Pilgrims never came this way anymore. That practice was older than the mosuoes, even the temple itself, and it was finished. The Gods were either dead or so concerned with their own private squabbles that they had little time left to answer prayers. Heroes rode the Great Beasts now as steeds instead of killing them and battled against opponents neither the mosuoes nor most of their students would ever see.
The Shadow Trolls– the thrice-cursed Vanir– even current allies like the Brotherhood of the Storm, had provided a quality of sport far outmatching any found in dusty tales.
There had been rumors of a war in the offing. She’d heard the eager chatter around her father’s table whenever her older brothers and sisters returned from their questing.
The words “Bifrost” and ”Heliopolis” came up often but Sekadi had no idea what they meant. She did take note of the strange pall that always came over her father once a sibling had gone.
Hiding in his weapons chest she’d witnessed with her own eyes an actual tear fall from one of his eyes. The sight was so unsettling to her that she’d gasped aloud, alerting him to her presence. He’d punished her for her eavesdropping with a lightning fast cuff to the cheek.
“Stealth is for cowards,” he’d said as he helped her up. Her father favored the old ways. He didn’t believe in shadow cloaks or spell scrolls or anything but the warrior’s own skill. She doubted he’d ever learned to cast a single battle charm.
Still, it hadn’t been much of a blow. She’d taken worse from her playfellows and laughed. Indeed, she’d handed out worse beatings more times than she could count. It was as if her father’s heart hadn’t been in it.
His reticence puzzled her.
She had been even more perplexed when he’d trundled her off to the Temple of the Ochre Blade for “traditional” martial training. If they really were going to war, she should have been sent to Battle School like idiot cousin Lebo, her siblings and all the other young nobles of her age.
Learning to conjure thunderbolts in freefall or to turn the fiery breath of an enemy’s dragon back on itself was what she needed, not lessons in the use of oversized carving knives. But father was father and his word was her work. Off she went.
“Sekadi?” said a voice below her.
She looked down from her perch, a thin shelf of rock that jutted out from the mountainside. She liked it for the view it gave her of the temple grounds and also because so few of her fellow students would attempt the climb.
The voice belonged to Kalefo, of course. The little tyro had taken to tracking her whenever he had a free moment, which, apparently, was whenever she had one. He looked like a battle sprite standing there in his white tunic and leggings. His eyes were glittery saucers and his mouth was full of questions.
Sekadi sighed.
Kalefo was harmless enough in his way, sort of like a zhor cub; all arms and legs and teeth. He just hadn’t learned yet to take a hint.
Mostly she tolerated his following and his incessant questions– Why did you hit me, Sekadi? Why don’t you like the crescent blade, Sekadi? How many times did you get scullery duty this week, Sekadi? - and on and on. Today, just now, she had things on her mind, and no time for little boys who could barely heft a sword.
“What do you want, Kalefo,” she said, not caring.
“Did you know that Mosuoe Imani is older than Shango’s Gate?” he said in that high-pitched lilt of his.
“I’m busy, Kalefo,” she said.
“I told Koyotae,” said Kalefo, ignoring her. “But he said I was either stupid or a liar.”
“He struck you, I suppose,” said Sekadi. Koyotae was somewhat less tolerant of Kalefo’s endless dissertations.
Kalefo nodded. “Many times,” he said.
“Good,” said Sekadi. “Go and tell him that Mosuoe Selemeng keeps a pixie in her weapons cabinet. Perhaps he’ll kill you.”
“What are you doing, Sekadi?” said Kalefo.
Sekadi’s hand strayed to a small stone that sat beside her on the ledge. It was jagged on one side and fit her hand perfectly. At the right velocity the stone’s impact against Kalefo’s forehead might knock him cold. She seriously considered testing her theory but the little novice’s question was still in the way.
What was she doing?
She’d been at the temple for months now. She knew its layout as well as she knew her own palm print. Yet she’d been sitting on her perch for hours– since just after her third release from the healer’s chambers– missing meals and classes, staring at each of the buildings in succession as if they were the most interesting and unusual structures in the world.
For the last while she’d been particularly focused upon the Mosuoe’s cloisters. She’d watched the big male and Mosuoe Nemisa enter but neither had, as yet, emerged.
Sekadi returned the stone to its original place and said, “What does Mosuoe Ibeji say is the first step to beating an opponent?”
“Um,” said Kalefo. “Pike to the throat?”
“No, idiot,” said Sekadi, hoping down from her high roost. “The first step to defeating an opponent is knowing him.”
As the horizon devoured the last of sun, the temple walls, normally a sandy white, seemed suddenly drenched in blood. Sekadi took it as an omen of her mission’s success.
The big male– shards, she hated having to call him that– was still somewhere inside the Mosuoe’s cloisters either alone or with Nemisa. There was something between them; that was clear. Sekadi was suddenly sure that, if she could find out what it was, who he was, she would be able to best him at last.
Stealth might be for cowards but it
