There’s an old saying—and, very handily, it’s written inside the front cover of one of the many books on fencing that King Paelis kept in his personal library—and it says, The most important fights are never won on skill. This is considered by most master swordsmen to be a bit of a mistranslation, since the whole point of spending a lifetime studying the sword is precisely that: to develop your skill until you’re unbeatable.
Some have argued that the quote is missing a word, like “alone”: as in, The most important fights are never won on skill alone. I’m sure this would be enormously reassuring to swordmasters everywhere, but I’m afraid it’s simply not true.
Kest and I used to sit and stare at that quotation for hours on end, trying to figure out what it really meant. Did the author truly believe that a combination of greater strength and speed and a longer reach—all of which are obviously hugely important factors in sword-fighting—could overcome skill? If so, that was obviously going to do me no good at all, since Shuran was not only stronger and faster than me but he also had several extra inches of reach on me too.
I couldn’t help but keep repeating that quote in my head as Shuran stood before me, his sword in a high guard, waiting to cut off my head. He looked over at Kest, who was still kneeling on the ground. “Well, Saint of Swords, how many moves do you judge it will require me to take your friend’s head off?”
Kest tried to rise to his feet, but instead fell back to his knees, looking for all the world like a bent-backed old man who’d had too much to drink. He looked at Shuran and then at me. “Seven,” he said.
“Seven moves,” Shuran repeated. “What a shame your Tailor betrayed you to those Dashini; they must have done some real damage. Come, Falcio, my friend—how much value do those seven moves really hold for you? Wouldn’t it be better to make it easy on yourself, just for once? Maybe you could sit and make peace with the Gods? Or, if you prefer, I can have the Tailor brought here, and you can kill her for her betrayal. Either way, isn’t it better to enjoy these final moments, just let death come for you?”
“No,” I said.
Shuran looked genuinely confused. “Why not?”
For once in my life I had no ready answer. Even if, by some extremely timely miracle, a very large tree fell out of the sky and landed on Shuran, killing him instantly, I would still lose, for a few hundred yards away a thousand Knights were waiting for us. The battle had already been lost.
The fights that matter most aren’t won on skill.
Then how in all the hells are they won?
I heard footsteps behind me. “Stay back,” I said, assuming it was Valiana or Dariana.
“Well, now, and who’s this then?” Shuran asked, and when I turned my head to see who he was looking at I felt my heart break in my chest. She looked exactly as she had the first time I saw her, with her long dark hair framing her pale face, her otherworldly beauty set off by a long dress made of gauzy material that caught the last feeble rays of sunlight and reflected them like a thousand little stars.
Ethalia.
I reached out to her, but she evaded my touch. She ignored Shuran’s blade too, instead walking past us to stand just a few feet away from him. She clasped her hands in front of her.
“And who are you?” Shuran asked.
“I am the friend in the dark hour,” Ethalia said. “I am the breeze against the burning sun. I am the water, freely given, and the wine, lovingly shared. I am the rest after the battle and the healing after the wound. I am the friend in the dark hour,” she repeated. “And I am here for you, Shuran, son of Caveil.”
Trin ran Aline’s body, with her black heart deep inside Aline’s soul, forward and tilted her head sideways. The vicious wooden frame around Aline’s head listed as she did it. “She’s his whore,” she announced helpfully. “One of those Sisters of Mercy Fucking, I believe they’re called.”
Shuran smiled. “Have you come to offer yourself to me? Have you come to beg for Falcio’s life?”
Of course she has, you bastard. She’s all love and compassion and sacrifice, and she has no idea what she’s doing! “Ethalia, come back to me, very slowly,” I called softly.
She ignored me and kept her focus on Shuran. “I have indeed come to offer myself to you—but not to beg for Falcio’s life.”
Shuran looked at her for a moment, his eyes wide, and then his head went back and he laughed so loudly it filled the whole of the green gauntlet. “Oh, my sweet lady. I am very nearly overwhelmed by your offer. But alas, even I can’t do that to Falcio. Hasn’t he suffered enough?”
“No,” Ethalia said, her voice as calm and quiet as still water, “I wish it were not so, but he needs to suffer just a bit more yet.”
“You stupid bitch,” Dariana said, and stepped forward to grab her, but quick as lightning Shuran brought his blade up and struck Dariana with the flat of the blade, first on one side of her face and then the other.
As she reeled backward, as much from the shock as from the pain, Shuran said, “That is no way to talk to a lady.”
Trin was still looking at Ethalia. “I want to know what the whore wants,” she demanded.
“My offer is simple,” Ethalia said, turning her attention to Trin. “You performed a ritual with the Dashini to make him relive the death of his wife. You were with him in those moments, weren’t you?”
“I was,” Trin said, her lips twisting into a smile that was hideous to my eyes. “It was . . . invigorating. I recall every second; I can still feel every time she was beaten; I can still see every bone breaking, and her flesh coming apart, her teeth falling from her mouth . . . I remember the feel of each of those men’s—”
“You needn’t continue,” Ethalia said. “You’ve made my point.”
“Oh? And what point is that?” Shuran asked. “You said you had an offer.”
“I do.” Ethalia turned to me, her eyes on mine even as she spoke to Shuran. “If you can defeat Falcio in battle you may do to me all those terrible things Duchess Trin felt: every bone breaking, every piece of flesh tearing.”
“Are you mad?” I shouted. “Get out of here! Run!”
But Trin had beaten me to it, for she was already crowing, “We accept!” Her voice was full of excitement and laughter, as if she had just been promised a high treat “What a delight!”
“Very well,” Shuran said. “You have sealed your own fate with this foolishness, my lady.”
“I have,” Ethalia said, her voice full of defiant sorrow. Her eyes went to the big Knight. “My path was that of mercy, until today; my destiny was one of—But I suppose none of that matters now.”
He smiled. “Fret not, my lady. I promise you—”
Ethalia cut him off. “There is nothing you can do for me, Shuran, son of Caveil. You are already dead. I have killed you.”
She left him standing there with his mouth open. As she passed me, she said, “Be merciful, if you can, and when the time comes, make it quick.”
My chest hurt. I couldn’t breathe. I could feel the eighth death coming back. Every sight, every sound, the taste of blood in my mouth, the feeling of—
I opened my eyes and looked at Kest. Save me, I thought. Get up out of that damned circle and save me from this. I can’t do this, Kest. I can’t do it without you. I watched as he strained against an invisible weight heavier than all the guilt he felt inside. He pushed and pushed and pushed, but no matter how hard he fought, still he failed.
It’s time to be brave, Falcio.
When I closed my eyes, my Aline was there, but I still couldn’t work out why she would do this to me again. Don’t make me see this, I begged, not again . . . and then, Why?
Because it’s time you stopped running away.
When? When have I run away? Ever since you died I just keep fighting and fighting and it doesn’t get any better. I’m not running, Aline.
You keep running away from my death and I need you to let it go. You need to see it one more time. You need to let it flow through you. Because the fights that matter aren’t won on skill.
I opened my eyes and looked at Ethalia and all at once I understood. I looked at Kest and I saw that he too knew what had to happen next. Shuran was better than me. He was the second-best swordsman in the world and no matter what I did, he was going to win.
“I do feel genuinely sorry for you, Falcio,” Shuran said as he began to move in lazy circles around me. “You never did a single thing wrong, other than to follow a dream that wasn’t yours, a set of ideals that you didn’t understand and that in the end were never meant to be.”
I thrust both my rapiers out at once, the blade in my right hand feinting toward Shuran’s right eye, hoping he’d parry instinctively and then I could evade his counter and thrust to his neck, while I prepared the blade in my left hand to slash across his armored left leg. I knew the big Knight wouldn’t fall for the thrust to his eye, and the slash would do nothing but produce a few sparks, but sometimes these can draw the opponent’s gaze and give an opening for a thrust to the face.
But Shuran did neither; instead he moved so quickly that with his single broadsword he knocked out first my left rapier and then my right before I’d even worked out what was happening. They fell several feet away from me.
It was a masterful trick—one you would never, ever risk if you had even the slightest concern for your opponent’s skill. Was I really such a pathetic sight?
“That’s one,” he said to Kest. He stood aside for me and gestured to go past. “You should probably pick those up.”
Having no better option, I went and stopped by my swords, waiting for a moment to see if he really was going to let me pick them up.
The Knight-Commander stopped moving for a moment. “Saints, Falcio! You do understand, don’t you? You must know.”
“Know what?” I asked.
“That on your best day—on your very best day—you could never beat me.”
“I do know that,” I said, “and thanks very much for reminding me.”
“Then why all this pretense? Why go through the motions?” He sounded genuinely interested.
“Because, you . . .” I reached for the worst insult I could think of and settled on, “you stupid son-of-a-Saint, I’ve been beaten and tortured and killed eight times. I’m tired and weak. My best friend sits trapped in that stupid circle, despising himself. The daughter of my King is possessed by Trin through magic, which I hate, by the way, and the woman I love has just set herself up to be killed horribly in a manner that I can’t stop replaying in my head, over and over.”
“I don’t understand your point.”
“My point is, you feckless thug, this isn’t my best day. It’s my worst. So I’m going to use it to put you down.”
I retrieved one of the rapiers and reached down for the second. The instant it was in my hand, I threw it at Shuran so that he’d be forced to either duck or bat it out of the way with his blade, leaving an opening for my other rapier to thrust into his groin. He moved, but barely an inch as he reached out and caught the rapier in his gloved left hand while again slamming the flat of his broadsword against the guard of my other weapon and knocking it to the ground. He looked at the blade held in his left hand for a moment, then flipped it in the air and grabbed it by the grip.
“Here,” he said, handing it to me. “I’m absolutely positive you’ll want this.”
I took a step backward and just for a moment, I closed my eyes.
It’s time, Aline said.
I know.
You can’t hide from it.
I won’t. I’m here. I closed my eyes and I saw the light from the lantern hung from the ceiling; I saw the rough wooden tables spaced out across a dirt floor covered in crap. I saw men with rough hands and black hearts, and men in armor, smiling.
I threw myself at Shuran, my blades only barely in line, and he knocked them aside effortlessly, then struck my head with the flat of his sword. I saw stars and cursed at him, swearing like a madman, and he tried to push me back to proper fencing distance, but now I just kept running at him. When he pushed me away, I kicked out at him wildly and I felt my foot connect with something soft. He gave a yelp, his blade whipped out and I felt a cut on my cheek.
“What’s wrong with him?” Trin asked. “Why is he acting like that?”
“I don’t know,” Shuran said, pushing me back. “Perhaps he’s gone mad.”
I threw my right rapier at him, he beat it out of the air with his sword, and as he did I ran in again. He brought his blade around in a smooth arc and struck me in the belly. The bone plates in my greatcoat held, but he knocked the wind out of me.
“Gods of Love and Death,” Trin said suddenly, “I know what he’s doing now.”
“What? Is this some kind of magic?” Shuran asked as he forced the point of my blade down to the ground. I struck out at his face with the elbow of my other arm again, and then again, and twice I connected.
He paid me back by hitting me in the cheek with the pommel of his sword. I felt a tooth break loose.
Trin’s voice was a mixture of shock and fascination. “No, it’s not magic at all. He’s . . . he’s fighting like her. Like his wife—he’s reliving her death.”
You’ve got that right, you fucking lunatic. I spat the tooth as hard as I could into Shuran’s face and it struck him in the eye and he yelled, though more from anger than any pain. Now I stayed in too close for him to use the edge of his sword. He struck me in the side with the pommel of his weapon, and kept doing it and I heard one of my ribs crack, but in exchange I smashed my forehead into his face and I must have hit his bottom teeth because I felt something hard and sharp cut into my skin.
I dropped my other sword on the ground and brawled with Shuran, striking out at him with every part of me: I kicked, I punched, I bit, and while Shuran fought with consummate skill, I fought like an animal. The difference was that he was trying to win—I wasn’t. I didn’t need to. I just needed to keep everyone distracted a little longer.
I screamed, over and over again, with no idea what words were coming out of my mouth, but it didn’t matter. I was there, with her, in that damned tavern with those damned men, and yes, they were going to kill me, but I was going to take with me every piece of them that I could.
Time to be brave, sweetheart. The fights that matter most aren’t won on skill.
Shuran was yelling as well now, for he’d found himself fighting for his life despite his superior strength, despite his matchless speed and his consummate skill.
You brought Aline back, you bastards, and it’s time you met her properly.
And now the Knight-Commander was towering over me, his face red with sweat and blood and rage. He reached down, picked up one of my rapiers and tossed it to me. “Take it,” he growled. “I want you to die with a blade in your hand.” He’d been trying to win elegantly before and that had been his mistake. But he was done with that; now it was going to be about sheer power and speed. Shuran was going to kill me.
But the fights that matter most aren’t won on skill, and I had kept everyone’s eyes on me long enough.
“Kest,” I said, “now.”
And Shuran looked past me to see Kest on his knees inside the circle, his right hand pushing against the invisible wall that separated us as it had since my fight with Shuran had started. The Knight began laughing. “Is that what this was about? All that kicking and screaming? Did you think it would somehow set Kest free? I’m afraid the world doesn’t work that way.”
Kest, still on his knees in the circle, kept pushing slowly with his right hand, trying to reach us. “You’re a master swordsman, Shuran.”
The Knight-Commander raised an eyebrow. “Really, Kest? That’s what you have to say? ‘You’re good’?”
“Better than good—better than Falcio.”
“That much is evident to all concerned, I think.”
I didn’t think he needed to sound quite so sneery.
Kest’s fingertips were shaking and sweat was dripping from all his pores. It looked as if his fingers weren’t getting any closer at all, and yet I knew they were. “You know,” Kest said, “the moment I killed Caveil, his sainthood passed to the next most skilled swordsman in the world. Me.”
“Yes,” Shuran said, “I already knew that.”
Kest’s eyes were far away. I heard a cracking sound and wondered if the bones of his right hand were breaking. “It was like . . . it was as if all the power of a raging river was flowing from inside me. The sensation was . . . intoxicating . . . overwhelming.” His hand was closer now, and I could see it was nearly past the circle.
I tensed, and Shuran noticed and smiled warmly at me. “Ah, ready for our seventh exchange? I believe that will be the last one.”
Kest shook his head, still pushing with all his might. Blood was dripping from his right hand. “Two. There are two movements left.”
Shuran’s expression was confused.
With a last, soul-breaking effort, Kest extended his right arm out, his wrist just past the circle binding him. For just an instant I looked into his eyes and saw tears of sorrow and fear. His lips barely moved as he mouthed the word, “Now.”
I lifted my sword and in a single strike I brought it down against his exposed wrist. The blade cut through skin and muscle and bone, and Kest’s right hand fell to the ground.
“Why . . . why would you do that? How—?”
Shuran’s eyes took on an unnatural color. Red.
“That was one,” Kest growled, gripping his wrist with his remaining hand.
Shuran looked over himself. He was beginning to glow crimson.
“Congratulations, Sir Shuran,” I said. “You’re the new Saint of Swords.”
“I . . . the sensations . . . Gods, I am the Saint of Swords. I can see . . . I can see . . .” Shuran was smiling, an incandescent smile that lit up his face. “I felt that . . . even before you moved, I felt it. I see how every movement of the air—! Kest, you’re right, the sensation is like nothing else. I—”
It was only then that Sir Shuran, Knight-Commander of Aramor, bothered to take note that my rapier was thrust deep into his belly.
“That’s two,” Kest said, and then he fell to the ground.
Shuran looked at me and then at Kest. “He had . . . he gave this up? For you? Why?”
“Because the fights that matter most aren’t won on skill,” I said.
They’re won on sacrifice.