Chapter 15

What had been a formal sitting room, complete with several groupings of sofas and chairs, was now a cleared room. The furniture was stacked at the back end from floor to ceiling and the rugs had been rolled and slid underneath the legs. Dour faces glared down at the cleared space from fading paintings on the wall. Their clothes were oddly ornamental and dated, and the backgrounds were fantastical scenes of crags, canyons, and sinister mountainsides.

The princess was dressed in a man’s britches and a man’s shirt, tucked in somewhat at the waist. Her hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail with a red ribbon the color of arterial blood. She had circles under her eyes that matched her drawn color. Her short sword rested on a serving shelf.

“Arm yourself and prepare,” Borner said, lifting his juntu staff. He was about to say that the time of testing had come when he stopped himself. First, he was no great warrior and second, she already knew why he was there. To the final point, there was no test of skill or ability, this was a matter of determination and endurance. The only problem Borner had now was whether the matter was about his determination or hers.

From the earliest days of his novitiate, Borner had lived with a staff in his hands. The followers of Arimas were expected to be as prepared and independent as possible to allow them to travel. While swords, spears, and bows were frowned upon, seen as being too aggressive for a godly manner, the staff was more than adequate if one mastered the techniques and theory. The staff was meant to be an extension of the body’s space and flexibility. Even in his middle years, Borner began his days with his shod juntu staff, stretching and flexing his body to trace the sphere of influence that surrounded every living being.

His body was strong again and pliable.

Borner did not wait. He made a feint towards her left, unprotected side. Her sword easily deflected his jab and tracked back towards his middle. With his left hand, he brought up the “bottom” of his staff knocked her sword high, leaving him room to swivel up the head of his staff into her stomach.

She gasped at the blow and took a step back, giving herself room to regroup. She brought her sword back into position to protect her middle. Borner was counting beats, waiting to see what sort of attack she would launch when she counterattacked with a series of short swings in random directions that forced him to block in a swinging motion of a two-dimensional circle. As he sought to untwist his hands from the last parry, Salomet attempted a lunge through his defenses. Borner turned to the side and let the sword pass and rapped her wrist with his staff to rebuff her.

She dropped her sword.

“Pick it up,” Borner said.

“You are a prophet, you see the future and where my sword will be,” Salomet said rubbing her wrist.

“No such oracular skill is necessary, O monarch want-to-be,” Borner said. “You broadcast your intentions before you act. You must think faster than your body. You must focus tighter, grip lighter. Let your muscles breathe and your senses expand.”

“O Lady of All, you speak like such a priest, even in battle,” she said, picking up her sword and then backing away.

“Priest or prophet? Consider this, princess. Only the Creator God can take a life,” Borner said. “When you take a life, are you acting in the name of your god or are you playing the god? One is permitted, and one is forbidden.”

“He stole my throne and thus he deserves to die,” Salomet said, swinging her sword with more determination. Borner parried.

“Thrones come and go; kings and queens are ten coppers a clutch,” Borner said. “If all you want is your throne, you will die. If not by the sword of your enemies and your brother will you be stricken, then by the sword of your allies will you be laid low.”

He went on the attack, forcing her to retreat towards the wall. He was relentless. Sensing her dilemma, she redoubled her efforts and stopped his advance. Borner allowed himself to be pushed back two paces.

He continued. “Priests, your priestesses, have been murdered. Do you not care about them? Your friends since childhood have probably been put to death during your exile. Do you not want justice for them? Your people starve and shiver with nightly cold in the streets, do you not want safety for them?”

“I can only give them succor if I have my throne,” Salomet said as she swung too far right, leaving her left side exposed. Borner tapped her ribcage with his shod tip, causing her to cringe in pain. She brought her sword back to bear upon him despite the obvious throbbing.

“Not so,” Borner said, “Even your death can save the stricken and bring vengeance to the aggrieved. In fact, your death may be the better outcome.”

“How dare you!” she yelled, renewing her charge. Borner refocused his attention on her more frenzied attack. He refused to let her see that he was forced to give her charge more attention than before.

“Nothing is ordained,” Borner said. “You are still that snot-nosed, spoilt child playing in the gilded rooms of pillowy innocence. You assume that you are in the right, that your rule is blessed light itself. You claim that your brother and his allies are evil darkness itself; however, you refuse to admit that you are born of the same rot. The same darkness you claim for your brother is in you.”

With his final word, Borner caught the pommel of her sword with his staff and wrested the sword out of her hand. He flung the sword with a great surge of strength. The sword sailed across the room, slicing through an ugly woman’s portrait and sticking into the wall behind it.

Borner held his staff under her chin. “Give me one reason why the Middle Kingdom would not be better off with both you and your brother dead.”