The Summer of the Swordsman

Chapter XXXI

          Time passed, the summer waxed and then waned, and the men of the troop recovered from their wounds. Mourner's leg was completely healed, except for a scar that would fade in time. He spent a good deal of his time with Prince Moryan, engaged in swordcraft or discussion. Sored spent most of his time by the ocean with a fishing pole, and I purchased ink and vellum and practiced my writing and my poetry. I began to write a long poem recounting some of our more dangerous and romantic engagements over the years, and I even brought myself to show it to Mourner and to Hethra, both of whom were kind enough to praise it without laughing, though I think His Highness had a definite twinkle in his eye when he handed the pages back to me.

          Whatever their reaction, I became engrossed in the project, devoting long hours to thoughts of phrase and rhyme, hours spent pacing along the ramparts of the Varan palace, looking out over the ocean. I watched the trading fleets sail into the harbor and remembered our arrival at Ixpultlan in Mexil, when the sea had been as bright as beaten brass beneath our keels, and the pyramids of Tenoctlepec gleamed in the morning sun.

          The past returned to me in peerless clarity, and I found myself remembering tastes and sounds. My pen moved swiftly over the sheets before me, the writing becoming firmer, surer.

** ** **

          One afternoon shortly after Quinquius' return, I was sitting beside the sea walls engrossed in writing and, besides, weighing the choices for our next contract. It had been stormy the night before, and I could see the gulls far below me swooping and squabbling over bits of fish washed up on the rocks. Their wild, lonely cries seemed to help me think; I leaned on the battlement and gazed out over the breakers, my fingers loosely clasping a quill pen, hovering over a blank piece of vellum.

          Words came to me: BUT WAR HAD CALLED US, AND WE DARED NOT PAUSE/ NOR SHRINK FROM ITS COMMAND. It sounded good to me. Grim but noble.

          I stuck my tongue out of the corner of my mouth, bit it, and laboriously spelled out the words‑‑and then jumped and blotted the page as a voice seemed to boom above my head.

          "Aha! So that is what you have been writing all these many days! And do we have a poet in our midst?"

          I turned the pages face down with a shaking hand and reared my head back to meet Prince Moryan's green gaze full‑on. I know my face was flaming and I wanted to kill him at that moment with as much noise and discomfort as I could manage.

          Moryan laughed and said, "But I didn't mean to embarrass you, my good Captain! Who would ever have thought that you were a poet?"

          The words were unfortunate, the laughter more so, and it was doubly unfortunate that he had been standing so silently beside me. My face was still hot, but with rage. I hate eavesdroppers and sneaks, and while I knew Moryan was neither of these, the distasteful impression lingered. No writer likes to have his work read over his shoulder without his permission. There was also the question of a scene I had recently witnessed, one that still rankled in my mind.

          The Swordsman had come to me one day with his usual smile and word of praise, to look over my penmanship. And then, while the praise was still warming me, he told me I did not need any more teaching, only practice, and he laughed at my thunder‑struck expression. "You knew it would happen some time or other," he said. "You were quicker than most of my pupils, though. So: now you are fully literate."

          He had turned to leave, but I said, "Wait," and scribbled furiously, and then handed the sheet to him. He had read what was written there, smiled, and said "You are quite welcome," and tucked the sheet in the pocket of his tunic.