The Stairs of Tulamanta

A few of the Triempery stories on this site are prequels. This is a prequel story of Dorilian Sordaneon and how he met Legon Rebiran.

Legon is Dorilian's oldest friend. He and Dorilian met as children. What about these two young people clicked?

The story also brings in a bit of lore. There's an ancient portal, the Stone Door, in Askorras, probably a dead Aryati transdimensional gate, through which it is rumored people can sometimes glimpse events past or future.

Only minor spoilers in this story.

“The Sordaneon Heir lost his mother. I’m not going to have you standing before him looking like you lost yours.”

Father’s sharp tug snapped the uncooperative fabric around Legon’s neck and into its proper place. Legon turned his head, disliking the stiff silk and gold lace collar that scratched at his skin. He glared at his chortling brothers.

“Legon did lose his mother,” said the foremost and most hulking of the brothers. There were five of them, gathered near the window. “We all did. Maybe Sordan’s precious Heir should know that.”

“Mind your mouth, boy.”

The brothers snickered. Patros had been running his mouth at Father for as long as any of them could remember. He was two and twenty and by far the oldest. He’d also been on a rant for a week, ever since Bas Terveryan, their father, had received a communication from Teremar about seeking young noble sons to be considered as possible companions for the Heir to the Sordan Hierarchate. Boys from all the domains of Sordan’s empire would be contending for the chance to attend the Highborn prince. Though famously frugal, Terveryan had ordered three sets of costly clothing with which to drape his youngest son for presentation. Now Legon suffered being primped and outfitted like some fancy gift.

“You look fine enough,” Terveryan pronounced. He ceased pulling at the fabric—he only had one hand—and signaled to the clothier. With crisp, clipped words, he ordered the ensembles now scattered about the room to be packed for travel. He then departed the chamber with his senior retainers to prepare other aspects of his trip to the capital.

While the clothier deftly unbuttoned the fancy doublet for removal, Legon eyed his brothers as they stepped in his direction. Each brother was bigger than the one who followed and was crowned by the same sun bright gold hair.

“Just as well you’re going away,” Patros said. He scowled as he fingered the elegant cutwork on one of Legon’s sleeves. “Look at all this frippery. Don’t start getting high ideas about your place.”

“I don’t have a place,” said Legon, parroting what their father had told him. “I have to earn one.”

“Slim chance of that,” snorted Belleos, the second oldest and already tallest. “Father’s not important enough. They only invited him to honor some old treaty. The Sordaneon Heir is looking for companions who can help or protect him, and Leg here’s too small and scrawny to be anything but bear bait.”

“I’m still growing,” was Legon’s defense. At seven years, he was not only the youngest but by far the smallest. His size, or lack of it, put him at a disadvantage when his brothers ganged up on him in games.

“Truth,” said Ebban, who was older than Legon by only a year. “Just gave up a full suit of clothes to him last week.” Ebban had a crooked leg from an injury that had healed badly and didn’t get dragged into fights as often as Legon, so his clothing was in better repair.

“Getting knocked down is no shame so long as you get back up to keep fighting.” Patros continued to grimace at the garments the clothier’s assistants were packing away. The expense of these purchases promised that the brothers’ wardrobes would get less coin this season. To Legon he said, “Make a good impression, if you can. Don’t give Father reason to come back angry about not having produced impressive sons.”

“We don’t need him going to Askorras just to bring back fancy ideas,” said Belleos.

“Better yet,” sniggered Attos, the third-born, “don’t make it so Father has to bring you back.”

Legon’s brothers laughed and punched arms, each trying to one up the other in issuing tips on how Legon should present himself. They followed their prognostications with dire warnings about not offending anyone by putting on airs. It was good advice, The youngest son of a man who ruled a region as remote and poor as Anit-Rebir had nothing to put on airs about except a few goats.

Legon assisted the clothiers with removing his new shoes and nodded and stayed silent.

“It will not be the Heir you must impress,” Terveryan intoned solemnly. “Dorilian is just a boy. You must earn the regard of his grandfather, the Thrice Royal Prince of Teremar, Sebbord Teremareon.”

Upon hearing his father’s words, Legon stood straighter and lifted his head. He would be meeting the mighty, but he hoped above all else to make his father proud. For the two weeks of their journey from the family seat in Skallis, Terveryan had been an impatient presence—cold and demanding, forever tormenting Legon with questions or testing his skills. Legon had listened endlessly to tales of Terveryan’s past glory as part of the Sordaneon Hierarch’s court and how Terveryan had lost his right forearm at Permephedon, defending the Hierarch against Esseran usurpers.

Legon wasn’t sure but thought that Terveryan had been sent home in disgrace. He’d overheard it from the pig boy back home.

But at least Father was familiar, which was not the case with anything else about Askorras. Legon and Terveryan waited with dozens of strangers, standing on stone beneath a hot bright sky. Every so often Legon tugged at the hem of his scarlet tunic and straightened a fold of his elegant blue mantle.

“The Heir is the same age as you,” Terveryan continued to coach in a low voice as they awaited their turn. Like the other fathers attending, Terveryan wore a rich mantle, though he used his to obscure his missing hand and arm. “He’s Thrice Royal and old enough to have his own household. As things stand, you have no future at my court. I have neither sufficient lands to bestow upon you nor coin to provide you with either a living or a wife. You would end your days serving whichever of your brothers ends up on my seat or be booted out of the house. Entering royal service is your best chance at a career.”

Even that chance was slim. Though his family was noble and pureblood, Legon as a sixth son was so far removed from the possibility of succeeding to his father’s title that he barely counted at all. Unless he wished to enter the Damarose Redoubt as a Cibulitan Initiate, Legon’s options were few. The military, perhaps, though he would have to persuade either his father or brothers to procure for him a good horse and gear. Little else remained. The sons of nobles, even if too low to inherit, were punished if they pursued robbery or trade.

Not far away, on the palace court before the viewing stand, some of the other boys being presented that day sparred with weapons, intent on showing off their skills. Legon hoped he might get a chance to do so. Despite having endured endless taunts, he had learned much from having five brothers against whom to vie against in games. Though Legon seldom won, he didn’t always lose.

When Terveryan’s turn came to present Legon as a candidate, father and son walked together onto the swept sandstone floor in front of the red-painted dais. Behind the dais rose the sunbaked walls and majestic columns of a great palace. Awnings striped with gold swept above the raised platform atop ivory columns. The two chairs being shaded were painted gold also. Legon noted that the chairs were of the same size and placed on the same level. The older man seated there looked impressive, much more so than Legon’s father, straight and tall with silver-bright hair and golden eyes. Terveryan whispered a name. Sebbord, Prince of Teremar. A man descended from the gods. Not wanting to be caught gaping, Legon looked at the other chair. At Sebbord’s side sat a boy from whom those same gods seemed to have withheld every excellent quality. Small and hunched, cursed with bronzed skin and hair of a mousy beige, Sordan’s Heir looked more like a laborer’s son than a prince. Sullen eyes the color of storm-clouds latched onto Legon’s unbidden stare. The boy’s gaze assailed Legon with anger and resentment.

The Heir didn’t want to be here either.

Dorilian Sordaneon was the most unpleasant creature Legon had ever encountered.

“Most Noble Terveryan,” Sebbord acknowledged. Even as Legon continued to hold Dorilian’s icy stare, he marveled at Sebbord’s voice, deep with vowels as rolling as the hills that surrounded his palace. “You do us a great honor to present us with one of your sons.”

“May he be of more use to you than he is to me,” Terveryan said. “Legon is of good quality, as was his mother, and obedient as you may remember was her nature also. He can read and is versed in history, not so much in poetry. I would match him against any other lad in weapons, wrestling, and horsemanship.”

The Heir’s gaze hardened. Legon tensed and barely succeeded at not flinching as something inside his head, talon-sharp, gripped into his brain—a feeling that moved fingernail-like across his awareness. All his life Legon, like every noble, like every person, had heard tales of the godborn and their gifts, foremost of which was that they could read minds. It had not occurred to Legon that even the young ones could do it. Jaw clenched, Legon hardened his own stare to show the other boy he disliked the feeling.

Sebbord was sounding magnanimous. Royal. “Dorilian’s companions will attend the Academy with him here at Tulamanta and accompany him through his education and weapons training. They will observe all laws, all bans, no exemptions. Each companion chosen will be provided housing and meals in the palace but will be responsible for their own clothing and equipment, as well as their own attendants or expenses.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Legon saw Terveryan’s head dip with agreement. “Understood, Thrice Royal. Legon has his own horse and servant and will be no burden.”

Legon couldn’t tell if Sebbord felt the falsehood in that statement. He was locked in staring at Dorilian, whose gaze had narrowed to angry slits that all but shouted of feeling the lie. That there would be no gold or servant, just the dull insult of poverty.

Nor was Terveryan finished. “I am leaving Legon here, Thrice Royal, whether you choose him or not. Train him for the guards or use him for sword practice if that is the only purpose for which he is fit.”

A smirk pulled at the neat, too perfect corner of Dorilian’s mouth. Shame burned what remained of Legon’s pride. The only thing he had left was that he had not, and would never, yield first by breaking gaze.

And yet he did, because Terveryan’s one hand was strong and its heavy grasp on Legon’s elbow tightened into pain. That pain compelled Legon to join his father in lowering his head. Eyes cast downward, he bent his neck and then his body in a deep bow to Prince Sebbord and the insufferable—now triumphant—Dorilian. Step by lowly step, father and son backed away in ignominious retreat. Their audience was over. Legon was certain whatever came next could not possibly be worse.

 Still arrayed in rank, Legon and his father stayed for the remaining introductions, after which a few of the other fathers approached to speak with Terveryan. A few said nice things to Legon, introduced their sons, and wished him well. Afterward, head high and striding with purpose, Terveryan marched Legon away from the gathering, toward the grass-roofed barns where the Rebirans and their small contingent of guards had stabled their horses the night before. At the back of nearest barn Terveryan shoved Legon around a corner and against the stone wall.

“You had one chance to impress—”

“I had none at all!” Legon twisted from his father’s grip. “The Heir didn’t like me. He stared at me with loathing the whole time.”

“Because you were surly and cheerless and showed nothing to him—to any of them—worth having! Who would want to look upon such as you every day?”

Tears stinging his eyes, Legon pressed against the hard stone wall and made no move that would scrape or mar his fine clothes. Not wanting to cry, he closed his eyes, squeezing tightly. He wished he could tell his father how desperately he wanted to be here, wanted to be chosen—even if it meant being around that hard-eyed boy. Legon wanted anything but to go back to Anit-Rebir in disgrace. His brothers would never let him live down such a dishonor, and his father had just shown he wouldn’t either.

“I but need a chance to prove myself,” Legon argued. His eyes still stung and his throat felt thick. Unwilling to meet his father’s eyes, he looked instead at the straw speckled ground. “I will show the worth of the house of Rebir, Father. I promise.”

“Then prove yourself. There will be a week of contests and inquisitions. I may attend some matches. At the very least try to perform well in those. Prince Sebbord has arranged for me a room in the palace. You will bunk in the barracks with the other boys. I have ordered Memmek to attend you, so that you make a proper impression.”

Memmek was old and simple, Terveryan’s house slave, but at least Legon would not have to launder his own clothes or carry his own gear. And being in a barracks with other boys surely would resemble living with his brothers. Already things had taken a turn for the better.

Legon didn’t mind the barracks. Eight boys bunked in a room on eight narrow cots, each with a pallet at its foot for an attendant. A more knowledgeable boy, whose father was from one of Teremar’s noble houses, pronounced them to be junior officer’s quarters. Eight boys resided in this one, and there were two barracks. So sixteen boys, plus four lads sufficiently lofty to be housed in the palace. As was the Heir, Dorilian, who had too many servants for a barracks.

“He’s godborn.” Xander, the knowledgeable boy, informed Legon and the other lads assigned to their barracks. Xander’s father stood high at the Prince of Teremar’s court, and Xander had been tutored at the palace in Askorras. “Rill blood in his veins. Dorilian lives in an entire wing of the palace and sleeps on sheets of gold.”

Legon thought that last part unlikely. Gold could be beaten so thin it might be folded like sheets, but gold of any kind would make poor bedding. Too soft, too dense, too heavy. If Dorilian would lay on such a sheet the gold would most likely break and poke him. Or he would overheat and wake up bathed in sweat. Having finished that thought, Legon sat on the edge of his cot and continued to listen to Xander being pelted with questions. After all, the lad claimed to know—or at least to have encountered—Dorilian in person, which was more than any of the rest of the boys could say.

“What’s he like?”

“Rich.”

“No one cares about that,” another boy said. “We know that already. We need to know what he’s looking for.”

Xander snickered. “Quality, you idiots. Don’t get smart with Dorilian or try to show him up. You can’t and he won’t let you. And you can’t outride him either. Just tell him what he wants to hear and do what he wants you to do. We’re not going to engage with him anyway, only each other. Show our quality. Dorilian wants only the best. The toughest. The strongest. Champions at his side. A Sordaneon deserves only the highest.”

Legon drank in those words, certain they held the key to the rest of his life. Only the highest. He needed to be that.

The boys took to exchanging information. Their fathers. Their domains. Legon had heard of most of them. He reasoned that some of the boys were sure to be chosen whether they excelled or not, simply because their fathers were so high.

“What about you?” Xander challenged. Tall and sturdy, with wavy gold hair cut in martial layers, he planted himself in front of Legon the better to look down at him. “Where are you from?”

“Rebir.”

Xander’s face scrunched with a question. “Where’s that?”

Another boy laughed. “Far away up in the mountains to the north. His father rules mostly goats and vultures.”

And fierce tribesmen and high monasteries, Legon could have told them. And star emeralds. But he didn’t have any of any of those things on hand to show.

Xander kicked at the brown bundle on the floor at Legon’s feet. “This shabby gear yours? Won’t protect you much.”

The armor was leather and meant only for practice, not war. “It’ll do well enough,” Legon muttered. He didn’t like Xander putting him down.

Neither did another boy. “Cut it out. He’s here like us, trying out.”

“Prince Sebbord’s invitation,” another added.

“His father’s a Bas, which is more than yours is,” said a third boy, named Bersyas, whose grandfather was a Bas also.

“Oh yeah?”

Xander turned on Bersyas and, chest to chest, the boys moved to the room’s center, where the argument continued, accompanied by shoving. Legon barely listened. Argument was pointless. Fathers wouldn’t matter in the selection to begin in the morning, neither Legon’s father nor anyone else’s. The only thing where fathers mattered had been for getting an invitation. Everything else would depend on the boys and the trials to which they were being subjected—which Legon knew to mean his fate depended on him. Fighting each other in the barracks, Xander or anyone, would accomplish nothing.

Contests filled the next three mornings. Footraces. Riding. Swordplay. Legon trailed most of the other runners on foot, but he held his own at riding and weapons. His Rebir-bred gelding was small and common, but Legon rode him well. Aristocratic lads from richer domains had more elegant and faster horses and they made a stronger showing because most of the boys were outfitted with better gear. The same went for combat, but what Legon lacked in gear he made up for in skill; his brothers had provided him with more practice at fighting with swords than most of the other boys would ever see. He intended to win every fight he entered. For some reason Xander and some like-minded boys he’d recruited into a gang found this amusing. It became part of their game to make sure Legon lost.

They did so even in the symposium where Legon did not excel. His reading and writing were adequate but unrefined and his mathematics were a weakness. He knew it and before long Xander and gang made sure all the other boys and everyone else knew, especially the tutors. Rhetoric completely escaped Legon too because he was uncomfortable speaking in front of others. He scored high only on his ability to quote from hoary old texts. Every day Legon was not in a classroom was pure relief.

On the sixth day the boys lined up on the swept earth of a small amphitheater. No audience filled the stone seats, only Prince Sebbord and the Heir along with a few members of their household. The stern warrior who had been conducting the contest stood before the boys with his arms held behind his back, his armor agleam in the sun. Xander and some other boys already regarded him with awe. The man’s name was Tutto Rhunnard and his skin was so brown and leathered Legon was sure Tutto had to have been out in the sun his whole life. Even more impressively, the man’s many scars could only have been caused by terrible wounds. War, then. Tutto knew firsthand what it was like to fight for more than just shallow kudos.

“Today,” Tutto’s rough voice rose above the attentive boys, “you will demonstrate the pairing of the Sword and the Shield.”

A thrill sang along Legon’s nerves. Finally. This pairing was storied... and sacred. A Cibulitan scholar who had stopped in Skallis while on pilgrimage to the Damarose Monastery had demonstrated this martial discipline to Terveryan and his sons. They had spent a whole week practicing. Legon hoped his familiarity meant he would perform well now.

“The Sword,” Tutto continued, “is the element of attack. His path must be clear. It is the Shield’s role to create and maintain that path. In battle that means to prevent anyone or anything from impeding the Sword. This will be your exercise today. You will choose pairs. The Sword always chooses his Shield. If you choose to be a Sword, choose your Shield wisely. If you are chosen to be a Shield, preserve your Sword.”

The boys turned, seeking partners. Xander smirked. “I’m a Sword and I choose Legon.”

Of course Xander fancied himself a Sword. Legon glared but all the other boys had paired also. Quickly. He had moved too slowly. Probably the other boys were simply glad Xander had picked on Legon and not them. Tutto passed around wooden shields and Legon took his.

After adjusting the strap and grip on his shield, Legon drew his blunt practice weapon. Standing at Xander’s side, he listened to Tutto instruct that Shields protected Swords, that it was every Shield’s job to make sure no attack upon their Sword got through. Parry. Press. Block. Teams gained points for every Sword they took down. As the pairs took positions on the field, Legon envisioned a flurry of protective maneuvers and took his stance.

Instead something swift and hard hooked his leg from behind and sent him onto his ass. Stunned, Legon looked up at Xander who, grinning, now parried Bersyas, the Sword that Legon had been charged to block. The stocky boy who was Bersyas’s Shield simply stood there looking helpless.

Face hot with embarrassment at having been caught off-guard, Legon jumped back onto his feet. His job—his only job—was to protect Xander. Shield forward and sword in hand, he charged against Bersyas. Putting his shoulder behind the wooden shield, he blocked one sword swing and pushed Bersyas back a step, only for Xander to swipe at Legon again, this time at both legs, sending him to the ground.

“No,” Xander hissed. “I get the kill!”

Xander’s practice blade caught Bersyas in the ribs. The soldier assessing their match called the touch. Another Sword accompanied by a Shield took the defeated boy’s place. And Legon, once again on to his feet, took his. Jaw clenched with determination, he slammed his body into that of the opponent’s Shield and parried a blow aimed at Xander.

This time Xander and the other Sword ganged up and pushed Legon down.

“Just us!” Xander crowed.

Legon locked gaze with the other Shield, a squint-eyed boy who, scowling, rained blows down on Legon while his Sword went after Xander.

Xander laughed and danced back, parrying the other boy’s weapon and showing off his skill. Legon tripped the Shield attacking him and delivered a solid stab to the lad’s thigh that the officiating soldier called a hit. Cursing now, Legon rolled, placing himself in front of Xander, and stood, shield lifted. The other Sword’s blow bounced off with a clunk.

With a clean, neat stroke, Xander landed a blow.

“Two!” Xander announced. To Legon, he snapped, “Back off!”

“I can’t defend you if you keep knocking me down!”

“And I can’t score kills if you keep getting in the way!”

Legon wasn’t about to stop fulfilling his duty. He held a shield. He used it to push aside the next Shield that attacked him and did his best to block the Sword, an inept boy but high-ranking, who Xander stepped around Legon to neatly mock skewer. At least this time Xander hadn’t knocked Legon to the ground.

But Xander did it with the next attack and the one after that. If Legon didn’t stand aside enough to allow Xander to show off his exceptional swordplay, Xander put him to the dirt and showed off that way. With every fall Legon gathered more dirt on his armor and skin, more dust on his teeth. With every fall, he coughed and pushed to his feet again, still holding his shield.

When the trumpet blew the game to have ended, Xander and Legon had the high score. No accolade accompanied the accomplishment. No ribbon. Just dismissal and a chance to retreat to the barracks to clean up.

Xander’s gang laughed and praised him.

“How many was it? Ten?” one excited boy cried.

“Four,” Legon grumbled.

“It was six,” said Xander, “they only counted four.”

“Legon couldn’t see the score because he had dirt in his eyes the whole time,” sniggered one of the other Swords. More howls followed.

“... on his ass!”

“... eating sand!”

Xander’s hard, unyielding stare told Legon that the other boy understood how important Legon’s efforts had been to his victory that day, and also that Xander was never going to credit him. Instead Xander laughed and joked with the others, calling Legon’s contribution into question. The boys who wanted no part of that retreated to the gymnasium and the bath. Putting away his armor and weapon, Legon followed.

“You shouldn’t put up with it,” Bersyas said. He and Legon sat at the poolside, their bodies rosy pink after having scraped oil from their limbs.

“I have to. I can strike anyone but him.” Legon ran a hand over his upper arm. It was his shield arm and though the skin was smooth and soft from the oil, the muscle underneath was sore.

Bersyas’s brows drew together and his gaze on Legon sharpened. “Well, I hope you have some plan for revenge. That glorified turd is going to choose you again, you know. He announced it to everyone.”

Legon frowned.

“He likes to torment people. And you make it easy.”

“I help him win. I blocked at least four hits.”

“Sure, but that’s not why he does it. You’re smaller than he is. He can push you around. He’s humbling you to make himself look better.” Bersyas looked toward the far end of the gymnasium, where Xander and the other boys had joined in and now frolicked in the pool, naked and splashing each other.

“You could choose me.” Legon had noticed that Bersyas was good with a sword, possibly even better than Xander. Short of Tutto ordering a change of partners, Legon didn’t think he’d be given a chance—by any of the boys—of becoming a Sword himself.

“Challenge Xander? Why? I don’t want to fight him.”

Neither did Legon. He kicked at the water. “Why does everyone want to be a Sword? The Heir is looking for a Shield.” That conclusion alone made sense. A Sordaneon, bound to the Rill, was always going to be a Sword.

The corner of Bersyas’s mouth quirked down. “Because Dorilian will find a Shield, several if he wants, but he will be needing generals too.”

“You want to be a general?”

“Of course!” Bersyas proclaimed with great enthusiasm. “Don’t you?”

Legon furrowed his brows. “I don’t know. All the generals I ever heard about ended up dead.”

“So do Shields.”

That was true.

Bersyas continued. “I would like to be a great general. Generals wear the best armor and ride the best horses. My family would be proud of me, and I could fight the Esserans, make Sordan free again.”

Legon had less lofty ambitions. He wanted only to not go back to Skallis in shame. After today, he also wanted to knock Xander on his ass. The final Sword and Shield drill was to be the next day, and it was imperative that Legon show well. He would have to suffer, and endure, and make the most of Xander showing off.

Legon cleaned his leather armor of dirt and conditioned it to a soft sheen; he also polished the dull blade of his practice sword. The bastard metal looked the part, not at all bright and without much of an edge, but it could still do damage if wielded with malice. Legon carried bruises from the practice weapons of other boys, and he was certain he’d delivered some in return. Though a touch was all that was needed in practice, there was always the temptation to deliver blows as if in actual combat. Legon had vowed from the start to bear every blow as if in combat: without complaint, never ceasing the fight, never showing sign of weakness.

The next day the sun beat down just as fiercely as it had each of the days before, creating a hot and merciless playing field. Tutto again passed around shields. Legon again slid his forearm through the sturdy strap and grasped the leather grip. Xander had chosen him again.

“Make me shine, vulture-bait.” Xander delivered the order quietly, while stretching with practice sword thrusts. He prided himself on his stances.

Legon could have taken him down in two moves. Instead Legon would spend his effort preventing other Swords or Shields from doing so. Like it or not, his job was to keep Xander from getting touched, not make Xander look like a better soldier than he actually was.

Tutto barked for the contest to begin. Dust rose as the ranks of armed boys converged. Previous encounters had taught Legon more and better moves with his shield, and he blocked and downed the first two opponents who focused on him and Xander. Legon’s sword touched the Shield who went for his legs, and he then thrust the heavy shield hard against the encroaching Sword, knocking him onto his ass.

“I almost had him!” Xander snarled. He looked around for fresh targets before fixing a narrow gaze on Legon. “Stay out of my way!”

“No!”

Xander advanced toward a noble lad named Deleus and that boy’s Shield. Legon doggedly kept his position. Not at the Sword’s side, but in front, in the path of harm. He looked also to the rear, to be certain no opponent had gotten behind them. A muffled growl announced Xander’s displeasure.

“You stupid—”

A boot drove hard to the back of Legon’s knee, then hooked his foot when he stumbled. He sprawled onto the dirt at Deleus’s feet. Deleus lunged with his sword at an easy mark. Legon rolled just in time for the thrust to miss and also to see a laughing Xander land a hard touch on Deleus’s ass.

“There!” Xander snapped to Legon. “That’s how it’s done.”

Xander had sabotaged his own Shield to create a distraction. Or maybe he’d hoped an opponent would take Legon out. Xander wanted nothing more than to fight on his own, look like a hero. Sending a murderous look Xander’s way, Legon jumped back onto his feet, untouched, sword and shield again ready. “Never do that!” he yelled.

“I got him, didn’t I?”

Deleus and his Shield had trotted off the field. Two Swords, both friends of Xander, and their Shields crowded near. Three other pairs approached. Legon watched as Xander exchanged nods with his pals. He searched Xander’s face for a clue to what was going on.

“You’re a shit Shield,” one of the other Shields said. He stepped in front of Legon, blocking him from staying at Xander’s side.

The second Sword’s Shield also stepped in. “Let them show.”

Legon sought to push through them, then to step around them. But they barred his way. Wooden shields knocked against him, pushing Legon down. He fell back on his ass. Before he could roll to his thigh and onto his feet, one of the Shields touched him with a sword.

Legon cursed. He should have gotten the touch first. But he’d been caught by surprise, noting the alliance and not thinking it would be turned against him. Thrice-cursed Xander! And these boys with him! And then Xander was there too, sneering down at him. Spittle hit Legon’s cheek, mixing with a layer of dirt and drying almost instantly in the heat.

“You’re pathetic.” Xander had clearly gotten more touches somehow. He looked triumphant. The other Swords were out. The game appeared to have ended. Legon watched as Xander walked away.

Pride wounded and not knowing what else to do, Legon rolled and pushed to his feet again. He picked up his fallen sword and shield. He stood alone on the field. The other boys stood elsewhere, talking to each other and clapping arms with congratulations at jobs well done.

All at once there was no talking. Movement ceased except for everyone turning to look Legon’s way. No, they looked past him. Someone had come down from the viewing stand. Dorilian walked onto the field and crossed it toward Legon. He stopped when he came within a few feet.

That Dorilian was shorter than the other boys had been concealed by his never standing beside them. So too the fact that he was handsomely made and his bearing at once confident and regal. Legon met a gaze as piercing as a silver knife.

“Why?” Dorilian asked. He had a boy’s voice, bright and true, and he spoke with princely command. “Your Sword mocks your efforts. You wear his spittle on your face. Why do you keep fighting, day after day, to defend him?”

What answer but the truth. “He is my duty.”

Legon held Dorilian’s gaze until, a moment later, it released him. Dorilian turned his back on everyone and walked back to the viewing stand, at the bottom step of which Sebbord now waited. Dorilian looked up at his tall grandfather.

“I want him,” Dorilian said.

#

The stairs of Tulamanta leading from the palace at Askorras faced west, toward Sordan and the sea and the edge of the World, toward the setting sun. It was said that if the time of day and every aspect of every star was right, and the Second Creation aligned with the phantom City of Mulsor, then a person who looked through the winged, ornate Stone Door on the first landing might glimpse the future. Or maybe the past. Or maybe other worlds.

Legon had made a point of sitting on the Stairs and looking into the Stone Door at different times of day for a full week and seen nothing. He sat there now. Staring.

Dorilian walked over and sat beside him. Now that competitions and evaluations were over and their outcomes decided, Dorilian no longer felt hostile. Neither did he feel like any other boy Legon had ever met. When near Dorilian, Legon felt the World come alive. Even now as Legon looked out across the rolling landscape with its fields of flowers and groves of trees, he saw its colors anew. Brighter, an entire tapestry of exciting possibilities awaiting only to be explored. Dorilian also didn’t smell like other boys, not ever, never dirty or sharp but always clean somehow, like morning in the mountains.

Following the two weeks of contests, seven boys had been chosen to become Dorilian’s companions. They’d been announced an hour ago. One choice, Dorilian’s cousin Deleus, who would someday be Heir to Suddekar, had surprised no one. Legon was pleased that Bersyas had been among the others. Legon was also pleased that he’d been chosen first and that Xander had not been chosen at all. Best of all had been to see Terveryan beam with pride and proclaim himself ready to leave his youngest son behind when he returned to Rebir.

“They’ll have to do, I suppose,” Dorilian said, chin in hands as he too looked upon the Stone Door. He sounded resigned.

Legon gave him a questioning look.

“Grandfather thinks I need other people to round me out.”

That sounded like something an adult might force upon a boy. Legon pondered it. “Why did you choose me?”

“You were the best fighter. You could have taken Xander down at any time, had you wanted to. I saw. But you didn’t, even though he kept making you go down just to make himself look good. And every time he did that, you got back up and kept defending him. No matter what.” Dorilian gazed upon Legon with eyes painted by the setting sun. “I think maybe you can be my Shield.”

Legon fought a smile. He asked the question he’d been wondering for days. “Are you a Sword?”

“I’m Sordaneon. I will need to be.” Dorilian rose and walked back to the palace. Straight and small, casting a long shadow before him.

Legon resumed staring at the Stone Door. The portal stood empty, hollow. A mere passageway for mortals. But before Dorilian had arrived the Stone Door had spilled images onto its sides and floor, filled the very space it created. Legon had seen Dorilian a thousand-fold. Dorilian... and Sordan... and the Rill. Swords and sorcery... snow and blood.

I know what you will be, Legon thought, rising to his feet so that he might follow Dorilian into the palace, where a celebration feast awaited. And I know what I will be too.

I will be your Shield.

I am going to save your life.

There's a character note for Legon that provides more information about him and his relationship with Dorilian. Their Shield and Sword dynamic continues through the series.