On the next morning, the sun rose gray and dim. I was going to have to tell the Lords. I wasn’t at all confident that eyesight would heal itself like bruises or twisted knees, and I certainly could not do any training the way I was. Notole, I called, I need to tell-

Good morning, young Lord. Before I could open my thoughts to them, Notole filled my head. Are you tired this morning? We went farther than I had planned in these past days-you are such a delightful student-so eager-and it can be quite wearing when one is starting to develop one’s talent as you are. You mustn’t be concerned about it.

“I was wondering-”

We’ve told your teachers that you need to rest today. Parven took up the conversation. Though his words were pleasant enough, anger rumbled in my belly as he spoke. I will put you to sleep, my young Lord, until such time as you can take up your proper business. My foolish sister has rushed things a bit.

They didn’t let me say anything. Parven laid an enchantment on me, while the three of them talked about other exercises they planned for the next few days. As I drowsed off, it occurred to me that none of them had mentioned anything about my eyes. I had a sense that they knew what was happening, but didn’t want me to know. Why else would they be in such a hurry to send me to sleep? As there were no mirrors anywhere in the Gray House, they wouldn’t think I’d seen it for myself, and no servant would dare speak of it.

At least a day had passed by the time I woke again. I was famished. Once I had eaten, I steeled myself to look in the mirror. Only a trace of gray remained in the brown. I decided that as long as my eyes would turn back right, they weren’t really damaged. I could still go to Notole and learn what she could teach. I needed to know about power and sorcery, so I could be strong enough to do whatever I wanted.

I worked hard at my sword training that day, enjoying moving and fighting after so many days of inactivity. Notole’s lessons were tiring, but as far as I knew my body didn’t move the whole time. Since I had returned from the desert and gotten so preoccupied with sorcery, my fighting skills had shown little improvement. If only I could use a little of my power… I tried making the air thick and heavy around my swordmaster’s blade.

You will not! Parven burst into my head. For now, true power and physical training are two separate aspects of your life, young Lord. You must be able to fight to your maximum capability with every weapon you possess.

“All right, all right.” And so I let the air go back to normal, and I slogged on, practicing one move after another. I trained with my swordmaster all day. Notole said she didn’t want me that night. I wasn’t surprised. The pattern said it would be six or seven days until we ventured out again. The thought of sorcery left me hollow inside, hungry, my skin buzzing like it did when you didn’t get enough sleep. To call down lightning…

That evening after my riding lesson, I took Firebreather for a gallop to help take my mind off of my craving for sorcery. It was near midnight when we got back to the stable, though this time we made the entire journey together. When I led Firebreather into his stall, I wasn’t too surprised to hear a voice from the corner. “Did he behave?”

“He expects oats.”

“Thought he would. I’ve brought some already.”

We rubbed Firebreather down and made sure he had an extra scoop of oats.

The Leiran boy kicked the straw into a pile in the corner of the stall and flopped onto it. “You’ve not been riding much lately.”

“I’ve had other things to do. Have you stayed out of trouble?”

“It came out all to the good. They think I’m a half-wit. Was it you who told ‘em?”

“I might have mentioned it.”

“You’re not the first to notice.” He grinned.

I patted Firebreather’s neck and gathered up my cloak and my pack to go. The Leiran boy glanced at my pack, and then looked away quickly.

“I’ve a packet of field rations in there,” I said. “You wouldn’t want it, would you?”

“If you were ever to run this place, I’d be happy to give you a word or two on improving the cooking.” I tossed him the greasy bag, and he laid back on the straw, groaning in pleasure as he chewed on a leathery strip of dried meat. “Blazes! You can promise Firebreather oats, but if you want to get me anywhere, promise me jack.”

“I don’t have any more tonight.” I rummaged through my bag and found a slightly battered darupe. “You can have this. That’s all I’ve got.”

“I’m not choosy.” He dispatched the fruit in half a heartbeat and tossed the pit over the gate of the stall.

I squatted down beside the gate. “You’re not good at riddles, are you?”

He blinked in surprise. “What makes you ask that?”

“Just seeing the fruit pit… It sounds strange, I know, but it makes me think of a riddle.”

“Never thought I was good at ‘em. Never had much call to. But once I helped somebody figure one out. We did pretty good.”

As the stable lamp faded and sputtered, leaving us sitting in the dark, I told him about the things I’d found in my house. “… So what do you think? Is it the Lords’ puzzle or not?”

The voice coming from across the dark stall was more serious than I expected. “I’d say somebody is trying to tell you something. Somebody that maybe can’t come out and say it for fear you wouldn’t allow it to be said. Not the Lords, though.”

“A slave, you mean?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe it’s not important the who, but only the what.”

“I can’t figure it out. I’ve tried all kinds of solutions using the names of the things, the sizes, the substances; I’ve tried to match their names with other words, but they don’t seem to fit together at all.”

“Maybe they’re just to look at. No secret at all.”

“That sounds like a proper half-wit.”

“Bring me another bag of jack, and I’ll take another guess.”

“Don’t count on it.” I stood up, brushed the straw off my legs, and gave Firebreather another pat. “I’d best go or I’ll fall asleep over my sword in the morning.”

“Did you ever get a swordmaster that could teach you proper?”

“No. I’ve not learned anything new in a month. My swordmaster is a fine fighter, and he makes me work hard. I suppose I’m just not the best pupil.”

“But you want the best sword fighter-one who can teach you and show you, not just make you sweat. Maybe the best one isn’t one of them-the warriors.”

“What do you mean?”

“I heard some of ‘em talking the other day about a new slave, one that fights with the warriors, you know, to practice.”

“A sparring partner? A practice slave?”

“That’s it. They said he’s the best they’ve ever seen. Stayed alive longer than any slave’s ever done before. They’re making him teach them what he knows and not just fight any more. Maybe he’s the one you need.”

“Maybe he is.”

On the next day I asked my swordmaster, Drak, about the practice slave who had lasted longer than any ever had.

“I’ve heard of him. He’s bound to the Wargreve Damon, but still does training matches with other warriors. He’s not likely to last much longer, though. He fights Vruskot this afternoon, and Vruskot hasn’t lost a match in two hundred years. He’s had the Lords burn the words yield and surrender from his mind so he can’t speak them even if he wanted to.”

“I want to watch the match.”

“It could be instructional. Vruskot is well known for his attacks. I’ll demonstrate his basic techniques so you’ll know what to look for. The match will likely be over so fast you’ll miss it.”

We worked until just after midday and then went down to one of the training yards just beyond the warriors’ court. A good-sized crowd of warriors, Drudges, and slaves had gathered on the open side of the yard. Others were jammed around the walls. I wasn’t used to crowds, and it made me uneasy, especially when they parted to let me stand at the front.

It wasn’t difficult to decide which was Vruskot. I had learned early on that the Zhid didn’t age. They remained the same age at which they had been transformed, and it took a considerable wound to kill one. But there was something recognizable about the oldest Zhid. They were like old trees with rough bark that you just knew had the hardest, thickest wood and had stood up through every kind of storm. Though he looked no more than thirty or forty, Vruskot was very old. He wasn’t tall, but he had exceptionally long arms, knotted with muscles. His thighs were like tree trunks, and like all of the Zhid, his eyes were pale and empty.

Lots of slaves were standing along the walls, most of them personal attendants of high-ranking warriors. I couldn’t pick out the one who was to fight. He must be huge and fierce to have lasted so long. And he would be controlled, not allowed to wander about. But the only slave who wasn’t someone’s servant was sitting by the wall with his eyes closed and his head bowed as if he were asleep or afraid. A chain ran from his collar to the iron ring embedded in the stone wall above his head.

Sure enough, when a Zhid detached the chain from his collar, he stood up immediately. He was tall, topping Vruskot by a head. His shoulders and arms were big, sun-darkened to the color of old leather and criss-crossed with scars, but he didn’t look half so strong as the Zhid. Although he was lean and hard, built well for fighting, he didn’t have the look of a warrior. He was just another slave, standing there barefoot and quiet as his hands were un-manacled, keeping his eyes cast down as if he were scared to look at a real fighter. They weren’t going to allow him armor, so he stood barefoot on the blistering ground while Vruskot donned a thick leather cap, greaves, and a light mail shirt over his well-used gambeson. I would have bet my eyes the slave could never even scratch Vruskot.

But everything changed when they put the sword in the slave’s hand. He raised his head, and you would have thought his skin had turned to steel. It wouldn’t have surprised me to see a sword strike glance off his bare arms, or his eyes shoot off sparks. The small round shield they gave him seemed hardly necessary.