A thin young man, wearing a red feather pinned to his gray robes, stepped up to us. He swept a curious glance over me before bowing low.
“Heuris Brannon, Candidate Eon. I am Van, sixth-level official to the council,” he said softly. “I am here to assist you today. Please come this way to collect your ceremonial swords.”
I swallowed, trying to dredge up some wet in my mouth. I did not want to hold those swords again. A week ago, Ranne had taken us all to the huge armory of the council’s treasury to be fitted with the precious weapons kept just for ceremonial use. I was the last to be measured and the old armsman, a scar puckering one side of his face from mouth to jowl, took a long time to find the right swords for me. He had stolidly ignored the sighs and shiftings of Ranne and the other candidates, making me hold pair after pair of extravagantly jeweled swords, tip-down, judging their length and weight against my lopsided body. Finally, he frowned into the dim depths of the armory, then disappeared for a few minutes, bringing back a plainer pair of swords. The two hand guards were decorated by a simple ring of alternating moonstones and jade, each translucent gem set in a silver moon crescent.
“Powerful luck bringers,” he said, brushing a thick thumb over the stones. “These two haven’t been used for a long time—too short and light for most. But they’ll do you fine.”
He held them out and I closed my hands around the leather-bound grips. A roiling anger burned through me, blinding me with bursting lights, flooding my mouth with a sour metallic taste. It was a vicious rage, powerful, cold, and at its center, very, very frightened. Or was that me? Startled, I let go. The swords clattered onto the marble floor.
“Idiot!” Ranne roared, starting toward me with his fist raised.
Calmly, the armsman stepped in between us. “No harm done, Swordmaster. No harm done,” he said, scooping up the swords. He turned a thoughtful gaze on me as he deftly racked them in a large wooden stand. “They must have very old energy,” he said cryptically.
I opened my mouth to say I didn’t want them, but he had already bowed and retreated into the shadows of his domain.
Afterward, on the walk back to the school, I wondered who could have put such violent feeling into the steel. It was part of the Dragoneye art to imbue physical items with the capacity to absorb or deflect energy. Some items absorbed the good energy that surrounds us—the Lin Hua—and some deflect the bad energy—the Gan Hua—so that the flow of good fortune could be enhanced and directed. But I had never heard of rage being woven into the fabric of a thing. However it had happened, I was reluctant to touch the swords again.
I followed my master and Van to an arched doorway set near the ramp. The squat figure of Heuris Bellid blocked the threshold for a moment, then moved awkwardly into the main chamber. Dillon trailed behind him, holding two large swords. Bluish circles ringed his eyes, and his face was stark with the pallor of hunger. Did I look as strained? I certainly felt as though a touch would snap me like a winter-dead branch.
“Is it true? You’re not doing the Mirror Dragon Third?” he asked as we passed each other.
I nodded and saw something flicker across his face.
Relief.
I stared after him, a dry ache closing my throat. The relief was not for me, it was for himself. I was no longer a real rival for the Rat Dragon’s attentions.
I could not blame him. Fear made misers of us all.
The arena armory was a small cavelike room dominated by a wooden stand built for twenty-four swords, the rests cushioned with fine leather. Only two pairs were still racked—mine and Baret’s. The old armsman standing beside it was the one who had fitted me. He promptly slid out my swords and held the hilts up to me.
“Go on then, boy,” he said, his familiarity prompting a disapproving huff from Van.
I gritted my teeth as my hands closed around the grips again. A faint taste of metal, but no rage. Instead, there was another kind of power, lying in wait like that expectant stillness between breaths.
“Not so bad this time, hey?” the armsman asked.
“How did you know?” I whispered.
He smiled, his skin stretching white around the scar. “A good sword is an extension of its master.”
“Armsman, return to your post,” Van said, bristling at the breach of protocol. “Candidate Eon, please come this way.”
I wanted to ask the old man who had used the swords before me, but Van was herding me out of the small chamber. I tucked the blades, blunt edge up, under my arms and followed my master.
Outside, Heuris Kane and Baret were waiting to enter. Baret was leaning against the wall, his athletic body and smooth patrician face a study in arrogance. My master bowed, intent on passing, but was stopped by Kane’s hand on his arm.
“Brannon,” Kane said, his voice low, “I would like to speak with you.” He flicked his fingers at Van, who quickly moved away.
“Yes, Heuris Kane?” my master said, his dislike plain in his stiff formality.
Baret smirked at me with his arms crossed, each half-hidden hand curled into a ward-evil sign.
“I have heard Eon will be using an ancient variation of the sequence today,” Kane said, staring down at me until I shifted under his gaze. He blinked too often and in a strange pattern of three.
My master inclined his head. “You have heard correctly. It is a variation from the fourth Chronicle of Detra.”
A sly smile pursed Kane’s thin lips. “I am sure your records are impeccable on the matter.” His small eyes blinked rapidly, his gaze darting down to my bad leg. “Of course, one wonders how changing the sequence that honors both the emperor and the Lost Dragon will be received.”