The Summer of the Swordsman

Chapter XX

We were under sail within eight hours and putting distance between ourselves and Hirstad. There were close to fifteen ships in all, and we were to meet Garius' main force the next morning, north of Arna. In three days we'd be attacking Arna, according to Garius. But then Garius didn't know that his main force at that moment was being smashed by the Verhemese fleet under the command of Admiral Lord Soefa and the sovereign, or Northane, of Verheim, Ghurthai ar‑Rus himself.

We didn't know about the disaster heading our way. The day was blazing with sunshine, the ocean was the bright blue of an opal, the sky was dotted with fair‑weather clouds, the spray floating up along our sides sparked rainbows in the sunlight, and Garius was on another ship and out of my sight. My cup was running over.

I love the feel of a good ship beneath me as much as the embrace of a lover. There are some, though, who don't share my delight in the ocean. They were lined up against the railing that day, offering the contents of their stomachs in a libation to the gods of the deep.

The sight was amusing but the smell was not, so I moved away from the rail and into the shade of the mainsail. Kenui was there, too, with an unopened flask of wine before him and a welcoming smile for me. I went to him and sat down, and he offered me the flask. "So you see," he said as though continuing a conversation, "I can drink without getting drunk. But it isn't worth the risk."

He held the flask to the light and then lowered it without drinking. He looked over at me and said, "I will never again have strong drink in this life." He handed me the liquor. "You drink it, Oristides, for it will not poison you." He folded his hands across his stomach and sat back.

The slanting sunlight wasn't kind to him. I could see how old he had become in the years I had known him. He was older than me, older than Sored, and there were pouches at the corners of his mouth and lines beneath his eyes. He caught my expression and smiled briefly.

"That Swordsman," he said, half in a sigh. "We ride together, always we talk of strategy with cavalry. What if this way, what if that way, and how if in such a manner. And then he listens to my answers as though he writes them in his heart." He thumped his chest. "If I had had such a pupil ten years ago... Ah, Oristides, what might have been always poisons the memory, ha?"

I said nothing.

Kenui watched a cloud skim overhead, pushed by the wind. "It will kill you," he said. "Regret sucks the juice out of a man and leaves him bitter and dry like the rind of a lemon. And so do I know it. And I, I who prided myself on my courage once‑‑I have been a coward. Ask of the Swordsman. I have been a fool."

The cloud was gone from our sight; Kenui closed his eyes.

"But Anakreon was the one who said‑‑" I began.

Kenui's black eyes opened again, and his expression was gentler. "Yes, Anakreon told me many things. He and I are very like. But the Swordsman listened to me. He has a heart, that one... No, I who am a great horseman, I rode this grief of mine for ten years. It was killing me, and I did not say, 'Kenui of Shangkyin, this is due only to your own folly and for no other reason. You will not see Shangkyin or the mountains of Sen‑Chiun again. Learn to live and rejoice again.' Do you know, Oristides, that a grief cannot be drowned? I tried to do it, but it was like a corpse drowned and recovered after a week, swollen, stinking and poisonous. For ten years I tried, but no more. It took Anakreon's harsh words and Mourner's kind silences to waken me. Drink up, Oristides." His eyes narrowed in a smile. "And forgive me for a foolish coward."

"Never a coward!" I cried, my throat tight with a sense of foreboding. He sounded like a man about to die. Not like a soldier about go into a dangerous battle, but a man who feels the hand of death on his shoulder and is turning to stare death full in the face.

Now Kenui's hand, resting on my shoulder, shifted and gripped more tightly, as though he were assuring himself of my reality. He said, "In Sen‑Chiun the wind is a great black horse that fills the night sky. Thunder is the sound of its hooves. When I die, perhaps I will be permitted to ride this horse, eh?"

I could think of nothing to say. What, after all, could I answer? So I made some jests and he laughed and motioned toward the flask. I drank. It was very fine wine, lingering within my mouth like the sweet savor of a benediction.

Kenui watched me drink, but he shook his head when I corked the flask and offered it to him. "No," he said. "But I have a request of you: I want you to say you will do it."

Kenui had made few requests in the time I had known him, but an innate sense of caution made me say, "What is it?"

Kenui's new smile eased into his old grin for a moment. "Ever the cautious one," he said. "Do not worry, Oristides. My request is this: tell Quinquius that he must return to Rome. Tell him I said this. He must return after I am dead. He must not be spoiled by regret, as I was. It will ruin him. But tell him to return to the Emperor and ask his forgiveness, and resume his rightful place in life. It is what I should have done. Will you tell him?"

"Why don't you tell him yourself?" I asked.

Kenui shrugged. "He will not listen to me while I am alive. He thinks I am a fool, and I think he is right. But I will influence him more once I am dead. I hope so. Do it. Promise me."

"I promise," I said, thinking that Kenui was a melodramatic idiot and wishing that he hadn't been so morbid. I could see his point, though, and I had been secretly wishing that Kenui and Quinquius would do what Kenui had just said. I'd miss them, but it would be the best for them. For both of them. But as for Kenui dying, why he was just being foolish.