Chapter 39: The Most Important Lesson

TRISTAN

The next morning, Tristan rolled over just enough in his messy bed to grab the blanket. His body absolutely refused to move farther than that. He felt like he’d died, gotten chopped up into parts, and then been reassembled before being dragged back to life. His whole body ached.

Worse, even the tiniest sounds were nearly unbearable. Three quick knocks on the door echoed between his ears, even as he slammed his head under a pillow. Speaking of his head, it felt like it was trapped between his father’s squeezing hands. He could feel his own pulse throbbing behind his eyes, and everything else seemed to fade to the background in comparison.

Tristan couldn’t remember exactly why he felt this way. He could barely remember anything from the previous night, but he was certain it had been a big celebration. For my birthday, he recalled. There had been all sorts of amazing food and drinks and dancing. He’d had a vague impression of being overwhelmed, but loving it too. Everything felt blurry though, when he went back to it. The only certainty he still had was that he’d had a good time. It was his first time drinking. All of it was free, of course, courtesy of Jamal.

But now he was paying for it.

The knocks erupted on his door again, this time more insistently. Or maybe they just cut more sharply into his ears.

“Go away,” he groaned, though the pillow definitely muffled his words. He didn’t care if they heard him. He didn’t care who it was. He pulled the blanket over his head to block out all the little beams of light that were stabbing him. He just wanted to go back to sleep and wake up when everything was back to normal. He prayed that was even possible.

His visitor refused to quit, though. From under his pillow, Tristan heard the distinct sound of the doorknob turning, the latch lifting, and the door opening. Then there was the ungodly-loud clacking of footsteps coming across the floor. Directly toward him.

The blanket was ripped away, bringing Tristan’s bare chest into contact with the coldest air he’d ever felt in his life. It also gave the light a chance to creep around his pillow and hands, piercing his eyes with unrelenting brilliance. The light somehow made the throbbing behind his eyes feel even worse.

“...you want me to help again?” someone was saying. It sounded like a woman.

“I think I’m dying,” Tristan whined.

There was a sound that Tristan knew must be laughter, even if it felt like an attack.

“I promise you’re not. This is just a hangover.”

Tristan suddenly felt a new sensation like the roiling of the sea but coming from deep within him. “Oh gods,” he said, gagging, as he twisted himself out of bed, half-rolling off the side and in the general direction of his bathroom. His feet seemed to carry him faster than he could handle, and the world swam around him. Then everything he’d eaten or drank the night before came back out of him. At least the poison was leaving him.

At some point, a soft hand had found his back and was gently soothing him.

“You feel better now, right?” the caring voice asked. When he didn’t reply she asked, “Feel like there’s any more to go?”

Tristan shook his head. “I think... I think that’s it.”

There was another gentle laugh. “Good,” the voice said. “Since that’s done, I’ll get rid of the rest of it.”

Tristan was kneeling on the cold tile floor, and he still felt miserable, but not quite as bad as before. At least not physically. Because now he recognized the voice of the person who had come to wake him, and he was genuinely embarrassed. He thought back through the healer’s words and then asked, “Wait, do you mean you could have healed me before?”

“Of course. But if I don’t let you feel the hangover, you’ll never learn the most important lesson of all.”

Tristan turned himself around and found Cleo’s scarred face only half an arm’s length from his. She was kneeling on the cold tiles next to him, though now her right hand had moved up to his shoulder, and the warmth he’d come to know as her healing washed over him. It crept up into his chest, and took all the agony away.

“What’s the most important lesson of all?”

Her soft brown eyes held his with firm reassurance. “That sometimes when you lose control of yourself, even if you survive, you might feel so bad you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

Tristan thought of the starburst on his chest as his eyes flicked to the scar that covered the entire right side of Cleo’s face. A remnant of a burn, she’d said, but only after a long series of conversations that had started the first time she’d seen Tristan’s scar. She had dodged answering how long she’d had it, but Tristan knew that, with her tier, it could have happened as many as a hundred years ago.

Was that what taught her the most important lesson?

He’d never once seen her try to hide it or flinch at its mention. If anything, she displayed it proudly. It went all the way up to her hairline where, as usual, the long black locks were all kept in a perfect bun. Not for the first time, Tristan wondered how long it would be if she let it fall freely. Long enough to cover the scar for sure, and probably her whole face.

“Sit still,” Cleo said teasingly as her hand moved up to rest on his temple. It lingered there until all of his aches were merely a memory.

“I don’t remember much from last night,” he admitted. “I didn’t embarrass myself, did I?”

He thought he saw a tiny pout cross Cleo’s face, but it vanished so quickly he wasn’t sure he’d seen it at all. “It was a party in your honor,” she supplied, “and Jamal kept your cup full, so I’m not wholly surprised you don’t remember anything. I don’t think you did anything too awful.”

Tristan sighed in relief. “I was just worried, because it’s usually me coming to see you. I didn’t expect, I mean, it’s so early and...” He paused and his eyes went wide. “Is it early?”

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Cleo laughed. “No, it’s an hour ‘til noon. I’ve been up for ages.”

“Gods, I need to stay away from... whatever he gave me.”

Cleo’s face looked thoughtful, as if considering whether or not to say something before finally giving a reassuring pat. “Or maybe don’t have quite so much of it.”

The moment lengthened as the two sat quietly, and eventually Cleo removed her hand. For some reason, Tristan felt embarrassed. “Sorry,” he finally said, trying to fill the quiet.

Cleo inclined her head slightly, like a little bow, before she rose to her feet. “For?”

Tristan shrugged. “I don’t know. It felt like the right thing to say.”

“Jamal wishes you to dress and be out in the arena within the hour.”

“I shouldn’t take that long,” he replied, stretching out his neck and arms. “I really do feel great now. Thanks again, Cleo. You really are the best.”

Cleo scoffed. “Oh, I know it. Try to go longer this time before you need my services again.”

Tristan stood beside her. “I thought I did well this time. It was, what, almost a week?”

Cleo didn’t smile back at him, though she did nod slightly. “My point stands. I wish you an enlightening day.”

As she walked out, Tristan couldn’t help but think about how much less painful the clacking of her heels on the floor was now that she’d cleared his head. He owed her for so much already, but today was the first time she’d really taught him something.

- - - - -

Jamal held the blade out before him perfectly upright but with the wide, flat side facing directly toward Tristan.

“I know you want to learn some offensive skills, but trust me when I say this will serve you better. When you’re in a party, it’ll save your healer mana. When you’re not, it could save your life. I call it the Flat-blade Barrier, but even I can admit it’s a shit name. Maybe you’ll come up with something better some day.”

He showed Tristan the stance in great detail. How the blade needed to be centered directly before the middle of his body. How he needed to keep his body balanced and steady, so that it couldn't be pushed over. “And always keep the blade at least a foot’s length from your torso, at least to start. When you get hit, the sword needs to have somewhere to go that isn't through your chest.”

Tristan blinked rapidly. “Hit by what, exactly? What does this block?”

“What doesn’t it block?” the master swordsman quipped. “It’s not great at stopping other swords, obviously. You’d be a sitting duck with no recourse or counter options. But when it comes to magic or explosions? Yeah, man, it’s the real deal.”

He patted Tristan on the shoulder, helping guide the broad arm into a narrower tuck.

“The way I see it is this, man: if you learn to counter all the common things, then people will have to get creative to beat you, right? And I don’t know if you’ve really noticed it yet, but most people aren’t that creative. It’s what really sets us apart.” He grinned at Tristan as he examined his stance, nodding in approval. “That’s why I won’t ever teach anyone else. It’s just you and me, kid.”

Tristan opened his mouth to say something, but Jamal cut him off.

“This technique’s more than just the blade position, obviously.” He stepped back toward Tristan and placed his hand over both of Tristan’s, where they gripped the blade. The swordmaster’s hands felt strangely warm.

“This is the secret,” he said quietly. “It’s the manipulation of the flow of your own energy.” He lifted one of his hands and placed it on Tristan’s chest, right on the starburst, while the other went to his blade. “It goes from here to there. From your heart to your soul.”

For a moment Tristan let his nerves out with a deep exhale, and with it, he felt a rush of energy racing through his arms.

Jamal stepped away quickly, nodding approvingly. “Wow, man.”

“What was that?” Tristan asked. “How did you do that?”

Jamal stepped back further, looking quite smug. “I didn’t, mate. To get it on your first go... I think you’ve actually got a knack for it! You never cease to surprise me. You even exhaled throughout without me telling you to. Like, cheers, man! It took forever for me to realize that was necessary, and longer still to unlock that kind of energy.”

If only I knew what in the gods’ names he meant by that, Tristan admitted. But as he thought about the interaction, the way he’d felt, there definitely had been a rush of warmth that was more than just heat, but... what had it been? And did Jamal actually mean that Tristan had somehow done it all himself, without Jamal’s help?

“The only other thing you’ve really got to learn, I guess, is how to disperse it across your whole blade. And nothing quite like real pressure to forge that diamond.”

“You can’t forge diamonds,” Tristan shot back.

“Not yet you can’t,” Jamal replied with a wink.

Tristan saw the man looking him up and down, and though he wanted to hold his position rigidly, he suspected he knew some variation of what was coming.

“I’m not ready.”

“Yeah, you’re about ready,” Jamal said at the exact same time. “And if not, I’ve got Cleo nearby, so you’ll be fine. It’s the only way to really learn it, after all. Especially for you, right? Oh, and here's one last tip: think of it as pushing a bit of yourself into the blade. A bit of your essence, or magic, or mana, or whatever you call that bit of you that interacts with your Path. And yeah, I know you don't have ‘Mana’ per se, but that’s not what I’m talking about. You’re alive, so you can do this. Don’t let uncertainties or my lack of terminology stop you. Just trust me. More than that, mate, trust yourself.”

Tristan gripped his sword tighter as his eyes widened. “What does any of that mean?”

“Focus!” Jamal said as his smirk broadened into a full grin. “Guard up! It’s one of the absolute basics, man.” He lowered his sword and raised his empty hand, which immediately burst into flames.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Tristan said even as he tightened his grip around his sword. Whatever Jamal was doing, it thankfully gave Tristan just enough time to recheck his positioning. He had to make sure it was as close to what Jamal had shown him as he could get it.

“That’s right,” Jamal encouraged. “Keep the flat edge toward me.” His whole upper arm was now wreathed in bright red flames. “Feel yourself become one with the blade. Let your blade become a shield, reinforced by your will and determination. Anything approaching you will be diverted by the energy coursing through your blade and just flow around you, like you’re the stone in the middle of a river.”

While Tristan might have loved to have asked a few more questions, he didn’t have time. An arc of fire burst from Jamal’s fist, spreading widely as it hissed through the air, licking and singeing the space between them as it raced toward him.

It’s an area attack, Tristan realized as he caught his breath and braced himself. Then, in what might have been a moment of desperation or blind trust, he tried as hard as he could to embrace exactly what Jamal had said to do: he pushed a part of himself into his blade.

The wave of fire crashed around him an instant later. He felt the temperature rising all around him. He saw the world turn orange and the sand beside his feet melting to glass. And somehow, miraculously, he did not die.

But as he held his blade, he also felt the energy coursing from him into his blade, just like Jamal had guided him to do before. Around the edges of his vision, darkness started to creep in, and he knew his health was still dipping. But he managed to hold his ground. For how long, Tristan couldn’t begin to guess. It felt like forever. He forced the air from his lungs and refused to breathe back in, knowing that if he took a single breath with the air that hot, he’d regret it.

At some point the flames finally passed around his sword, and the world ceased burning, returning to the frigid state that ‘normal’ had never seemed to be before.

Tristan still held his position, though he wasn’t sure he could do anything else. It hurt to move. Even to breathe. The air around him chilled his lungs after the inferno he’d just survived.

His eyes found Jamal, hand still outstretched, but now wearing a look Tristan didn’t recognize. It was something new, something he hadn’t ever seen before on his master’s face. Was he shocked? Was that it? Tristan didn’t know, but that look was the last thing he saw as his body crashed to the ground.

I think I impressed him, Tristan thought with a smile as the cold world went black.