And the bull?” he asked, turning to look into the dark hood. “Why did you have me slaughter the bull when red paint would have done as well?”
“Would it have?” the master asked. “I think not. I asked you to kill the bull so that your ‘paint’ would be more meaningful in the context of your lesson. Blood is the source from which all our endowed gifts flow-there is nothing else like it in the world. I wanted its warmth and texture to flow onto your hands so that you might understand how it will feel in battle, and what it means to kill. Slaughtering the bull served another purpose. Sacrificing the strongest and proudest animal in creation takes heart. It will be that same great sense of heart that will see you through your most challenging battles.”
The boy nodded. “Thank you for the lesson.”
“It is I who will one day be thanking you,” the faceless one said.
No sooner had the master spoken than the boy heard a voice tugging at his mind. It was a woman’s voice, he soon realized, coming from somewhere far away. His master was suddenly gone, as were the dead bull, the blood, and the two canvases. As he felt his consciousness slipping away, the voice grew louder and more insistent.
“Vespasian,” the somehow familiar voice called out from everywhere, nowhere. “Vespasian… Vespasian…”
VESPASIAN AWOKE FROM HIS DAY TERROR WITH A GASP. AShe came around, he found himself lying on his bed in his private tent chambers. Persephone and Lucius sat by his side, worried expressions on their faces. He had been stripped of his dress armor and lay clothed only in a silk robe. Exhausted, pale, and bathed in sweat, he looked at them weakly. Then he remembered what had happened, and panic threatened to seize him anew.
Lucius and I, he thought. On our way to the front…the chariot…the rows of tortured katsugai mosota…I fainted…
When he again looked into Lucius’ worried face, he knew. More than just he and Persephone now understood his terrible secret. He had unwittingly drawn his best friend and greatest tribune into his lie, and for that he would be eternally sorry. Not for himself, he realized, but for his dear friend who would also be forced to carry this heavy burden of secrecy and intrigue.
After trying to smile at Persephone, he again looked at Lucius. Lucius bent down and clasped his forearm to Vespasian’s as one legionnaire to another.
“I’m here, my friend,” he said. “Persephone told me all about it. Your secret is safe with me.”
Vespasian was about to answer when Gracchus’ booming voice was heard just outside the entrance to the emperor’s chambers.
“I don’t care whether the empress left orders not to be disturbed, you fools!” he shouted at the two centurions standing guard. “There’s been a report that the emperor has been taken ill, and I demand to see him! Stand aside or there will be two more sudden deaths to add to the legions’ casualty lists!”
Gracchus burst into the tent and immediately rushed to Vespasian’s bed. Remembering her promise to Vespasian that his secret be kept from thePon Q’tar at all costs, Persephone angrily leapt to her feet and confronted the cleric.
“How dare your enter our private quarters without permission!” she shouted. “I could have you shackled for this intrusion!”
Without responding, Gracchus stopped and looked over Persephone’s shoulder at Vespasian. He then projected a commanding gaze toward the empress that rattled even her.
“Don’t pretend with me, Persephone,” he said sternly. “Besides, the chains have yet to be forged that could hold me, and we both know it.” The lead cleric cast another quick glance at the stricken emperor.
“He has suffered an unconscious terror, hasn’t he?” Gracchus demanded. “You may calm yourself, Empress, for they were expected. So, at long last they have come-and not a day too soon, I might add! Your husband isn’t about to die, nor is he ill. Tell me-how many terrors has he suffered?”
Unsure what to say, Persephone looked at Vespasian. Realizing that Gracchus somehow understood what was happening, Vespasian nodded his consent.
“This was the third,” Persephone answered angrily. “What is happening to him? Explain yourself, cleric! I demand to hear what you know of this!”
Ignoring her pleas, Gracchus brushed past her and hurried to Vespasian’s side. Sitting down beside Lucius, he reached out to take Vespasian’s free hand. The emperor’s skin felt cold and lifeless.
“What is wrong with me?” Vespasian whispered. “Am I going mad?”
Gracchus smiled and stroked Vespasian’s brow. “No, my liege,” he answered. “You are anything but mad. Your blood has finally matured to its fullest, and some wondrous gifts that you didn’t know you owned are calling out to your mind, begging to be used. That’s why the terrors have come-they are the signs that I have been waiting for. Trust me when I say that despite your fears, all is well. Tell me of your dream.”
“I slaughtered a bull,” Vespasian said weakly. “I used his blood to paint two portraits…I was but a young boy…”
“Ah, yes,” Gracchus answered. “I remember.”
Reaching out, Vespasian seized Gracchus’ white and burgundy robe and pulled the cleric nearer. “How could you possibly remembermy dream?” he shouted.
Calling the craft, Gracchus gently freed his robe from Vespasian’s grasp. “Because I was there,” he answered. “Your day terror was no dream, Vespasian. It was real-they all were.”
Vespasian slumped back down on the bed. “Can you make them stop?” he begged. “I fear that they will tear my mind apart!”
Shaking his head, Gracchus smiled again. “Only you can make them stop,” he answered.
