One Day More - a Sartorias-deles fanfic

Chapter 27

Iris had been conspicuously absent from the residence, and Raec did not like it. A feeling in him made him nervous. Although he trusted Iris, Raec could not get his father's doubts from his mind. Not because he believed them—or even put any credence in them—but because Vidanric worried enough to actually bring up the topic to Alaraec. With the assassination plot foiled, he thought Iris would embrace the attention, and that his father would adequately thank the woman who might have saved his life. But something was missing. Like water dripping from a patched bucket, the uncomfortable sensation in his middle was always there, a constant nag that drained him of his usually happy demeanor. It was only a matter of time before the patch failed, and he would lose his sanity.

He needed to talk to Iris. Enda told him they had spent time together, and Iris had something to tell him. Enda, however, would say nothing more. No matter how it annoyed him, Alaraec admired Enda for her loyalty. Raec left his chambers after completing his clerical work and went to the armory. He needed to clear his head. Maybe swinging a sword at a dummy would help with that; it had in the past. Raec hoped he would never need the sword skills his father instructed him to learn, but it was still useful knowledge to have. Raec waved a greeting to a few commoners who must have been visiting the library, but he said nothing to anyone, up until he reached the armory doors. Many doors in the residence were unguarded, but considering this room in particular housed weapons, at least one guard stood watch both day and night. Raec nodded to the man on shift then pulled the door open into the vast space.

The weapons were stored in a separate but attached smaller room. The ceiling, high and vaulted, had been stained and subsequently bleached so many times, no one knew its true color anymore. The stones that lined the walls were pale gray and smooth. In the past, the floor had been the same, but since Vidanric had taken control of Remalna, he had modified certain features. A portion was still stone—along the walls where the targets hung. Some were the silhouettes of animals, while others were human bodies of different heights and widths. Diagonal to the targets, the floor changed from stone to wood, carefully polished until it gleamed. No amount of shine, though, could hide the scuff marks from leather boots. Nicks also marked some of the boards, although most had edges that were no longer sharp. Here, Vidanric had taught his son how to wield a sword. The armory had some of Alaraec's favorite memories. Truth be told, they were some of the only memories he remembered from his youth. Though, they all had blended over the years. He could no longer decipher if the vision of nearly hitting his father with a throwing knife was from when he was eight or twelve...or had that happened on multiple occasions? Vidanric had advised him to stay away from the throwing knives...probably because Alaraec was no good with them.

He entered the storage room and pulled a practice sword from a barrel. Still forged by the family swordsmith, it held the same weight as his personal weapon. This one with the red hilt, though, had never been sharpened. Though the edges were dull, they could still cause damage, even lethal if the wielder desired it. He preferred to use the blunt swords because he was less likely to harm anyone. Raec curled his fingers around a hilt's worn leather, swung the weapon a couple times, then replaced it in the barrel and pulled out another. Satisfied with the balance after a few circles, he exited the room and crossed the expansive armory floor to the sparring area and started running through his forms out of memory.

He was not the only individual in the room. A guard stood with his legs apart, hips tilted, and arms up as he held a bow in his arms. He let loose an arrow toward the target—this one shaped like a deer—and cursed under his breath when he missed. He notched another arrow and tried again.

Raec took his mind off the man and focused on his own movements, seamlessly transitioning from one stance to another until he lost track of how many times he had done each of them. For a time, all that mattered was the sword in his hand. How it was an extension of his arm rather than an added weight. How he felt in tune with the weapon—how it seemed to sing every time he swung it through the air. Different arcs produced different whistles, though that could have been a trick of his ears or his imagination. Alaraec let the hum sooth him. He let it take him away. Away from all of the doubts, and instead, his mind wandered to the happier times...