The Broken Halo

Leon was certain he could win.

The stranger hadn’t awakened. Neither had Leon, but his sixteenth birthday was only a few days away, and he had trained since childhood. Rowan looked as though a hard shove would knock him over.

”That’s enough,” the guard said. ”He came to watch.”

”Please let me try.”

Rowan’s answer caught Leon by surprise.

”It’s only a spar. Nobody’s trying to kill anyone.” He glanced toward the wooden swords. ”I’ve just learned something. I want to see if I can do it.”

”Learned something?” the guard asked.

Rowan scratched beside his ear.

”I only found out about foundations today. Everyone here has been preparing for years. I haven’t even started.”

Leon laughed.

”Today? Where have you been living?”

Two students exchanged looks. Someone whispered a question about who Rowan was, but he had already gone to the rack.

Someone on the benches whispered, ”Where’s he from?”

”Who brought him?”

”He doesn’t look rich.”

”How did he get here?”

”Why won’t he know about foundations?”

He chose a short wooden sword and ignored their words.

The instructor approached the guard.

”Are you certain? He doesn’t look fit enough for this class.”

”We can stop them. I’ll be right here.”

The instructor nodded and called Leon forward.

”Light contact. Nothing to the head. Stop when I say so.”

Leon raised his weapon with one hand.

”Try to last longer than a minute.”

Rowan set his feet and Leon moved immediately.

Clang

The first blow nearly knocked the sword out of his hands. He retreated awkwardly, caught the next strike too far along his blade, and stumbled when Leon pushed through his defence.

A tap caught his upper arm.

”Hit. Separate.”

Leon lowered his sword.

”You sure you don’t want to watch some more?”

Rowan rubbed his arm, then adjusted his grip.

The guard expected him to look over, perhaps ask whether he could stop. Instead, Rowan was watching Leon’s hands.

They began again.

For a while, little changed. Rowan blocked late and moved his feet in the wrong order. He tried a swing that left him turning farther than he intended.

Leon laughed and knocked it aside.

Then Rowan stepped around the next attack.

It was a small movement, but the girl with cropped hair noticed. She narrowed her eyes.

Rowan had turned his sword while moving, letting Leon’s blade slip past instead of taking its weight. His return stroke missed, but he finished facing his opponent rather than struggling to recover.

”That was my step,” the girl said.

A student beside her shrugged.

”You weren’t the only one that was taught how to do that.”

Rowan used it again.

This time, Leon had to block the return strike.

The instructor came closer.

Rowan’s feet were finding their places. He was making fewer hurried corrections, and the way he held his sword had changed.

The guard watched his face. The boy looked absorbed, much as he had while sitting through the lesson.

Leon’s grin faded.

He brought his sword down across Rowan’s guard, turned it near his hip, and swept upward from the other side.

Rowan barely avoided the second cut.

Leon immediately raised his weapon to repeat it.

But Rowan attacked first.

Down across the guard. A turn near the hip. Up from the other side.

Leon caught both blows and backed away.

”Stop copying me!”

Several students laughed, expecting another excuse. Then Rowan repeated the sequence, and the laughter dwindled.

He had even adopted the little forward lean Leon used.

The guard spoke without taking his eyes off them.

”Have you taught him before?”

”I’ve never seen him before today.”

The instructor’s answer came quickly.

A wooden blade cracked against another. Rowan gave ground, his shoulders rising with his breath. Sweat dripped from his chin, and he adjusted his grip when his damp fingers slipped.

Yet Leon could no longer hit him.

A boy on the bench got to his feet.

”Where did he learn that?”

”Here,” the girl beside him said.

The instructor had recognised it too.

It was an elementary exercise taught throughout Aurelia, its cuts tracing the slanting rays around a cross. He had demonstrated it twice this morning. A diagonal cut to lift the opposing sword, a step across, then a level stroke through the opening.

Rowan’s version needed work. His balance wavered at the turn, and he held his hands too high.

But the movement was unmistakable.

The instructor watched him attempt it again. Rowan shortened his step and brought his hands lower.

The guard heard the man draw breath beside him.

”What?”

”That’s how I taught my students. But... how?”

He had spent part of the morning correcting students who had practised it for weeks.

Rowan had been sitting on a bench.

The students crowded nearer the boundary. Their teasing had stopped. Even those who had complained about Rowan watching were now following every movement he made.

Leon heard the whispers.

”He couldn’t even stand properly.”

”Look at him now.”

His face burned.

He was stronger. He knew he was stronger. When their swords met directly, Rowan’s wrists shook.

So why was he backing away?

He struck harder.

Rowan moved outside the blow and answered before Leon could recover. The wooden tip of the sword brushed Leon’s sleeve.

Leon looked up.

Rowan was smiling.

It had started as a brief lift at the corners of his mouth. Now a small part of his teeth showed, and the longer they fought, the more he seemed to enjoy it.

His black eyes followed Leon’s wrists, shoulders, and chest.

Leon had never been examined that way by an opponent. Rowan looked at him as he had looked at the practice equipment beside the benches.

A coldness spread through Leon’s stomach.

In his old lesson books, demons smiled over people they were about to kill. For an instant, that was all he could think of.

He checked where the instructor was.

He was close and so was the guard too.

He knew this was a supervised spar.

He wanted it stopped anyway.

But everyone was watching. He had already lost to the girl. Now the frail newcomer was making him retreat, and admitting he was afraid would be worse.

Rowan approached with his sword raised.

Leon braced for the upward stroke he recognised.

The blade came level instead.

He dragged his weapon across to block it and stepped back too quickly. His heel caught his other foot.

As he fell to one knee, his sword dropped.

Rowan’s point came straight toward his chest.

Leon shut his eyes.

The guard stepped in, a hand reaching toward the blade.

Rowan stopped it first.

The point trembled just short of Leon’s shirt. Rowan held it there for a heartbeat, then lowered it, breathing hard.

He had won.

Leon heard the boy speak.

”That was a good fight.”

He opened his eyes.

Rowan had transferred the wooden sword to his other hand. His free hand was stretched out toward Leon.