Yet, to any proficient eye, she bore the suggestive signs of a blademaster. The conspiracies this would admit to the grand hall, Ivory thought, stepping back, nearly slipping on the wetness.
"Balance yourself," Nail commented.
"An easy thing I must have forgotten to do," she quipped.
"It can be." Nail swatted her blade, then grabbed Ivory by the shoulder. "Don't assume this is the only time for this."
Silence.
"I am to continue until I believe your strength is enough for the required defense."
"What about caster defenses?"
"Even as a caster, especially a vested one, casting is a burden rather than a strength. It's time-consuming."
Ivory grasped this—vested casters were usually as weak as ordinary men. Even casting was a tremendously time-consuming process. Thus, the aim was to escape that rank. Not that I should care about either of them, she thought.
Important things remained now. Nail circled her, observing. "Where are you, Your Grace?"
"Here?" Ivory regarded.
"You are lost in distractions. In battle, such things can never exist."
"A future highness must carry an internal battle."
"A future highness must learn balance."
A brief mental ache. Ivory looked away. The side wall, an arched corner, had the lamplight cast in odd patterns, like pillars stacked atop each other—solid. There was a certain ocular spectacle to them, a view that drew one's physical self. The lights.
Ha! She cursed within, feeling herself a fragile thing handled with care, for fear of damage. Were Mother or Father treated with such weakness? Were they allowed such fragility to exist in their lives?
Valor is the hardest of steel—the greatest craft born only from intense heat. Why couldn't she live with that severity? Ivory weighed the sword; a light thing that bore one-third of her arm's mass—the ways of oredite, yet sharp enough.
She tossed it between her arms, feeling its non-heft. Nail was right, Ivory admitted to herself. Indeed, she was not present. Distant, her mind projected through slits of half-awareness. The others pondered the desired questions. Curiosity called for that extreme measure.
Like a linked current, her mind moved. Of course, with each impact with the floor, the mind suffered a buffering of sorts—a reasonable pause when the need for other sensations was grasped. Eventually, the mental juices stirred up once again.
That was good—the state of dazed data collection brought no answers to already presented questions. No more information, Ivory hungered for the unriddling. She had wondered about the usage of Miralin's work. It would be a lie to admit no seduction by the prospect. There was. A tempting offer.
Acceptable or not remained a fluctuating idea. She tried to justify non-acceptance with the risks of such a ware. An impossible thing when the realization that sufficient knowledge for it remained elusive. She tried, regardless.
The other was the attack—that strange figure. Despite the tests done through deadEyes and specialized casters, and wares too, no findings were admitted. Just questions. Some blamed the assailant as a spaceRunner. A high-ranking caster with the available symbols to find the path to her quarters.
A spaceRunner could do such things.
That did not stand strong to criticism. What would a spaceRunner want from her? How did they even breach a defense partially targeted at such powers? Too many questions. Ivory alone had concocted a potentiality: the man in the dream—the blurry figure dressed in dark hues with a hand aflame.
Specifically, the vagueness of his form. That, when flowed into her knowledge of symbols, returned with a frightening possibility: higherMind symbols. Powers beyond logic that could not be pried or understood. That explained the lack of evidence and her oracular inability.
Nail suddenly moved, and Ivory counted. How?
Yet the possibility opened other questionable doors. What if the haze was not an effect of a higherMind symbol but a middle or lowerMind, but as one with no casting traits, her mind could not grasp or make sense of it? Hence the obliquity.
What if? What if?
Such questions threatened a mind-break—a crush against her mental prowess. However, did deadEyes go through such a tremendous procession without madness? She suddenly laughed within. deadEyes were likely the maddest of all.
Nail brought the blade in an arched swing, cutting through the drops of rain. Ivory lowered, slapped over the curving blade, and ended hers at the vambrace. A metal clang filled the room.
How am I doing that?
Ivory moved then to another thought: the nerve-wracking one: Kabel.
Truth or consequence.
Which was he?
A man who spoke the truth and bore no internal aim was an enticing thing. The other, the consequence of a mistake, was appalling. The outcome of which could spell doom for her. Not external doom, no, internal doom. Should she accept the truth or the consequences?
From a worth standpoint, as an Aspirant, he contained potential in connection to the theocracy. Some hope against their tyranny.
Hopeful wishes, she realized. Kabel, as admitted by himself, was from the abstention order, not a core of the church. Regrettably. If he were from the heart of the world, then, perhaps…
Ivory moved back, parried an attack, heaved a breath, and pressed on. Nail countered easily. She, in that moment of clashes, felt her awareness surge back into her innermost self. This battle, this motion, the clashes felt familiar. How was it?
The almost memory-imprinted balancing of her body was awesome. Ways of leg shifting, weight allocation. Surely not something gained by spontaneity. It was a trained thing. Ivory knew that, moved to the side, blade swinging down.
The fluidity of her motions was too expert—half-postulant at least. She moved as though she knew how to move. No longer was her body weighed by the need for mentation before movement. This new awareness directed her in ways of almost prescient quality. It was not—instead, a more body-entrenched trait. Such things were learned, not inherited?
How then did she gain it?
Ivory twirled, felt her heartbeat drumming like a dance. What was happening? She raised her head, slid over the wet floor, rounded Nail, and slashed down. The seatGuard reacted as expected, meeting the blade with hers of elastic wood.
Surely, wood against oredite was no challenge, Ivory thought. But again, this was likely the caster's doing. She followed the pulse of that strange desire. That familiarity of a latent dance. To move. To bend and twist with constant alertness for battle.
What was this?
She knew now this prowess was an alien thing to her person. Not once had such intuition or awareness been ingrained into her being. Where did it come from?
Ivory knelt, circling Nail with knee movement. This seemed to disorient the seatGuard. In that moment, she slammed the blade into the ankle armor. Another hit—a second. If this were a battle, did that mean she would have taken the legs and arms of a seatGuard?
Likely not. Ivory harbored no ego that before her was not a being that restricted itself to the greatest of levels. If not, death would have been a thing unknown to even the receiver. Yet, to land two?
She abruptly stood, swung the blade. That desire was pulsing like a mad beat—Engage, engage. Her sword now aimed for the face—the unprotected layer. Yes, yes, yes. Connect. Draw the blood. Draw the life from the skin, and let it burn to ash.
What? Ivory fell out of the alien identity—too late, her sword was inches from Nail's face. Wait! A metal clang echoed through the room. She froze—oredite had met flesh, but no spill of blood, just the metal pressed on the sullen cheeks.
How?
Ivory felt the wind, a wide force that pushed against her. Away from Nail and rolling over the wet, sleek stage. She panted, feeling the warmth of perspiration deeply within. Despite the froststone and rain, that is.
"What was that?" Nail said.
"I don't know…" Ivory looked within, searched out the identity, but found none. Gone like a breath on glass. What was it?
Nail remained silent—a strange, thoughtful expression on her usually bored face. "Highness Argon would want to hear of this." She moved towards Ivory, caressed her head, and said, "You did well."
Ivory, for a moment, heard the strain in her voice, as though the words were lodged in her throat. A creature of a certain habit would find itself a stranger to another—another of Mother's quotes.
Nail was never one for compliments.
"You tell him," Nail said to no one, but Ivory sensed the words were directed at the other of the duo. Nail and Veil—the other, the invisible husband to the ladyCaptain. He listened now, somewhere in the room.
She looked around, though she knew the futility of that action. He was invisible. How would she spot him? Ivory endured that brief self-shame, regarded Nail. "So we are done?"
Nail took a moment. "Yes, for now. You require rest, and we will continue tomorrow."
Ivory looked up and noted the dense darkness above. It would seem so.