Only a thin paper wall separated my room inside Silk-Bite Keep from my charge's. Like every morning, I awoke one bell before sunrise -- and two before her. I crawled up naked from the sleeping mat and pushed myself upright by the knuckles of my fist.
First, the unarmed moves. Stretches, into the dance of the webbed bird. Leg-sweeps, kicks and punches. Advanced figures, and then the warrior's prayer. I did not allow the memories of sleep to intrude on my mediations, and the exertions did not soil the trials for my aching body.
The blade training, however, cannot be done in the nude. The water on the washing table, delivered the night before, felt biting cold -- as always. I cleaned myself and exhaled. The wet rag touched my coiled muscles, and in my mind's eye, I centred the heat of my beating heart. The biting memories of ice-floed mountain brooks sharpened away the remaining tiredness.
I dressed myself only in my tight training trousers and then approached the stands. The wood and straw and silk. Their carved and gilded ornamentations were the only extravagances in the clean, bright room. A man-high mannequin stored my armour, and my three blades were sorted by size on the rack beside. The antlered helmet sat alone on its bust.
Affixing the lacquered plates of bitewood without help would have never been practicable, so I weighed myself down by strapping the shellbreaker over my shoulder instead. The straps bit my flesh where old scars reminded me of the times my training had failed me. The graceful lessons of the Nightshade, and the graceless lessons of lesser shades. The price paid for guarding the Mist Scars, and later my charge's life.
Custom calls the warrior's one-handed swords our honour, and some poets even do so with skill. I have never called one of mine anything but a tool. My first broke during my schooling with the Turtle, and I lost two more patrolling the Scars. To the world, my honour remains unbroken, and my own regrets do not relate to shattered metal.
Still, gripping the hilt in morning twilight, there is a sense of calm and awe which none should deny. I did not bow, nor perform any other ritual. The weapon would not have cared, and if it did I imagine it would delight in skill. I began my dance by bending my knees into the swoop.
Swoop and soar. The moves of the Three Talon Technique. Done slower, and repeated until sweat started to stain my brow. Even thin metal tires the arm, and I gripped the blade with both hands. The Turtle do not name their chops, their all-breaking attacks. I moved as if holding the shellbreaker, as if the blade was heavy enough to cut down an armoured opponent with a single swing. A last strain, the light weapon back in my right; the explosion into the Seven Beaks. Quick thrusts, yet precise. I caught my breath and returned both weapons to their stands.
After, I cleansed myself again. I shaved off the silver stubbles of my beard and applied oils to my face and arms. Comb and silken ribbons tamed my hair into a tail. Our stay demanded I pay some attention to my face, so I drew black lines over my brows and dabbed a shade of ochre on my temple. I then laid out my clothes and prepared the sword belt.
Rested on my knees, dressed in my flowing mistweave pants and the blue and grey robe embroidered with twigs and blades, I waited for her. My left hand opened like the rising flame, and my right lingered on the hilt of the soul. Yet the tranquil nest escaped me. Soil-bound dreams had returned. Lubricious images, a curse of our human sides, plague many a warrior but reading the leather-bound pillow book had been weakness. Seeing beauty, I had wished it degraded. Waiting still and betraying no emotion, I nonetheless longed to return mortal signs to the waiting pages.
She always rose under the cover of sunlight. During the final thrusts, I had glanced her naked shadow dance on the white screen. Her station demanded a more involved style of clothing, and her ability to don the swing-sleeve dress without a human's aid had always impressed me. She opened the sliding door. Her face was painted white, and a few dots of elegant colour paid respect to ancient custom. And to our host's sensibilities. Birds, silver-stitched and pearly-eyed, played on the House-colours of her dress. Only the short soul-sword was hefted to her side.
I stood and bowed. "Good morning, Blossom, my Lady," I said. She gave me a nod. At court, her smile would be flawless, but for me, she dared to scowl. "Bad dreams?" I asked.
"Not enough sleep, Thorn, my brother."
"You work too hard, Blossom, my sister."
It was enough to make her smile. "And yet I never seem to work enough," she mumbled. I fell behind her, but she waved me close. "And I am babbling. What is on your mind, Thorn, my brother?"
I gave the less inappropriate answer. "The waiting, Blossom, my sister. Whisper and cabal test my patience at the best of times..."
"And yet you chose this assignment."
"Liking it more than fighting the shadow-touched and the lingering is not an endorsement."
She snapped open her fan, but joy sparked deep in her dark eyes.
"And you are most pleasant company, Blossom, my sister."
"D'aw."
I cleared my throat. "But. But waiting for the outlander is worse. I understand the need for diplomacy -- as you understand the need for warfare. And my personal misgivings aside, I know why we walk among the Spiders. But I do not understand why we should trouble ourselves with distant shores. And to wait like this is an insult."
"And yet the Dragon Empresses have paid tribute to these 'outlanders' since time immemorial. Surely, you have not forgotten, Thorn, my brother?"
"I have not. It is yet more proof of their arrogance. I cannot fathom why the Empress sees the need to humble herself like this, but..."
She hit me with her fan. Anyone else I might have blocked, but this attack left me flat-footed. "Are you mad?" she whispered. "The walls have ears, and you have gone from delightfully grumpy to blasphemous."
The whack did smart, but the shame hurt worse. "Forgive me, Blossom, my Lady. My thoughts are soiled this morning."
She relaxed. "I don't think anyone heard. Else we might decide that you started drinking early." I winced, but she rambled on. "Even if you were right, Thorn, my brother, it would be one more reason to gain the envoy's favour. She will have the Empress' ear, and influence over her is a surer way to avoid bloodshed than the tightest bonds I could ever forge with the Spider. And if that means waiting till the Yisun's bloom -- or longer -- so be it."
I said nothing and instead fell back. She was right, as always, and we were approaching the grand audience chamber anyway.
The Spider Lord had taken his seat on the dais at the far end of the hall. Beside him, his seneschal and commander knelt on smaller pillows without armrests. All three wore similar masks. Demonic grimaces, cast in gold and ending in fiery horns, covered all their faces. Arrayed from there, mats and simple cushions for the attending guests. For Blossom a plump silken pillow, and for me a straw mat two rows behind her. Most other guests were courtiers of the Spider, masked and seated on tangles of translucent silk.
