“So how are Guardians chosen?” I ask Vekken as I sit cross-legged on the edge of the practice room. Kor and Ajan are on the floor proper, conferring.
Vekken grins. “If an Ai-Naidari wants to be a Guardian, they’re one of us. We give them a week’s grace period of training so they can be sure they like it, but people rarely leave once they pledge for the caste. It’s the easiest ishas evaluation in the Book, anyone above the Wall of Birth will tell you so.”
“And this period of training…” I say.
“Is rough.” Vekken leans back, rolling his shoulders. “We don’t spare them. If they still want it after that, they belong to us.”
“And it’s got a name,” I guess.
“Qanja,” he says.
I have to wait a while for that one to filter through. “Crucible?”
“Close enough,” he says. To the two on the floor, he says, “Go on, then.”
I watch the ensuing demonstration. “Is it always so slow?”
“Most are, yes,” Vekken says, resting his hands on his knees. He’s limber for someone his age. I wonder if that’s the training or if all Ai-Naidar remain so flexible as they age. “At-speed conversations are done fully armored for the most part.”
“For the most part,” I say.
“Such things require a full master,” Vekken says. “Otherwise it’s too easy to be injured.” He glances at me, eyes glinting. “You want to see, eh?”
I shrug a little diffidently, though I’m sure I don’t fool him at all. “I like martial arts demonstrations.”
He chuffs. “Every time I think I know your ishas, alien child…” He calls to Kor and Ajan. “Real thing now.” Obediently they step apart, growing still. “Salute.” This is… a bow? No. They touch their fist to the opposite shoulder and then open the arm, exposing the chest while also inclining the head and turning it, just enough I think that one can glimpse the sacred base of the neck. And they do it as if mirrored, Ajan to the left and Kor to the right. How did they figure out who was going to bow in which direction?
“Commence!” Vekken barks—
—and they move. And it’s quick. It’s so quick I can only get impressions: it looks like water sheeting off a slick surface, how fast they turn blows aside or step out of each other’s way or into it. I have always thought of sparring as dancing when I’ve seen it. This brings other images to mind: rippling water, or the flutter of silk in a wind.
“At-speed demonstrations without armor are only done between masters,” Vekken says as they fight; I can’t call it sparring, it’s too dangerous. “Kor, of course, was a master by the time he left Eredaeth. Ajan is due to take his examination, but he’s ready.”
It’s beautiful, what they’re doing… but my mouth is dry from the fear of it. Knowing how easy it would be for them to severely hurt themselves—this is not practice, this is real. And they are far faster than any human I’ve ever seen. How quick are they making the decisions that inform this “conversation”?
I’m not sure I catch the lead-up to the end of the fight, but I think Ajan takes a slap from the end of Shame’s hair (was that intentional? I am betting it was). His flinch is so brief I almost miss it but it’s enough for Kor to step into his guard. He wraps an arm behind Ajan and grasps his narrow ribcage and then spins him… and trips the youth and rides him down to the ground with an elbow crooked around that too thin throat. It’s so perilously close to crushing for a lock that I know was gauged to a hair’s fineness.
Ajan pants but doesn’t move. I am utterly still, too. But Vekken growls, “Saresh’s—” and something rather rude there, “—you know how to unlock yourself, damn it.”
“I do,” Ajan says, flushed at the ears. “I am just… ah… distracted.” I think suddenly of the neckplay those two do as lovers (which Ajan told us about in “That Kiss“) and blush too.
Vekken sighs. “Stop thinking with your damn—” and this word makes the last one seem positively genteel. It is not speech for polite company; it is definitively Guardian jargon for a body fluid I don’t have.
Kor’s released him but is still straddling his back, palms flat on either side of Ajan’s shoulders. He’s got that little amused smile on his face as Ajan props his cheek up on one hand. “Spoken like a man who needs to get—”
“Do you always talk like this amongst yourselves?” I ask because I think my skin will burn off if they keep going. Vekken snorts but at least they desist.
As Kor helps Ajan up I say, “It’s so dangerous. Do you have a lot of injuries?”
“Enough,” Vekken says, gruff.
“Serious ones?” I ask, careful. “Serious enough to prevent candidates from continuing?”
That makes him glance at me, brows lifted. “You think that a Guardian’s only duty is this art?” He guffaws. “Ah, little sister. Guardians do all sorts of work. There are even Guardian observers. Who do you think prowls the tall cliffs, searching the sky for the rocks that must be destroyed before they hit us? If a Guardian cannot fight with his literal body, he can still fight with his mind and his hands. This…” He waves a hand at the practice floor. “This is a remnant of the tradition that began the Guardian caste, when we were all bodyguards. We keep the practice alive to honor the history… and because it trains us to control and direct our passions. Above all, the passionate must learn discipline. Anything else works against society.”
