Shards of Law

By L. E. Dereksen

Scattered across time, three lives will shape the fate of the Realms:

• Haunted by the bloodless creatures of the desert, Ishvandu of Shyandar must overcome his worst enemy—himself—to become the Guardian he’s always longed to be.
• Ashkynas, last of the Al’kah, has committed the unthin

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sky Step Publishing
• Release date: Dec 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781999499617

L. E. Dereksen

L. E. Dereksen is an emerging author of fantasy. Besides literature, her passions include classical music, board games, and her local community. She also teaches English as a Second Language, where she helps adult newcomers explore language and life in Canada. She lives with her dog Patrick in the prairies of Winnipeg, Canada.


Book preview

Prologue

Year 798 after the fall of Kayr

The Guardian was old.

He slouched against the black stone, waiting, waiting. It was all he ever did these days. Sitting and peering into the dust, one leg stretched out in front of him. It was not a very Guardian-like posture, but his feet hurt, and the night was long.

He grunted and shivered, pulling his threadbare cloak tighter. It had been red, once. It had been finely made. Now it was tattered, faded, and full of holes. His hair had thinned to a single grey braid, lying limp on the back of his neck. His skin was furrowed with lines. Becoming dust, all dust—except for the sword. His keshu was the last of its kind in Shyandar. Sand-blasted rebels had stolen the rest. Gone. Corrupted by Shatayeth Undying, enemy of the people. Now vanished into the desert to die.

How long until he vanished as well? The shadows would come for him—now, tomorrow, the next night, or in ten long years, if he didn’t starve to death first. The shadows, or Shatayeth himself. The wind groaned across the barrenness, whisking sand from one end of the cracked and empty lakebed to the other. He imagined it happening like that. One moment—gone. Nothing. No more Ishtar. No more Guardians. The end. Easy. Then only sand would wait. Then only shadows. And who would welcome the waters then?

Ishtar, said a voice . . .

The old man leapt to his feet.

Ab’Adani Al’kah! Forgive me! I was resting my—

No, no. You do well, said the figure, though he hung back. His gaunt form was bent, his fingers tense against the edge of his robes. Something was wrong.

Sal’ah Al’kah?

The man took a sharp breath, as if pained. He turned to face the dry lakebed of the Avanir. You are faithful.

Ishtar grunted. I am old, sal’ah Al’kah.

Are you? He blinked up at the brilliant ache of the sky. "Stars are old. Sand is old. This rock is old. But you, Ishtar ab’Shatara, are not old. You are . . . faithful. You guard the Avanir. Still. Always."

It will return.

Will it?

Ishtar glanced at him in surprise. The man was thin and worn, as they all were. He was dressed in tattered robes, as they all were. But there was a strange energy to him this night. Something restless.

Seven years, the Al’kah continued, clenching his hands. Seven years since the water dried up, and no Guardian has seen a drop in three. Still, you wait. He craned his neck. The stone Avanir towered over them, a huge hulking blackness with weird and twisted arms, its crown lost in the shadows above their head.

A shudder passed through the Al’kah. No, he said.

No, sal’ah Al’kah? Ishtar frowned.

No, no. It’s not our place to doubt. We have a duty. Each of us. He spoke with fervent intensity. "And you have done yours, my friend. When the rebels attacked, you resisted. When the Guardians fled, you stayed. You remained at my side, through . . . through all of it."

I swore an oath, ab’Adani Al’kah. I am a Guardian of Shyandar.

Yes. The man paused, then edged nearer. Ishtar, let me see your keshu.

Ishtar hesitated. My keshu?

Yes. Would you deny your lord?

Never! Ishtar drew the blade, and its soft light leapt into the space between them. How long had it been? Six months? Seven, since the last attack—since the shadows had taken Lalysha and Ebrynu? A Guardian did not draw without need, but neither could he refuse the Al’kah, his ruler.

The Al’kah reached out, hands open to receive the blade.

This is our hope, Ishtar, he said, a tremor in his voice. We must be strong. New life will return. Do . . . do you believe it?

Ishtar nodded. The water will come. If not in my life, then in another’s.

I’m glad you think so. He paused and swallowed. You do well, Ishtar. You are faithful.

Thank you, sal’ah Al’kah.

You are faithful.

Ishtar frowned. So are you, my lord Al’kah. Is . . . is something wrong?

Something? No. He tightened his hands around the blade. "All things. If there is no water, who will be Chosen? And if there are no Chosen, who will stop the Breaking of the world? Who, Ishtar ab’Shatara? Who?"

Ishtar struggled to hide his alarm. The Great Tree knows. She will send the water. She must.

And if she cannot?

Ishtar said nothing. A darkness crept through him, the one that had always been there, always, beneath his dedication, beneath the waiting and the long hours of supposed hope. He pushed it away. He was too old for those thoughts. He had made his choice, long ago.

We broke the cycle, the Al’kah continued. "We failed. Not the Tree, not the Avanir. Us."

There is always hope.

Yes. The man nodded fiercely, as if trying to convince himself. Yes, there is. Only I wish . . . I wish . . .

Ishtar frowned. Something moved in the shadows. Something on his right, circling from behind the Avanir, the huge black pillar. He held up a hand for silence, listening, straining to hear.

Who goes there?

No answer.

Ishtar reached for his keshu. It was not there, of course. He had given it to the Al’kah. He opened his hand, gesturing for the man to hurry and hand it back. The shadows. The shadows had come!

The figure stepped nearer, and everything in Ishtar tightened. No. Not the shadows. It was a man, robed and swathed like an outrider. Two glittering black eyes.

Stop! Ishtar ordered. Name yourself. Why have you dared to approach the Avanir?

The man did not stop. His feet were bare against the sand. Bare as they padded forward, circling, drawing nearer. The black eyes regarded him from beneath the wrappings. Assessed him.

Al’kah, my sword, Ishtar said, feeling a flutter of panic. Hurry. He glanced over his shoulder, still waiting—waiting to feel the smooth grip—and an instant later, he felt the blade drive into his chest.

Ishtar’s eyes flew open. The keshu slid easily, up through his ribs, into his heart, punching out his back. A thin spray of blood spattered the rock behind him. The rock he had guarded, watched over, stood by, waiting, waiting . . .

Al’kah? he gasped.

Ashkynas ab’Adani Al’kah, last ruler of Shyandar, trembled as their eyes met. You are faithful, he said. To death, you are faithful.

The Guardian felt a vague, distant pain. He became slowly aware of it, the pressure building inside of him, squeezing against his lungs, gathering and growing.

I don’t . . . he spoke thickly. I don’t . . . understand.

"I wish there were some other way. Any way. But we are dying, Ishtar ab’Shatara, and this is our hope. Our last hope. Our very last. The Al’kah pressed a hand to the Guardian’s face. You will be for many. I swear to you, his voice caught, your sacrifice will not be in vain."

Ishtar’s eyes swam towards the swathed figure, the stranger, watched as he pulled the wrappings away, as his face emerged from the shadows.

"You!" Ishtar choked. Blood flowed hot down his back, bubbling into his throat, soaking his thin robes, pooling and dripping into the cracked and hungry earth. So much. So much. His eyes clouded. No! He had to warn the Al’kah. He had to . . .

Do not . . . he gasped. Do not . . .

The Al’kah stepped back, yanked out the sword, and Ishtar crumpled to the dust. He was unable to move, to cry out, though the pain built and built. The air throbbed. Something was reaching out of the pillar—burning against his mind. A force without substance. A terrifying power.

Not the Avanir. No! Not our good, our hope . . . Not it too!

It clung to him, sucking him out like a husk. Ishtar felt the mawing emptiness, the swirl of hunger and need, reaching, reaching. The end. The ruin of all things, come at last.

It’s working, said the Al’kah, face chiselled in horror.

The other man stepped past him. Bare feet. He walked to the edge of the slithering dark pool. Faithful, said the voice: cold, measureless, and without pity. Are you faithful? He crouched. His fingers dipped into the blood and he paused, waiting for an answer.

Ishtar nodded, even as his vision swam, as painful stars mixed with shadow.

Always.

Good, said the man. Then it’s time you were put to some use.

Desert

Ishvandu ab’Admundi

Year 455 after the fall of Kayr

THREE HUNDRED AND FORTY-THREE YEARS AGO

The desert calls to me.

We are an island, shrouded by emptiness. Dust, sky, dust—I have seen it, beyond the walls. I have seen the world turned in on itself, until the furthest limits of what I knew became the centre. I have stood in the empty world. I, alone, until I was the world. The whole terrifying world.

But for the shadows . . .

I do not speak of the shadows.

Chapter One

It was a bad idea. I knew it from the first, what Koryn was doing, baiting me like a digger rat. Only it didn’t seem to matter just then, in the moment. You think I’d have learned by now the moment’s a backstabbing little cheat.

I glanced around the stable yard. There were only a handful of us: two Guardians, three Novices, and an audience of unimpressed camels, trudging around the yard to nowhere.

I don’t care if you’re a sand-shitting Guardian, I said, you’ve no right to beat my Novices.

"Your Novices?"

Mine.

Koryn’s nose twitched in a sneer—the same crooked nose I’d broken four years ago. Where’s your keshu? He asked, tapping his marbled sword hilt.

The question was so obvious, it hurt. Light and all, Koryn, maybe up your ass. Want to look?

Oh, that’s right. I almost forgot. You don’t have one. He stepped closer. Close enough I could snap his beaked nose between my fingers. No keshu means no Guardian. Not yet. Maybe not ever. And you have the stones to stand here, eye to eye, and tell me what I can and cannot do?

I glanced at Bray, where he crouched against the red-stone walls, still tangled up in old hay and camel shit, squinting into the high morning sun. The kid was a year off his Tasking, a sun-blasted idiot, and far too mouthy for his own good, but the swelling eye and the blood smeared across his face had no business being there.

You’re out of line.

Koryn laughed and edged nearer. "You do fancy yourself a Guardian, don’t you? You think you’re ready. You think you deserve it."

Six years. So yes. Yes I do.

Prove it.

The challenge was too quick, off his lips before I’d hardly finished speaking. I knew it was a bad idea. Put a keshu in my hands, I said, and I will.

Vanya, maybe that’s not—

Shut it, Pol, I told my friend.

The older Novice shut it, while, next to him, Bray wiped another slick of blood off his brow. I could tell from the fire in their eyes they wanted a fight. They deserved a fight.

He can use mine, said Antaru. I glanced at the meaty Guardian, as dumb as he was loyal. Koryn must have put him up to it. You didn’t let anyone touch your keshu. Not ever. Only by direct order from a superior.

I smirked. Yeah?

Do it, was all Koryn said.

Antaru gripped his keshu and drew.

The first time I had seen one of the ancient blades, I was ten. The Guardian Lord had been tall, daunting, magnificent. The cloak—fastened with real gold—was the colour of fresh spilled blood. The curved keshu at his side gleamed naked in the dying sun. I had stared, dumbstruck at the sight of a Guardian Lord so close. At his blade. It had answered with a subtle flame of its own, and I must have reached out, because a moment later, the man snatched my hand away.

Do not, he had said. The force of his grasp could have crushed my bones if he’d wanted.

Nearly eight years later, I was staring at another keshu. It shone with the same subtle glow, and its thick blade was worthy of Antaru’s strength. I could hardly believe he was doing this. That I was doing this.

I snatched it from his grasp, afraid I might change my mind. Immediately, I felt the weight of the sword—not the heaviness, for it was shockingly light—but the authority of it. It wasn’t meant for me, and I could tell. The hilt was too broad. The blade was too long. It was built for long, forceful sweeps. But still, I knew: I was holding the power of Shyandar.

A mistake. And it was too late to back down now.

I heard the draw of Koryn’s keshu and leapt back. The point grazed my shirt. I stumbled, scrambling away. My foot slipped in a heap of camel dung. I fell, rolled. I nearly took my own arm off with the keshu. Then I was back up. Koryn was laughing. He could have finished it just then, but that wasn’t the point. Now that we both knew how incompetent I was, he was going to wait. Let me settle in. And beat me again.

Or so he thought.

I grinned, testing the keshu’s balance, a few double-handed swings, just like I would with a training blade. Only those were clumsy, brittle things. This keshu sang.

I attacked. Maybe it took Koryn off guard, because he doubled back. A safe block. No. The keshu slipped, and I had to jump aside to avoid the counter. I ducked. The keshu whistled over my head, nearly trimming the hair from my scalp. Then I twisted for a counter. A ringing clang. Pull in, step back, keep moving.

I could feel myself settling in to the rhythm. I laughed, stepped back again. Straight into the stone wall of the camel yard. I brought the keshu down fast and hard to throw off his swing. The tip cut through fabric as I spun and danced free, breathing hard. Camels scattered and bellowed their annoyance.

Had enough? Koryn asked.

Not until you admit you were wrong.

Good. He raised the keshu. I’m rather enjoying this.

Any time.

You can take him, Vanya! Polityr cried.

I couldn’t. I was too slow. I was untrained with a keshu. I knew how this was going to end, but I was going to enjoy this while I had it. We circled each other. Something started to sting. I didn’t have time to look, but clearly Koryn’s last blow had cut more than my shirt.

Then we closed the distance. I blocked, swung, dodged, leaping back and forth. Koryn was just getting warmed up. I was getting sloppy. I moved in to strike, Koryn knocked me back, and I didn’t reverse in time. His keshu glanced along the side of my arm and I twisted away, grimacing. That I had felt.

He relaxed—maybe he thought a little scratch was enough to beat me—and I could hear the tense expectation in Pol and Antaru’s silence. A tiny window of opportunity.

I lunged, grabbed for Koryn’s sword hand. He tried to jump back. My hand closed around the blade instead of his wrist. There was a bite of pain. Deep. But I didn’t care. I was going to take this fight. My keshu aimed at this throat. He was trapped. He couldn’t defend himself.

A new, slender keshu flashed, spearing a tight cross between us. It snapped down, deflected my blow. Then the attacker closed in, planted a fist in my gut, spun, caught my foot, and I was lying on my back, staring up at the distant blue sky.

A face appeared. It had the same fine-chiselled look as Koryn’s, the same condescending tilt. A single thick braid hung over one shoulder and her keshu poked me in the ribs. Atali sai’Neraia. Tala. My stomach knotted.

I appreciate your help, Tala, I laughed, "but I had him."

Idiot! she snapped. Umaala’s coming this way, and he’ll have your guts for rope if he finds you holding a keshu. Drop it. Now.

What in the name of light is happening here? a voice thundered.

Tala turned and whipped her keshu into its sheath. It was a single, fluid move. I caught myself staring, and realized too late that I had missed my opportunity.

I swore and leapt to my feet, dropping the keshu as if stung. But one glimpse of Umaala ab’Krushaya bearing down on us, a hand on his sword, red cloak swirling up a cloud of dust as he marched through the camel-yard gate, and I knew I was done.

Sal’ah. I swallowed, acknowledging him with a Guardian’s title of respect.

He glared past me. You too, Akkoryn ab’Kindelthu. Now!

Koryn hesitated, glared at me, then obeyed, sheathing his keshu with a quick, firm snap. Polityr and Antaru shuffled uncomfortably. Tala pursed her lips—as she always did when she was worried.

Someone explain this to me! The Guardian Lord glanced between Koryn and I, then at my fist, clenched around a torrent of blood. His outrage seared like a furnace off every joint and muscle.

A . . . a point is being made, sal’ah, I said, desperately hoping he wouldn’t hear the tremble in my voice. Just because someone has the right to carry a keshu, doesn’t mean he has the right to beat up a Novice.

Is that so?

I glanced at the bloody-faced kid. Bray wasn’t doing anything wrong.

But you are! Umaala stepped towards me. I had grown since our first meeting, but the Guardian Lord was still taller than me by a head, his broad arms still capable of crushing me. How dare you speak of the right to carry a keshu, Novice! Whose is that? Certainly not yours! He eyed Koryn. Well?

Mine, sal’ah. Antaru stepped forward.

And how did it end up in the hands of a Novice?

I gave it to him. Koryn wanted to fight.

And you thought that was a good idea?

It was just a bit of fun, sal’ah, the Guardian tried to say, but Umaala’s crackling eyes should have warned him.

"Fun? You gave your keshu to a Novice so he could duel a Guardian. His superior! In the stable yard—in the middle of Kaprash of all times! Like two scrapping boys who don’t know any better. Fun? These are weapons, not toys! Yl’avah’s might, but I don’t know how one of them didn’t end up with his guts all over the ground. Pick it up!"

The Guardian hurried to retrieve it, but before he could sheath it away, Umaala shot out his hand.

Give it to me.

Sal’ah?

Now.

Antaru swallowed and handed over the blade, looking every bit like a chastened Novice himself.

Since you apparently have no concept of the respect accorded these ancient symbols of authority, I strip you of your right to carry one.

The man stared in horror. But . . . you can’t!

I can and I have. And if you want that right back, you’ll have to earn it. I had never seen Umaala so furious. I may have actually pitied the young Guardian—only I was next.

I’m sorry, sal’ah, I said. I wasn’t thinking.

Blood and light, you’re damned sure you weren’t. And it’s not the first time. Fighting a Guardian! What were you thinking, Ishvandu? You could be a Guardian yourself in a matter of days, and you would risk all that on your blasted pride?

My brother put him up to it, Tala said. Ishvandu was just following orders.

I nodded vigorously.

Are you willing to stand for that? Umaala eyed her.

She can’t stand for anything, Koryn said. She wasn’t here.

I’ll speak for myself, thanks, she snapped. "You think I don’t know what you’re doing? You think the Circle doesn’t know? You should be ashamed."

Koryn gave a bark of laughter. Really, Tala—

"Did you witness an order?" Umaala glowered at them in turn.

Tala drew herself up, lips pursed, unwilling to betray her duty with a lie. But I could see her mind flashing through a dozen different responses. She opened her mouth.

It was Vanya’s idea, Antaru interrupted. He asked for a keshu.

Umaala turned to me. Is that so?

Yl’avah’s blasted might! I clenched my bleeding fist. Put a keshu in my hand, I had said. Put a keshu in my hand. I could deny it, but the witness of two Guardians would overrule me. It might have been . . . sal’ah.

Tala rolled her eyes. Of course it was. Idiot.

Enough, Umaala said. Both of you will spend a night in the holds while we consider what to do about this.

"What? The holds! Koryn spluttered, realizing Umaala meant him as well. I’m a Guardian, not some green Tasker!"

Umaala whirled on him. And if you say one word more, I’ll hold you fully responsible. Now go! Atali sai’Neraia, see to it!

Yes, sal’ah. Tala gave a clipped nod and shot me a look. Don’t you dare open your mouth. For once I agreed.

Umaala turned and marched from the stable yard. We followed. First myself, then Koryn with a grunt of reluctance, and Tala last of all. She kept a hand on her hilt, not from fear either of us would run—with the Guardian’s Hall surrounding us, where would we go?—but as an acknowledgement of her duty. Nothing personal.

We pushed through the gates beneath the long, arched hall. It was a brush of shadow: cool and cleansing, as good as a gulp of water. By the time we entered the inner yard, a crowd had gathered. Sparring Novices stopped to stare at us, Guardians glanced and muttered, and even the weapons-master, Tushani’sal, broke off in the middle of a demonstration. Umaala ab’Krushaya commanded instant attention, but Koryn and I, being led towards the red-stone Tower, was a story that leapt fully-formed into their minds. Everyone knew we hated each other. Everyone knew something was bound to happen.

Let them talk. I curled my fist around the dripping blood and marched unrepentant toward the holds.

Chapter Two

The holds beneath the Tower were deep, narrow pits: tunnels boring straight down into the dark earth. Law-breakers were dropped here—and occasionally a rebellious Novice. Which meant this wasn’t my first visit. Still, my legs had grown since the last time. They pressed against the far wall, maddeningly close to straight. Sleep would be difficult.

I sighed. My head thunked against the wall. Stupid. Stupid. How could I have let Koryn bait me so easily?

You’ll never be a Guardian now, he was saying from the next hole. I know it. The Circle knows it. Even Umaala knows it. He won’t be able to protect you this time, mudfoot. You’ll be back digging ditches before tomorrow sunfall, I promise you.

I pressed my lips together. Don’t. Don’t react.

Tala knows it too.

Tala. Bright, confident Tala. The most promising Guardian of her generation. The daughter of Neraia sai’Kalysa, Guardian Lord of the first kiyah. But most problematic of all—Koryn’s sister.

I growled under my breath. Mind your own sand-blasted shit, Koryn. In case you hadn’t noticed, you’re in with me too. We’ll both get it this time.

Both? Koryn said. "There’s no both here, not for a floor-licking Novice pass-up like you."

Does it really bother you so much that we’re friends?

Friends? Koryn laughed. The jeering sound echoed into the darkness, up and around, dashing into every pit. You think I haven’t noticed? I see the way you look at her. I promise, the moment she finds out, she’ll drop you like the roach you are. She’s a Guardian now, and she’ll have nothing to do with you, just you watch. You’re nothing to her. And you’ll never be a Guardian either.

I glanced down at my hands, flexing them, curling. My arm ached where Koryn had shaved off a chunk of skin, a keen reminder of the keshu’s dangerous edge—undulled since its creation hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years ago. Now blood oozed through the hasty bandage, pooling in the crux of my elbow before dripping onto the clay floor. My fingers had gone numb. My other hand throbbed from clutching Koryn’s keshu: a steady pounding, like a second heart struggling to breathe. As long as I kept my fist clenched, it didn’t bleed overmuch, but still, I wondered if I was in danger. Blood flowing. Blood, and no water to drink.

Was it worth it?

You’ll never be a Guardian. I shut my eyes. I stretched cold fingers, remembering the feel of the keshu. Light, powerful, fast. What would it feel like to train with one every day, to master the sweep and thrust, to feel its weight on my hip, the clearest mark of power in Shyandar? What would it feel like to be one of them: rulers, protectors, watchers, outriders and explorers? Guardians.

I wondered now. Would I ever know?

I was young the first time I heard never.

Even then, the desert called to me. As soon as my evening chores were done, I hurried off. I was tired of my father’s dour silences. Tired of the noise and giggles of the other children as they scampered past, enjoying the precious moments of freedom between intolerable heat and the night’s curfew. There was nothing I liked better than my secret place.

Breathing hard, sweat trickling down my face and under my rough-spun Labourer’s shirt, I pulled myself up the crumbling heap of stone, up to the very top. It was an old wall. Old and battered and falling apart, worn down by centuries of sand-blasting wind. It was forbidden to cross, of course—but no one ever saw me. In the heat of Kaprash, the Dryness, not many stirred outside their clay hovels, terrified of the desert and its encroaching dust. Terrified of shadows, as if the dark itself could swallow you.

Not many—except for me and a few Guardian patrols.

The wind was in the east, and as I sat there, stretched out on my back along the wall, I could hear snatches of prayer song drifting up from the Temple, like the wind itself, now high and keening, now delicate and calm.

But the singing always drew my gaze out, away from the huddle of civilization and the now-waterless Avanir. Out towards the desert.

It was deadly, that wasteland. I knew it. We all knew it. But still it called to me. Still I sat there. A long time—too long. The shadows cast by the wall stretched beneath me. Longer. Deeper. Cooler. A creature stirred in the sand. A snake? A lizard? I leaned closer. Curiosity pulled at me, and I abandoned my perch, scrambling down the desert-side, shutting out Shyandar, enclosing myself in the empty world.

Silent, I leapt off the lowest rock. A puff of dust rose to greet me, slipping over my tongue and up my nose, gritty, but tasting of open skies. I paused. I waited for it to settle before I crept nearer, crouching as I watched the little creature. Not a reptile, but a hairless rodent. Wrinkled, rough-skinned, with a scaly white tail and long, blunt digging claws. It halted. Its nose twitched, sensing my nearness, feeling it through the particles of sand, each connected to each other, from my leathery soles, through to his leathery paws.

I waited. It was looking straight at me with a milky, sightless gaze. Could it hear me breathe? I held so still, even my heart seemed to slow beneath my skinny ribs. Then, satisfied it was alone, it chirped, turned, and began to waddle off.

I pounced. Fingers clutched at the creature’s belly. It squealed and squirmed. Its tail whipped my bare arm, claws scrabbling to get free. I tightened my grip, adjusted one hand under its neck, and gave a quick, hard twist. There was a snap, and the thing went limp.

Food. Real meat.

I stuffed the dead rodent into my shirt, then looked up. The sky was dark. The cliffs were black. It was silent on this side of the wall. Stories sprang to mind: the things that lurked in the desert, far worse than rats and snakes. I wasn’t afraid of them. I didn’t believe in desert ghosts.

A gust of wind from the north snapped my hair, moaning and whistling along the cliff. My breath caught. I wouldn’t run. I faced the darkness, trembling where I stood. Something shifted. Was it my imagination, or had the shadows moved? No. No it couldn’t be. I took a step closer. I smiled, mocking the dark.

Then I saw it—a blackness against the wall, melting into shadow, there one moment, and gone the next.

If my head didn’t believe the stories, my feet sure did. With a gasp, I spun and flew up the rocks, slipping, falling, scraping my legs and arms, and finally hurling myself over the top, sliding the rest of the way.

I landed directly behind a Guardian patrol.

The three men turned to me as one. They stood in their fine, embroidered robes, hair clean and braided, keshu hanging from their sides. I picked myself up, heart thumping as I stared at their bewildered faces. Past curfew, out at night in the middle of Kaprash, caught climbing the wall no less. I’d get a whipping for sure—if they could catch me. I made a dash for the open.

An arm flashed out, seizing my shirt with a jolt.

Hold it, a voice said. It was calm, almost quiet, but I tried to squirm free, lashing out with my fists. The man just held me at arm’s length, my shirt twisted around my ears. The other two chuckled.

That’s a lively shade you caught, ab’Tanadu, said the younger one.

The man frowned. You have a good reason to be out this late?

I was just looking, I didn’t do anything, I didn’t go into the desert, I was just—

We’ve got rules for a reason, you know, boy. You understand how dangerous this is?

I swallowed and decided to nod. Vigorously.

Where do you live?

Labourer’s quarter, North Fields.

I can see that. Who with?

I glanced at the other two. In the dark, I couldn’t see their faces, but no one seemed particularly threatening. My father, on the other hand . . .

I considered lying, but there was no one else I knew well enough to trust. Admundi ab’Adaiah, I said, miserably. Third turn west from the cistern.

He nodded and, without another word, latched on to my elbow and steered me in that direction. Once or twice I tried to twist away, but he held me firm and walked quickly, forcing me to trot to keep up.

The streets were black and empty. I was glad. This would be humiliating enough without an audience.

Which one? he asked as we drew near.

My stomach fluttered, but I scowled to hide my fear. I guess the one with the light on.

He chose to ignore my tone and marched me in. There was a small dung-fire burning on the stone, enough to cast light on my tangled black hair and the blood trickling down my arms and legs where I’d fallen. My father was up, waiting for me.

His dark eyes moved to take in the scene, myself and the Guardian both, and a frown creased his brow.

Ishvandu, he said. It was greeting, question, and reprimand, all at once.

Your son? the Guardian asked.

My father nodded and rose.

What has he done this time?

We found him climbing the north walls, out past sunfall. Were you aware of this?

I watched my father’s face. There was a slight tightening around his mouth, but not the shock and outrage I had expected. No, he said. I was not.

Then perhaps you could explain to him the danger of his actions. No one is to be out after curfew, and especially not over the walls. See to it.

Of course, my father said. Thank you for informing me.

The Guardian nodded, released me, and disappeared back into the dark. Then there was silence.

My mind churned for something to say. I could feel my father’s eyes on me, disapproving, as I stared at the dirt floor.

I . . . I . . . was just looking, I said. I didn’t go past the wall, I just climbed up. I lost track of time, and I just wanted to see—

Stop, he said. I don’t need an explanation. I don’t care why, or what brought you there, it will never happen again. Do you understand?

I glanced up at him. His face was hard. I knew I should just nod and agree, but I found my lips forming something else.

But why not? Look what I found, Father. I reached into my shirt and brought out the dead, hairless rodent. I caught it for us.

He snatched the thing out of my grasp and flung it to the ground. Stupid. Do you know what the penalty is for hoarding? And you told me you didn’t go over the wall. Don’t you dare lie to me, Ishvandu! Did you go into the desert?

I stared at my little offering, cast aside like garbage, and my face started to burn. So what if I did? Nothing happened, and what’s wrong with catching a little meat? Rules! Always rules. I’m sick of them.

He struck me, and I staggered back, lifting a hand to my mouth, tasting blood.

You’re too old for that talk, Ishvandu. This Renewal you begin your Tasking. Learn to obey, not question. How many times have you gone into the desert?

I glared at him. All the time.

That stops tonight. Do you understand?

No. I don’t. It’s stupid. Nothing happened. Nothing ever happens.

His face darkened. Nothing? What do you know, Ishvandu? What do you know of its horrors? It is dangerous, forbidden, and at Kaprash of all times! You could have been killed!

But I hate this place! I want to see the desert, like the Guardians do. And I want to see—

Don’t be a fool! The only thing in the desert is death, and the sooner you learn that, the better. You’re not a Guardian, and you never will be.

A tremor ran through me. The word hung there, scornful and taunting. Never. He was right, of course.

You’re a coward, I said, looking him straight in the eye. You’re all cowards.

He went still. Still and cold. Then he crossed the room and seized me by the hair, throwing me to the ground. I didn’t cry out when he beat me, though the cane made painful welts across my back and arms. I pressed my face into the ground, I covered my head, grit my teeth, let my anger act as a shield—counting each stroke. Seven. Eight. I hated him. I hated him. I didn’t regret my words, not one.

He paused at last, breathing hard. How many times?

Thirteen. I fought to keep my voice steady. That’s two better than last time—

He grabbed my arm, shaking me. "How many times, how many times must I tell you? Mind your tongue. Mind your place. Everyone in Shyandar has a place, and until you learn sense, yours is to do as you’re told. You want the shadows to find you? Is that what you want? You want to be roped up as a lawbreaker?"

Wouldn’t you be glad.

I thought he’d hit me again. His breath came out sharp. Then he dropped me with shove.

Bed. Now. One more word out of you, it’ll be two better yet. Ungrateful little rat.

I complied, scrambling to my corner and throwing myself onto the skinny pallet. Only when the thread-bare sheet was over my head did I bury my face in my arms and let a few tears squeeze from my eyes.

Chapter Three

It was dark below the Guardian’s Tower. The chill of the holds ate through my skin, as blood dripped, dripped from my wounds. But blast it all, I would not call for help.

At first I had tried to sleep, but I woke repeatedly, legs tingling, body aching. I stood and paced—two tight steps one way, two back. This was when panic set in. Confined. Cut off. Skyless dark. Was it night? Day? I couldn’t tell.

I leaned against the clay wall. My head was spinning, made worse because I couldn’t see. My tongue stuck to my mouth. I groaned.

What’s the matter? Koryn’s voice echoed from the neighbouring hole. Losing blood?

A little.

Thirsty?

I laughed. The sick-camel sound grated out of my throat, and that was answer enough.

A moment of silence. Then: "They gave me water."

I hate you.

I could toss you some.

Go ram something up your ass.

Koryn chuckled. You know what your problem is, roach?

I shut my eyes. Yl’avah’s might, there was nowhere to escape. I considered screaming just to drown out the sound of his voice, but I was too parched for that.

Your problem is you try too hard. You’re desperate—everyone can see it. Only you’ve got it all wrong. You think being a Guardian’s about pride, but it’s not. Or maybe skill. It’s not. Not courage. Not power. Not knowing more or knowing better. You know what it is?

I focused on breathing. It was getting difficult. It felt like there was a weight on my chest. Like I couldn’t quite fill my lungs. Like the dark was circling and circling. Pressing nearer. Reaching for me.

Light and all, no. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not here.

I pressed my arms against either wall, bracing myself. It had been a long time since the memories. They were close—they were always close. But I kept them locked behind an unseen door, studiously avoided. Only the dark revealed it. The confined, lonely dark.

Koryn, shut up. I was breathing hard.

Following orders, Vanya. That’s the secret. That’s all. A Guardian follows orders. A Guardian obeys.

I wasn’t listening anymore. I couldn’t. I could only feel the shadows. The pressing, reaching shadows. Cold. Cold like fire. No one understood that kind of cold. No one but me.

I started to shake. Loud, tight breaths.

No. I shook my head. "You’re not here. You’re not."

Vanya? Koryn’s voice was distant.

I paced again. Hard. Fast. The space was getting tighter. Tighter with every turn. No, no. I had to stop. I folded to the ground, fists tight, clutching my head, trembling. Focus. They were whispering to me. I heard them. Slivers in my head. As thin as the cold, as the stars, as hunger, as starlight.

Save us.

Listen, you crazy mudfoot, there’s nothing here. Just shut up. Here. Take it, you useless . . .

I groaned and covered my eyes. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t . . . The shadows tightened over my chest. I was somewhere else. I was . . . I was . . .

It was coming. I couldn’t escape. Couldn’t . . .

A scream was building in my chest. I could see them. I called out for help, calling out, over and over—

Vanya?

My eyes cracked open. There was light. A new voice. Hot, red light dripped from above. I sucked in a breath, bent double.

Kylan? My throat hurt. I must have been shouting. But the light drove back the shadows. The memories. I wiped a hand across my eyes, forgetting the bandages, smearing blood and tears together in a pathetic mess.

A rope slithered down. I heard someone climbing, feet tapping, light and quick. Then he was next to me: a flash of white robes, of bright hair, like fire in the torchlight. Vanya?

I swallowed my relief. It was him, thank Yl’avah. How did he know? How did he always know? They had sent for a healer, and he’d known.

I’m okay, I said weakly.

He clutched my hand. You’re not. Yl’avah’s might, you’re not. Doesn’t anyone in this blasted Hall know how to bind up a cut? You could have bled to death down here. And you’re dry. I can tell. Why haven’t you been drinking? Here!

He seized a nearby water skin—Koryn’s. Must have tossed it over.

Not my water, I scowled.

Well, it is now. Here.

No. I pushed him away. I’m not drinking Koryn’s piss.

"You stubborn, delusional ass. It’s just water. Drink it."

He shoved it between my lips. It was sweet. It was cool. It was water. Precious, beautiful . . . I spat it out.

For a moment, he just stared. Then he was dragging me to my feet. One of these days I’m going to say no. They’re going to send a camel to fetch me, and I’ll just say no. Let him die. He deserves it. He does everything he can to deserve it. He’s irremediable.

What in the blazing sands does that even mean?

Past all hope.

Sounds about right, I said with a weak laugh.

He chuckled. I know. It’s taken me a long time to find the right word to describe you, my friend, so I’m going to use it as often as I can. Now climb.

Kulnethar ab’Ethanir, only son of the High Elder and a self-righteous twat because of it, led me to the room above the holds. It was only marginally better. A rough-spun mat, a low table, and a basin were all that occupied it. Given the present long Kaprash, there was enough water in the basin to soak a rat’s paw. I drank anyway. I stuck my whole face in, stopping just shy of licking the bottom.

Thanks for sharing, Kulnethar said brightly.

Shut it, white-robe. I wiped my mouth. I know the treatment you get in that Temple of yours. More than enough water. I was Tasked there too once, in case you forgot.

Oh, never. Kulnethar dropped his camel-skin satchel onto the table. But you weren’t there during Kaprash, if I recall, so you don’t get to talk. Look at it this way: keep it up, picking fights with Guardians and flapping off to them like the brat kid I remember, maybe you’ll get to come back. He grinned.

Does that mean your father’s forgiven me?

Always, Vanya. But forgotten? Not a chance. Still, maybe he’ll let you pull weeds for me. Now sit.

I knelt and held out my dripping arm. It betrayed me. My hand was trembling so hard I could have sifted grain with it.

Kulnethar shook his head. His bright hair and bright blue eyes were the same as ever, as was the worried frown pinching his lips. But he held his silence. He cracked open his satchel and set to work, unwrapping, mopping up the blood, shaking his head, then flushing the wound and binding it back up. The cleansing ointment had a sharp, pungent odour, and I wrinkled my nose.

When he finished, he moved on to my hand and repeated the steps. About half way through, he sighed and opened his mouth.

Don’t, I said.

Don’t what?

"You know what. That look. That ab’Ethanir look. The one you get right before you tell me something I already know, and you know I know, but you’re afraid I don’t know well enough, hence your burning desire to re-enlighten me. Don’t."

Kulnethar’s smile was a little thin. Vanya, you say that you know, but it’s the doing that matters. A keshu did this.

So? My lip curled. No, forget I said that. Please. Spare me. Not right before the Circle. I’m going to get it bad enough as it is. Just . . . please.

He gave me a sympathetic glance—almost worse than his cautionary one—and nodded. Okay, Vanya.

Thank you.

He finished wrapping my hand in silence. Then he soaked a rag in more of that pungent liquid and held it to my face. Here.

No way.

Vanya, you look like you’ve been crying.

I snatched the rag and scrubbed my face from my eyes down to my chin. It stung, but felt clean. Kulnethar said nothing else, just gathered his things, took back the rag, and shut his satchel.

Good luck, he said.

I nodded.

And Vanya?

Yeah?

You still owe me a game of jik’u.

I snorted. Then don’t be so scarce. You know where to find me.

"Hopefully not in the holds again. I hate that place."

Me too.

Good. Stay out of it. I’ll be back to check on you in a few days. You better be ready to lose.

Last I remember, I called after him, I was up by three.

He held up two fingers on his way out, then he was gone.

Chapter Four

Not long after, they came for me, two grim Guardians of the first kiyah. They led me back to ground level, then up the large, sweeping stairs, passed the sentries, and into the Circle Chamber.

A few members of the Circle sat there around the outer edges of the room, raised on chairs of stone. High arched windows let in the light, silhouetting their forms and bathing the centre of the stone floor in warm, morning sun. The Guardians motioned me forward, then took their positions at the door.

It would be a breach of protocol to glance around me, but from my position, I could see Umaala ab’Krushaya a little to my left, another Guardian Lord out of the corner of my right eye, and Neraia sai’Kalysa, straight ahead. As leader of the first kiyah, she would pronounce the judgments of the Circle. I dropped my head in a deep nod, hands clasped behind my back, as was proper, and waited, hoping I didn’t appear as terrified as I was.

We will be brief, Neraia said. Your actions were unacceptable, and the latest in a long string of offences. You make an unfortunate habit, Ishvandu ab’Admundi, of rash, unthinking decisions, including apparently the decision to attack a full Guardian, your superior, with a Guardian’s keshu.

I didn’t attack him, sal’ah. Koryn—Akkoryn ab’Kindelthu—he wanted to fight.

You have nothing to say to this Council, she returned.

But sal’ah, I glanced up, he was beating one of the Novices for no reason. My friend. How is that—

Enough!

I tightened my jaw. Of course she would take the side of her own son.

You will be given twenty lashes for your insubordination, and if you step out of line once more, on anything, you will be ejected from this Hall. As such, the earliest chance you have at being named Guardian will be postponed to your nineteenth year.

The blood drained from my face. A . . . a whole year more, sal’ah?

This is not up for discussion. You are dismissed.

The lashes were painful, but they didn’t sting as much as the humiliation. Stripped and bound in the centre of the yard, I was a spectacle for any passing Guardian or Novice, until someone from the sixth kiyah, the Hall’s enforcement, laid into my back with a whip. It was done the same way Guardians did everything: straightforward, serious, and efficient. I ground my teeth and refused to cry out, though every stroke seared my back, ripping off a strip of skin from my shoulders to my ass. But worst of all was Koryn, standing and watching, bearing no sign of any repercussions himself. He stood, arms crossed, head tilted, as if amused. Yl’avah’s might, I could have murdered him.

By the time I staggered back to the Novice’s quarters, I was angry and sore. My back was flaming from the deep bite of the whip. Part of a Guardian’s training was to be above pain, to acknowledge its role, then master it, control it. Groaning and whining would just prove I wasn’t ready. Still, when I discovered a few Novices hiding in the hall, seeking shelter from the midday heat, I wasn’t in the mood for their gawking stares.

Get out, I said.

They hesitated, then jumped up and abandoned the hall without a word.

I found my pallet in the far corner of the room and collapsed face first into the pillow. Light and all, another year! I was already the oldest in the room. Tala was a Guardian now. So was Antaru, Naomi, Koryn . . . almost everyone I had known as a Tasker in those first years, before I had Come of Age. It was unbearable. And maybe Koryn was right—what would Tala have to do with me now?

Sandals scraped at the entrance. I recognized Polityr’s hushed voice, followed by Bray’s not-so-hushed one. The same pair of Novices I had defended in the camel yard.

Vanya? said Polityr. It’s me and Bray.

I know. Go away.

They ignored me, and Polityr let out a whistle when he saw my back.

Sands, Vanya, they really gave it to you this time, didn’t they? I told you to let me fight him.

Idiot. We’d still be picking up pieces of you all over the camel yard.

The big Novice laughed. "Not with a keshu, you dolt. I wanted to wrestle him. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was quite the show, but I think you earned this one."

Does it hurt? Bray piped in. I turned my head to glare at him. Alright. Yeah. Stupid question. He flopped onto a mat, one hand tucked behind his curly head, while the other probed his bruised cheek. I guess I should thank you. Akkoryn would have pounded me to dung if you hadn’t stood up to him. You were brilliant.

Don’t count on it again. Next time you open your shitty mouth to someone like Koryn, I won’t lift a finger to help you.

Polityr chuckled as he leaned up against the wall, thick arms crossed. Course you would. I know you. You like breaking the rules too much.

Blood and light, I mean it, you two! Just do as you’re blasting told.

There was a pause, though neither seemed bothered by my outburst. Bray just snickered.

Did you see the look on Koryn’s face when Umaala chastened him like a Tasker? Worth it.

Not this time, I said.

What? Polityr grinned. A beating never stopped you before. What happened?

None of your concern—except I mean it. Either of you get into trouble again, and you’re on your own.

Bray seemed to hear me for the first time. He blinked, glanced at me, glanced at Polityr, then glanced back at his toes. Sorry, he finally muttered. Didn’t mean for this to happen.

Not your fault, Polityr said. Koryn’s a stupid sack and Vanya was looking for a chance to fight him. You just gave him a good excuse is all.

I said nothing, wishing they would go away. And glad they didn’t. They continued to chatter over my head.

You think Kaprash can go on much longer? Bray asked.

Polityr shrugged. Why not? Two years ago, it lasted five months.

Five and a half, I muttered into my pillow.

Five and a half, said Polityr. A blasted long time, far as I’m concerned. It’ll only be four this moon.

But last year it was only three, Bray said.

Last year we needed it. After the Long Kaprash, our stores were so low we would have died every one of us.

Does the Avanir know? Bray asked, wide-eyed.

Maybe, said Polityr.

I snorted.

What?

You’re both idiots.

Thanks. Polityr grinned. Why are we idiots?

The Avanir is a big dumb rock. Of course it doesn’t know. Kaprash will last as long as it lasts, no matter how many die of thirst or disease. It’s random.

Is it?

I shifted so I could meet Polityr’s dark, steady eyes. Yes, I said. It is.

What if it’s not?

Then whoever’s in charge is cruel, stupid, and mean.

Careful. He laughed. If the Elders hear you talking about Yl’avah that way—

"Yl’avah’s abandoned us. You think the Maker is watching? You think he cares? No, I’m talking about the Tree, the one who sent us here. Either she’s real, and she hates us, or we’ve thought her up in our heads to give us a reason, any reason, for kicking around this desert like rats in trap, just around and around and around. Kaprash, Renewing, Kaprash, Renewing . . . Dying over and over again. And what for?"

Polityr made a sound in his throat. Bray shifted. I glanced at them. What?

"They did say the shades made you a little crazy," Bray said.

Hush, Polityr frowned.

Why? Bray said. It’s true.

"It is not true. Vanya’s not crazy."

Maybe I am, I said. Maybe I’m two steps from the edge. You’re lucky I don’t go sand-shit loopy and murder you all in your sleep.

See? Bray said.

Vanya, don’t encourage him, Polityr sighed. Look—you’re implying the Chorah’dyn is separate from Yl’avah. But the Elders teach the will of Yl’avah is fulfilled in the Great Tree, so the two are joined. Right?

Pol— I rolled my eyes.

So, he continued, undaunted, if Yl’avah’s will is carried out through the Chorah’dyn, and the Chorah’dyn’s will is bound to the Avanir, then it follows Yl’avah is in the Avanir. Which means you can’t argue the Maker has abandoned us.

Then explain the long Kaprash.

Explain the Renewing, he returned, dropping to his haunches, leaning forward, eager. He loved a debate. He could argue three sides at once, if he saw fit. "Explain the Choosing—power given every year to three individuals. Power to survive the desert. Power to cleanse the Lifewater. Where does the Avanir’s power originate, if not the Chorah’dyn?"

Power isn’t everything. Shatayeth had power when he destroyed his own Undying kin.

True, Pol ceded. But his power is bound in himself. He can’t bestow it.

Maybe he can, he just doesn’t want to.

"Don’t you think he would have? A thousand and a half years of Kyre’an power—don’t you think he’d have tried something, anything to raise an army against Kayr?"

I snorted. If you believe everything the Elders say, he was busy corrupting Kayr long before its fall. He didn’t need armies. Just time. And when you’re Deathless . . . I shrugged, and the motion caused my whole back to arch in pain.

Fine, fine. Forget that line of argument. We’re straying from the point. The Chosen, Vanya. They say the power of the Chosen rivals that of Shatayeth himself—where could power like that come from, but from the Maker and the Tree?

I don’t know, I grimaced.

Exactly. The—

Pol. Please. I hurt. Just . . . just shut up for a bit, okay?

He sighed, deflated. Sands, you know I hate it when you do that.

I know.

Fine. But when you’re less grouchy, we’re going to revisit this.

Then we heard the quick tap of feet on the stone floor.

You stubborn idiot! a woman’s clear voice rang into the hall. I looked up. Atali sai’Neraia was planted in the entrance, hand on her keshu, chin thrust into the air to make up for her short stature.

Polityr kicked Bray in the shin and they made a quick exit.

You couldn’t just walk away, could you? she demanded.

Not a chance.

"He was baiting you, ass-wit. He set you up! And you know what’s the worst part? You’re so damned full of yourself, you knew, and you challenged him anyway."

So what am I supposed to do? I pried myself up on an elbow. Let him get away with whatever he wants?

No—just be smart. Think for once! What he wants more than anything is you gone.

Well, he might get that.

She sighed and strode to the edge of my mat, paced a few times, then found a spot on the wall and slid to the ground, her keshu resting across her knees. Koryn said you were almost ejected. Was it that bad?

Apparently. Next time I step out of line I’m gone, and now I won’t have a chance to be Guardian until my nineteenth year.

Tala nodded and leaned her head back against the wall. Well, that’s not so bad, I guess. You just have to behave for another year.

We exchanged glances, I raised a brow, then we both burst out laughing. I buried my face into my pillow, chuckling and groaning in pain, while Tala laughed loudly, letting it bounce off the walls. Doubtless the Novices eavesdropping at the entrance were properly confused.

My mirth faded as I watched her, watched the glint in her eye, the way she threw back her head. Only Tala could berate me one moment and grin with me the next, and every word, every glance was a treasure.

Sands. I frowned. She was a Guardian now. I was a Novice. I had no place even considering it—Koryn was right about that. But I had waited my year. Waited in agonizing silence. Waited to be named Guardian. And now . . .

Just try not to get caught doing anything stupid, Ishvandu ab’Admundi, she grinned. Then saw the look on my face. What’s on your mind?

You, I almost blurted out. It was easy to be honest with Tala. Too easy. But perhaps now wasn’t the best time to make a scandalous confession. Umaala ab’Krushaya, I said. He won’t let them toss me, I know it.

You know it? She raised a brow.

He . . . He what? Believed in me? It sounded ridiculous, and I wasn’t even sure it was true. Except somehow, even when he was tearing a strip out of me, I trusted him. He’s got sense, I said.

Tala chuckled. Vanya, do you have any idea what an arrogant ass you are? He’s got sense enough to keep you, so all the rest on the Circle, my mother included, are just . . . what? Idiots?

I dropped my head to the pillow with a groan. That’s not what I meant.

Yes, it is. She grinned and stood up. But I agree. Umaala’s got sense. Just don’t count on that going in your favour quite yet, Novice. Take it easy.

I watched her walk down the length of the hall, a red Guardian’s sash circling her waist, bringing out the sway of her hips, and all my insides knotted up. One more year. Light and all, but I wanted her. If she knew, maybe . . . maybe she would wait. Or maybe, like Koryn threatened, she’d drop me like a bug.

Chapter Five

Only a few days later, and I was sparring again, left hand bandaged, moving slowly to avoid breaking open the scabs on my back. It wasn’t working very well. Though a year younger than me, Bretina was quick and she moved in unexpected ways, charging in for a blow when you thought she would take a step back, or dodging right, when you thought she would go left. As the oldest, I was expected to be the best of the Novices, but Bretina was a challenge.

From your feet, Ishvandu, the weapons-master called as he walked past, tapping the ground with a long, slender staff. Pull back. That’s it. Bend with it. Your whole body is the weapon.

Doesn’t feel like it today, Tushani’sal, I said. Using the weapons-master’s given name was a liberty the old man encouraged.

Why not? His voice crackled with age, sharp eyebrows pulled into a question. He stopped and watched as we circled each other.

I grimaced. Do you have to ask?

Ah, you mean this? His staff flashed out and rapped me on the back, not hard, but I gasped in pain and spun, instinctively batting the staff away. There was a crack. Tushani’sal pulled back, swirled the staff, and stabbed with the end like a spear. It caught me in the gut. I staggered back, tried to reposition, but he took a few, simple steps one way, back the other, staff whirling, and before I knew it, one end snapped against my leg. I swiped and missed, and the other cracked into my side, then