After the challenge was delivered, there was very little delay. Sir Derinholt put a few things on his horse, then ca out of the stables with his sword drawn. While he didn’t quite have a murderous glare, his expression was certainly closer to anger than appraising, but Simon was ready for him.
He had his sword out and was dressed in battered leathers. Neither of those was any more impressive than the man who wore them, but Simon didn’t need to see the future to see the white cloak’s blows coming and parry them. At first, he thought the man was taking it easy on him, but after half a minute, and a small crowd had gathered, Simon could see the truth. He just wasn’t very good.
No, that wasn’t fair. It wasn’t that he was bad at swordplay, but that he was too rigid. His forms were too regular, and his attacks too conventional. That, combined with age, made him one of the easiest fights that Simon had experienced in several lives. Nearly everyone he’d fought in mountainous Charia was better than Sir Derinholt.
Still, Simon didn’t embarrass the man. Though he made it a point to go on the offensive hard enough to put the knight on his back foot more than once. Even if he didn’t exactly put his all into it, Simon still made it dramatic and steel rang against steel as the two exchanged blows.
“You show more promise than I would have thought,” the knight grunted. “But experience always trumps youth.”
Simon let the battle linger for another minute, then two, as he considered the possibilities. He could have ended it at any mont. The man left him many openings. The question, though, was not when to end it. Nothing felt right there. He could have tripped the knight; that would have been the kindest answer. Certainly, waiting for him to run out of steam and forfeit only seed to be pissing the knight off.
It took Simon too long to figure out why none of the ways to beat him felt quite right, and the answer was simple, because if he won, then he wasn’t going to get what he wanted. The flash of insight was muddy and not completely clear, but still, he believed it, and instantly, he took a dive. He let the white cloak press him back two steps, then three, then he managed to trip over a spare mucking shovel, and wind up on his ass so it looked convincing.
Even then, Simon could probably have recovered, but he resisted the urge. Instead, he lay there on the flat of his back and dropped his sword in a gesture of surrender. Sir Derinholt didn’t press further. Rather than gloating or nacing, he basked in the applause of the other n who had gathered around to watch the fight. At first, Simon thought that was just vanity, but he quickly realized the man was all but spent, and standing there and smiling benevolently was the most he could manage without gasping for air.
Simon got to his feet and thanked the man for the round. He was very respectful, and even acted a little disappointed, but the witch hunter took pity on him, just as he’d expected he would.
“You did as well as any untrained man might,” the knight said. “You’re a bit old to be a squire, but you may travel with for a ti. We will see if there’s so fine steel in your soul worth training, forging into a weapon or not.”
Simon didn’t have a horse, but he had no problems walking alongside Sir Derinholt for hours, so long as the man didn’t kick his mount into a trot or a gallop. As they walked, they talked. Well, the knight talked mostly. Simon contented himself with listening as the man hinted repeatedly about how he worked for an organization that he was forbidden to speak of.
That night around the fire, Simon even tried to broach things by asking, “I heard that witch hunters can look right through soone and see an evil doer's soul. Is that true?”
The knight agreed that it was, but beyond telling Simon he had a good soul, he offered no additional information. It was all very underwhelming. Simon kept expecting the knight to ask him about his life story, or to test him for the sight, or anything really, but it didn’t happen. This wasn’t the sort of initiation he’d planned for, but Simon still told him a little of his fabricated life story, and gave the man Enis as his na, even though the knight asked for neither.
It’s not like I even let my ti with the Magi get my hopes up, he reminded himself. His first initiation into the whitecloaks had been very cloak-and-dagger. It had required years of study and clues that led to a nonexistent holiday. Compared to that, this was nothing.
But then, he’s not recruiting into the order, Simon reminded himself. He’s just letting tag along.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on .
After the second day, Simon started to despair at this choice. All they were doing was the sa thing that he’d been doing before, wandering the roads like a knight errant, looking for trouble. The difference this ti was that now Sir Derinholt saw fit to order him around for the most trivial things.
That’s what squires are for, Simon reminded himself as he helped the man take off his armor that second evening before going to fetch water and firewood.
For a few days more, he allowed himself to believe that this might be so sort of test of humility or aptitude, but the man never once volunteered to train Simon in fighting. He simply put him to work, and Simon quickly realized that this could beco a very nial existence if he let it.
Sotis Sir Derinholt would tell him stories, and other tis Simon would badger him into showing him a bit of swordplay, even if he didn’t really learn anything. The only real benefit of being with this man turned out to be an upgrade to their lodgings.
Alone, Simon had slept rough most nights and ate whatever he could scavenge to save the few coins he had. When traveling with a white cloak, though, doors opened for them everywhere they went. They spent at least one night every week being hosted by so minor country lord.
Each of these n treated the white cloak that Simon accompanied with the utmost deference. As the weeks passed and his sight began to clear up, he often saw the traces of fear in these n. Especially those with so darkness in their soul. A proper witch hunter might have investigated those stains, but Sir Derinholt seed content with a cursory examination of local business before stuffing himself and getting drunk.
It took a while, but Simon eventually realized there was a pattern to his new master’s movents. He traveled from point to point through the countryside to wherever his next hot al was.
Simon stayed deferential in these encounters, but he still tried to point things out to the man who should have been his master without ever quite revealing that he had the sight.
“Didn’t that courtier seem strange to you?” Simon asked after one feast. “I had a bad feeling about him.”
The knight waved off Simon’s concerns. “Leave the judging of souls to and focus on your footwork,” the man chided him.
Just because Sir Derinholt wasn’t concerned about these encounters, though, didn’t an that Simon didn’t do anything. He got into the habit of writing notes and signing them in the witch hunter's na. He would then deliver these to the nobles just before the two of them left the town, encouraging them to surreptitiously look into their n for evidence of corruption. Sotis he would even provide so clues as to what their cris might be, though he had to be careful there. As dense as Sir Derinholt was, Simon knew that eventually they'd make their way back to these places, and he didn't want to leave evidence of just how powerful his sight was lying around to be found.
Had the knight paid attention to anything, he would have probably noticed that too. Unfortunately, he spent most of his life on autopilot.
The part of Brin that stretched between Schwartzenbruck and Liepzen had been very well mapped. He didn’t need to look at a mirror to see it. It was practically etched in his mind. Apparently Sir Derinholt didn’t need to see it either, because he’d morized the whole route. When Simon asked him one day as they moved between towns, he admitted as much.
“All tables are open to warriors who wear the white,” he claid, coming as close as ever to admitting the existence of his order, “But not all tables are created equal. If we are to search this land for evil, then what’s the harm in being well fed while we do so?”
Brin was a big place. It was tens of thousands of square miles, and even if there were only a couple of dozen towns of any size and a bare handful of cities, there were hundreds of villages and hamlets. On the other hand, there were dozens of witch hunters at any given point running around in search of warlocks and other magical threats. They couldn’t be everywhere, but walking the sa routes again and again seed counterproductive.
“But surely off the beaten path we’ll find more monsters and n who need—” Simon insisted, but he was quickly shut down.
“Off the beaten path, you will find only trouble,” the knight insisted. “There’s plenty of evil in the world. Enough that it will find you without much trouble. There’s no reason to go looking for more than your share.”
The answer infuriated Simon, and he would have been happy to drop the subject, but Sir Derinholt wouldn’t let it go. “How do you think I’m still alive after so long?” he bragged, as if cowardice should be a point of pride. “Most of my friends are long dead because they bit off more than they could chew, and they were twice the man that you’ll ever be.”
Simon bore that insult in silence, but only because the washed-up knight had no idea who Simon was. No one did, and he was easily ten tis the man of anyone in the Unspoken; he was probably the only man in the world who knew so much magic and used so little of it, and if he but desired it, he could make the whole world tremble.
That’s for another life, Simon told himself as he lay awake that night in his bedroll under a blanket of stars. I don’t need to be the best in every version. For now, being plain old Enis is good enough, and I’ll show Sir Derinholt exactly what he’s made of, given enough ti.
User Comments
0 comments from readers