Steelflower in Snow by Lilith Saintcrow

Author:Lilith Saintcrow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lilith Saintcrow

Meant to Be Whole

Some of the barbarians go direct from the skauna to the snows outside, casting themselves naked into drifts. The giants of the highlands hold that such a practice is healthful, and if they live near a stream or lake they will even chop holes in the ice and dip themselves after a long soak in the dry heat.

As far as I may tell, it explains Redfist’s people—and their ways—perfectly.

The storm squatted over Kalburn, an iron-colored sky lowering to touch the rooftops and gouts of snow whirling on a cold, flirting wind. The battlements were a misery, the training-grounds even worse. I might have gone what the Shainakh call “wall-mad” if not for the asal—a long, timber-roofed courtyard running alongside a pillared gallery, used for weapons practice for the young, the recovering, or in weather too ill for even the tain to play at war’s many games. A Skaialan boy is given a small blunted axe on his fifth name-day and taught its use. They may be suited for broadsword, mace, or the smaller dual axes, but their first weapon is always the labirin, also named the tuag. They do not prize flexibility or speed. A Skaialan brawler is a creature of raw power, and the quick or the versatile are seen as somewhat cowardly.

The tain practiced in the snow, their furred boots gripping with more surety than I would have believed possible, bodies steaming as they warmed and shrugged free of layers. I decided it was useless to do so unless I wished to freeze solid, and used the asal with D’ri. We followed each other through the forms. In my case, I adapted with a long knife reversed along my forearm, since I use but a single dotani. His twin blades, heavier, blurred through the movements with graceful precision, breath expelled in a small huff at the strike-moment. Their meat-pastes sat uneasy in my stomach, but once I took to eating I found they did keep me warmer.

Unsanitary or not, they fueled the warming breath wonderfully.

Darik matched his rhythm to mine, and we played the game—a little faster, a little slower, subtle clues from breath, the singing of cloven air, and the silence of the taran’adai calling the measures of the dance as Rijiin acrobats thump time with short sticks during their practices. I had an advantage; with concentration, I could feel his muscles begin the work of another move, and it was little trouble to follow. Sidestep, flowing through the second form, into the third, blending the two for a quarter-candlemark, then a shift to the other side and I took the lead, beginning the first cycle afresh. The first cycle is the mother of all; its simplicity is deceptive. You may spend a lifetime practicing its cadence and be well-prepared for any combat, yet have only scratched the surface of its applications.

Sweat, stinging my eyes. No, not mine, D’ri’s. A cramp in his left calf, overridden with an application of will, my own leg threatening to seize up.

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