Rhys was so puzzled by this that he kept staring at the wound, rather than watching his brother, and he was taken by surprise when Lleu made a sudden rush at him, bringing the sword down in a slashing motion, meant to cleave through helm or skull and finish the fight in a hurry.
Lleu threw all his strength in the blow. Rhys, holding the emmide in both hands, lifted the staff above his head to meet the sword. The blade struck the emmide. The staff held, though the impact of the shattering strike jarred Rhys’s arms and sent vibrations resonating throughout his body. He could feel the force of the blow in his teeth. Rhys had misjudged his brother, apparently. Those muscles were not so flabby as they appeared.
Lieu’s face twisted in a snarl. His arm muscles bulged, his eyes gleamed. He had expected his blade to chop the fragile stick into kindling and he was angry and frustrated that his attack had been thwarted. He lifted the sword over his head, intending to strike at the staff again.
Rhys lashed out with his bare feet; first one, then the other, striking Lleu in the solar plexus.
Lleu groaned and crumpled, dropping his sword.
Rhys stepped back, waiting for his brother to recover.
“You hit me with your feet!” Lleu gasped, slowly straightening, massaging his gut.
“I did,” said Rhys.
“But …” Lleu floundered. “That’s not fair!”
“Perhaps not in a knight’s tourney,” Rhys agreed politely. “But if I am fighting for my life, I will use every weapon at my disposal. Pick up your sword. Have another go at me if you like.”
Lleu snatched up his blade and flung himself at Rhys. The sword’s blade flashed red in the waning sunlight. Lleu thrust and stabbed, fighting with more force than skill, for he was a cleric, who had only lately come to swordsmanship, not a knight who had been in training most of his life.
Rhys was not in any danger. He could have ended the fight almost before it started with a jab to the gut, a thump to the head, or another well-placed kick. He did not want to hurt his brother, but he soon saw that Lleu was under no such constraint. Lieu was outraged, wounded in both pride and body. Patiently, Rhys parried Lieu’s blows, which were becoming increasingly wild and desperate, and watched for his chance.
Ducking beneath one of Lieu’s arcing slashes, Rhys thrust the emmide between Lieu’s legs, tripping him. His brother came down hard on his backside. He held onto his sword, but a twitch of the emmide sent the weapon flying through the air to land in the grass near Atta.
Lieu cursed and scrambled to his feet.
“Atta, guard,” Rhys commanded, pointing at the sword.
The dog jumped to her feet, positioned herself in front of the weapon.
Lieu’s hand darted to his belt. Pulling a knife, he lunged at the dog.
Rhys seized hold of the hand gripping the knife and squeezed Lieu’s forearm, pressing his fingers deep into the soft parts of the wrist.
Lieu’s hand went suddenly limp. The knife fell to the ground. Rhys bent down, picked up the knife, and thrust it into his own belt.
“The paralysis is only temporary,” Rhys advised his brother, who was staring at his hand in dumb-founded astonishment. “The feeling will return to your fingers in a few minutes. This was a friendly contest. Or so I thought.”
Lleu scowled, then looked ashamed. Nursing his useless hand, he backed off, away from the dog.
“I just meant to scare the flea-bitten cur, that’s all. I wouldn’t have hurt it.”
“That much is true,” Rhys said. “You would not have harmed Atta. You would now be lying on the ground with your throat torn out.”
“I got carried away, that’s all,” Lleu continued. “I forgot where I was, thought I was on the field of battle.” He added stiffly, “May I have my sword and my knife back? I promise I’ll restrain myself.”
Rhys handed over the knife. Retrieving the sword from the watchful dog, he gave it to his brother, who took hold of it with his left hand. Lleu eyed it, frowning. “I still think I should have cut through that stick of yours. Damn blade must be dull. I’ll have it sharpened when I return home.”
“There is nothing wrong with the blade,” said Rhys.
“Bah! Of course, there is!” Lleu said, scoffing. “You can’t tell me that twig stood up to a long sword!”
“This ‘twig’ has gone up against countless swords for five hundred years,” Rhys replied. “See these tiny nicks?” He held up the stick for Lleu to examine. “Those were made by sword and mace and all manner of steel weapons. None broke it or even harmed it much.”
Lleu looked put out. “You might have told me the blasted stick was magic. No wonder I lost!”
“I didn’t know it was a question of winning or losing,” Rhys returned mildly. “I thought I was demonstrating a fighting technique.”
“Like I said, I got carried away,” Lleu muttered. He wiggled his right hand. He could the move the fingers now and he thrust his sword back into the scabbard. “I think that’s enough demonstrating for today. When do you eat around here? I’m starved.”
“Soon,” said Rhys.
“Good. I’ll go wash up. I’ll see you at supper.” Lleu turned away, then thought of something else and turned back. “I heard that you monks live on nothing but grass and berries. That’s not true, I hope?”
“You will have a good meal,” Rhys assured him.
“I’ll hold you to that!” Lleu waved at him and walked off. Apparently all was forgotten, forgiven.
Lleu even paused to apologize to Atta, scratch her on the head. The dog submitted to his touch, but only after a nod from Rhys, and she shook herself all over the moment Lleu departed, as though to remove any trace of him. Trotting over to Rhys, she pressed her muzzle against his leg and looked up at him with her expressive brown eyes.
“What is it, girl?” Rhys asked, frustrated. He rubbed her behind the ears. “What have you got against him, besides the fact that he is young and feckless and thinks far too well of himself? I wish you could let me know what you are thinking. Still, there is a reason the gods made animals dumb.”
Rhys’s troubled gaze followed the figure of his brother, strolling over the meadow. “We could not bear to hear the truths you might tell us.”
5
Rhys did not immediately return to the monastery. He and Atta walked to the stream that provided water for both man Atta and beast and sat down on the grass beneath the willow trees. Atta rolled over on her side and went to sleep, worn out from the rigors of a day spent guarding first sheep and then her master. Sitting cross-legged on the bank, Rhys closed his eyes and gave himself to the god, Majere. The sighs of the wind through the willow branches and the soft evening song of the finches mingled with the chuckling laughter of the stream to soothe away worried speculation about his brother’s odd behavior.
Despite the fact that he had not lectured his brother and instantly turned his life around, as his father had hoped would happen, Rhys did not feel he had failed. The monks of Majere do not view life in terms of success and failure. One does not fail at a task. One merely does not succeed. And since one is always striving for success, so long as one continues striving, one can never truly fail.
Nor did Rhys resent his parents thrusting this responsibility upon him—a son they had likely given no thought to for fifteen years. He could see they were desperate. He did feel badly in that he was going to have to tell them there was nothing he could do. He would speak to the Master first, of course, but Rhys knew what the elderly monk would tell him. Lleu was an adult. He had chosen his own path to walk. He might be persuaded through wise counsel and example, but if that didn’t change him, no one had the right to bar his way or shove him off the path or force him to shift direction, even if that path was self-destructive. Lleu had to make the choice to change, otherwise he would soon be back on the same road. So Majere taught, and so the monks believed.