When she was sure he wasn’t coming back, Sekadi stole into the cloisters through the single open archway.
There were tales among the novices that the Mosuoe’s cloisters contained forbidden weapons, exotic hidden traps, even the imprisoned soul of the last surviving god. Instead Sekadi found herself creeping though bland clay corridors adorned only with simple torches. Silk draperies hung over every occasional door, their colors corresponding to those of the robes of each Mosuoe.
The absolute silence of the place made Sekadi’s hackles rise– not in fear but in anticipation of victory.
Sekadi had once heard Mosuoe Nemisa make reference to the fact that her personal quarters were on the western corner of the second floor. Casting around she was gratified to find a small staircase at the far end of the hall.
* * *
The second floor was much like the first– a long corridor with silk draperies on one side denoting entrances to several rooms. Sekadi crept past each in turn taking care that their occupants, if any, noted nothing more from her passing than the tiniest stray breeze.
Eventually she stood beside the entrance to Mosuoe Nemisa’s room. Only then did she realize she had not thought things through. What could she do now? Not burst in on Nemisa and the big male. Not stand here, exposed to the sight of any master who might enter the hall.
If stealth was for cowards, what was retreat?
Sekadi glanced up and noticed for the first time the great wooden beams supporting the cloisters’ roof and which ran the length of the hall. From outside it seemed that the roof’s inner surface was flush with the support beams but, now that she was close enough, she could see that there was some space between. There wasn’t much but maybe...
Sekadi dropped into a crouch and sprang upward, her powerful fingers finding instant purchase on the beam’s top edge. The only sound was that of the fabric of her tunic and leggings rubbing against each other.
When she was small her father had delighted in her natural acrobatic skill, calling her 'little tree-cat' and sometimes 'birdcatcher.'
“One day that speed will be the death of many warriors,” he would say, laughing his barrel drum laugh. Thoughts of those happy days now went through her like a scythe, making her wince. Her father had changed so much since then, become so distant and sad.
With the grace of the tree-cat whose name she had carried, Sekadi crawled quickly along a crossbeam into the space above Mosuoe Nemisa’s room.
She was grateful that older novices were required to dress entirely in black. It made blending into the shadows above the room so much easier. As she had been trained, Sekadi matched her breath cycle to the ebb and flow of the natural air currents and cautiously peered down.
The room was like Mosuoe Nemisa herself, spare in its appointment but with occasional flourishes. Aside from the utilitarian cot, desk and chair there was a small sculpture depicting an ancient warrior in combat with what seemed to be an enormous snake. There were three swords in wall scabbards as well as one archaic scimitar. The remnant of what had once been a clan banner was draped across one wall but it was too torn and stained for Sekadi to determine which house it represented. Beyond those items, Nemisa’s chamber was bare.
She had barely begun to ponder her next course when she heard a muffled thud from beyond the far wall.
Sekadi moved on along the crossbeam, surprised to find it continued past the interior wall of Nemisa’s chamber and out over something much larger.
She had wondered at the odd layout of the cloisters, why the master’s rooms were so small when the building itself was so large. Now she knew.
The cloister housed a massive sparring room. In fact, it was little more than that. The diminutive living quarters were more of an afterthought.
Sekadi’s eyes went wide as Kalefo’s when she saw Mosuoe’s Ogun and Oshun going at each other with what looked like heavy chains with blades at their tips. Sekadi had never seen such weapons much less watched two of her masters attempt to slice each other to bits with them.
There was something else about their sparring which was different from those Sekadi had previously witnessed. There was no form to their battle, no preset attacks or defenses. The masters and their blades were like liquids flowing into and out of each other. And not one drop of blood was spilled between them.
Oshun’s beauty had turned many a warrior’s head in her youth. Her husband Ogun’s striking figure had been highly prized as well. Now, as they neared dotage, the younger novices made sport of their long union.
“Do you think they ever join anymore?” someone would say.
“Not if they have to look at each other,” somebody would reply.
It was an easy joke. Love and passion were toys of the young, after all. At least the young thought so. Sekadi wondered what would happen to those jibes if her fellows could see masters Oshun and Ogun now.
Their movements were so much less akin to battle and so much more like a sensual dance that Sekadi was momentarily embarrassed to watch.
Her eyes, averted from the first spar, drifted to another corner of the room where she found a more palatable sight.
Mosuoe Nemisa walked in a slow circle around the kneeling form of the big male. He was rigidly holding the position of atonement and, if the tension in his shoulders and triceps was any indication, had been for some time.
Nemisa was speaking to him, Sekadi could hear that much from where she was, but the tone was too soft for her to lift
