Book of Water

1 Bradamante dropped to her knees in the white sand, gasping from the sword that had pierced her chest. “This isn’t a game,” her teacher said. “I know.” “He’ll try to kill you.” “I know.” Bradamante heaved to her feet and swung her sword at Manat. The older woman easily parried it aside. “Tighten your mind,” Manat said. “I am!” Bradamante attacked once more, fierce and precise, but it was as though she had never learned to fight. Manat dodged and blocked, then plunged her own sword through the young woman’s heart. Bradamante fell back hard against the white sand beach, her dark eyes staring up at the cloudless blue sky. “What am I doing wrong?” she asked in frustration. “Dying.” Manat offered her hand. A sympathetic smile creased her weather-worn face. “You’re tired. That’s enough for tonight. Let’s go inside.” Bradamante accepted the hand that hoisted her to her feet. She brushed sand from the back of her brown pants and tunic. Manat wore similar clothes in faded black, but there wasn’t a speck of sand on them. Bradamante had never made her fall. It had been a terrible training session—one of her worst. Manat was right, she felt exhausted. Not from the physical effort—normally her nighttime visions of training with Manat outside the white wooden cottage on the white beach left Bradamante feeling strong and restored. But tonight too many worries preyed on her mind. Still, even a bad night at the white house was better than where she had been spending her nights lately. Her body currently slept on the hard ground in a leaky tent in the rain. She only had a short time left before her friend Jara would wake her for her turn on the night’s watch. Bradamante intended to enjoy the warm sun and peaceful surroundings as long as she could. She walked in silence beside her teacher, savoring the feel of her bare toes digging into the warm sand. White gulls called to each other as they swooped lazily over the bay to her left. A moist breeze blew in from the water, mingling with the sweat on Bradamante’s face. She glanced aside at the older woman. The two had not trained together for some time. Bradamante had spent many nights at the white house alone before finding Manat waiting here for her tonight. Her reappearance lifted Bradamante’s heart. Manat always looked the same in the visions: tall and strong, in her mid-forties with short, dark auburn hair and deep-set hazel eyes, a warrior with the intensity and vitality to battle an opponent half her age. In real life Bradamante knew her to be decades older. The last time she saw Manat, she looked stooped and white-haired and burdened with recent grief. Bradamante often wondered how her teacher fared now, a year after Samual’s death in the fire that destroyed the White Temple. But they never spoke about it here. Manat seemed content to forget, if only during their brief hours together. As they neared the white house, Bradamante glanced up the hill behind it. A thin dirt footpath led from the house to a lush grassy meadow and then a dense pine forest beyond. Grazing in the meadow was Bradamante’s large gray mare, Egalite, looking as fit and well as ever. It was a sight that could still bring tears to Bradamante’s eyes. During the many months when Egalite suffered and recovered from the spear wound to her chest, Bradamante found hope seeing her here, uninjured and strong. “Does Egalite have these visions, too?” Bradamante had asked Manat at the time. “Is she really here?” “If you and I are,” Manat had answered, “why shouldn’t she be?” Bradamante hoped it was true. She could never forget—nor forgive. She still revisited the scene over and over in her mind, sometimes several times a day: Lord Ganelon galloping toward them, his spear held low, Bradamante realizing too late what he meant to do. Egalite screaming, her neck stretched out, legs collapsing beneath her. The horse lying motionless on the muddy field while Lord Ganelon turned his attack to Bradamante, cutting and stabbing her with a brutality unlike anyone else’s in the tournament. That Bradamante not only survived, but ultimately defeated the king’s high commander was a testament to Manat’s training. And though Lord Ganelon lied to King Carleman afterward, claiming he merely wanted to test the girl’s skill and courage before allowing her to join the army, Bradamante knew without question that Ganelon had intended to kill her and that she had fought that man for her life. She had done her best over the past year to stay as far from Lord Ganelon as she could. Her brother, Rinaldo, used his position as her immediate commander to accept assignments that would keep his unit of warriors in the field. Beginning with hunting down their friend Ferrau on the king’s orders. But hunting him slowly, so he could get away. Still, no matter how careful she was to stay away from him, Bradamante knew in her heart that one day she would have to face Lord Ganelon again. This time she understood the threat. This time she would be prepared. But for now, a more immediate threat weighed upon her mind. Bradamante followed Manat into the house. As she crossed the threshold, her training clothes transformed into the long white robe and thick wool socks she always saw herself wearing inside. Her long curly brown hair that had come loose while she fought now lay roped in a thick braid down her back. She looked exactly the same as she always did in the white house, ever since she answered Manat’s call when Bradamante was only twelve. Now, seven years later, she was growing ever closer to becoming the young warrior in her early twenties that she saw herself as in the visions. That young warrior fought by instinct. She knew how to control her pain. She seemed, at times, to be fearless. Right now, Bradamante did not feel fearless. Her recent worries had proven that. And she couldn’t afford a bad night of fighting, not now when she needed her skills to be at their sharpest. Manat understood her mind. “He’s just a man,” she said, handing Bradamante a mug of steaming clove tea. “Is he?” “Flesh and blood, like you,” Manat said. She sat cross-legged on a cushion in front of the fire. Bradamante sat in the white rocking chair beside her and stared into the flames. Rumors of the enemy commander Rogero had spread throughout the west over the past few months. Only twenty years old, he was the youngest high commander in any of the kingdoms. People said he was a sorcerer. The greatest warrior they had ever seen. He rode a magical horse that could disappear before your eyes. He wielded a magical blade. Rogero was ruthless. They said he killed for sport. He slaughtered without mercy. Some even said he could drive his enemies mad and force them to kill themselves or each other. He commanded an army of thousands—perhaps tens of thousands, depending on the report—and they could travel at inhuman speeds over impossible terrain and conquer multiple territories in the same day, even hundreds of miles apart. Over the course of the past year Rogero’s army had marched steadily from the east over the plains, claiming villages and territories that had been freeheld for decades. And now, if the rumors were true, they were marching toward the vast mountain range that separated the plains from King Carleman’s empire in the west. The question was where exactly Rogero would attack next. In anticipation, Lord Ganelon had divided the king’s army among a variety of strategic locations: the three major mountain passes; the roads into and out of towns that provided food and supplies to the warriors; and the various towns and lands owned by Lord Ganelon himself. Being high commander had its privileges. Bradamante, Rinaldo, and the rest of their unit were currently encamped at Monarch Pass along with a larger division of soldiers led by a more senior commander, Orlando. All together they were a force five hundred warriors strong. Not nearly enough, if the rumors were true. “Is Rogero really a sorcerer?” Bradamante asked her teacher. “Yes. Very skilled.” That was far from the answer she wanted. “How can we defeat him?” “He’s just a man,” Manat repeated. Bradamante bit back her impatience. She knew better than to ask Manat an obvious question. Her teacher could dance this dance for a long time. What she needed was a fresh approach. She considered it for a moment while she took another sip of black clove tea. The spice tasted strong, almost like raw garlic mixed with cinnamon and honey. The sharp sweet scent of it burned her nose. It was the same drink Manat had given her that first night when they sat before this same fire. She said it brought clarity to the mind. Bradamante tried again. “Is he coming to Monarch Pass?” she asked. “He is,” Manat confirmed. Bradamante’s heart sped. She hadn’t expected such a direct answer. “Soon?” “Yes.” “When?” Manat breathed in the steam from her own mug. “Ask another question.” Bradamante suppressed a groan. It’s not always good to know your future, Manat had told her more than once, but Bradamante disagreed. The more information she had, the better she could prepare. But it was an argument she knew she would never win. She had tried and repeatedly failed. Instead she asked, “How can we defeat him?” “By remaining awake to your opportunities,” Manat said. “And that is all for now. Jara is here.” Bradamante felt a gentle jiggling of her foot. Immediately the vision dissolved. She left the sunny warmth of the white house to return to the rain and cold of the camp. “I’m sorry,” Jara said as she crawled inside the dark tent. “I always hate to wake you.” Her shoulder-length brown hair hung in wet clumps at the sides of her face. The leggings and tunic she had borrowed from Rinaldo were sodden and muddy. She sat on the hard dirt floor of the tent and began pulling off her wet boots. Jara was nineteen now, too, a sturdy-looking young woman with a round, pleasant face. Bradamante still marveled at her friend’s appearance. When she first met her five years before, the girl looked skeletal. Jara’s father seemed to take pleasure from starving both Bradamante and his daughter as punishment. Now Jara wore oversized men’s clothing in an effort to hide her feminine shape. She kept her hair only slightly longer than the men’s, too. Bradamante knew she hoped to be mistaken for one of them from the distance. She also understood why. Jara had already survived one attack. Dressing like a man was her way of protecting herself until she felt more comfortable in her fighting skills. Bradamante sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Of course you should wake me,” she told Jara. “Anything to report?” “No. Rinaldo thought he might have seen something, but…” Jara kept her back turned modestly toward Bradamante as she removed her sopping clothes and replaced them with the dry set she kept for sleeping. “But what?” Bradamante prompted. “It wasn’t anything,” said Jara. “He never saw it again.” Perhaps a day ago Bradamante, too, would have dismissed it. But now she reached for her own boots and quickly dressed. Normally on night watch she wore her simple leggings, undershirt, and tunic, but this time she added her leather chest armor as well. She crawled out of the tent and tied it behind her, leaving Jara curled beneath the woolen blankets, already on her way to a deep sleep. Bradamante hurried to the makeshift corral where Egalite hunkered in the rain with the other horses. The mare nickered and trotted toward her. Bradamante patted the strong gray neck and led her horse out to the trail. She braced her hands on Egalite’s back and pulled herself up the way Manat had taught her years before. She still preferred to ride her horse bareback whenever she could. Then the two threaded their way in darkness up the steep dirt trail to the top of the pass. A short distance beneath the ridge Bradamante found Bayard, her brother’s horse. He was a handsome stallion, sleek and powerful, with a dark reddish-brown coat and black mane and tail. He whickered softly as they approached. Bradamante dismounted and gave him a pat. She left Egalite beside him, then hurried on foot the rest of the distance up the hill. She found Rinaldo braced against a boulder, peering over the top. He was twenty-four, young compared to some of the other commanders, but he had risen fairly through the ranks. Bradamante had overheard his men often enough to know that they respected her brother. He was a skilled warrior, and he had proven as their commander that he wouldn’t recklessly expose them to risk. Bradamante crouched beside him now. “You saw something?” “I thought so, but…” He shook his head. “I’ve been staring at that same patch of trees down there ever since. I’ve never seen it again.” “Manat said Rogero is coming here soon,” Bradamante told him. “She might have meant tonight.” Rinaldo knew as well as his sister how real the visions with Manat were. He never doubted them anymore. “Your eyes are always better than mine,” he said, pointing down the hill to where a flat expanse of meadow met the dark line of fir and spruce trees. Bradamante stared, all of her senses on high alert. The rain had stopped for now, but she could still smell the wet on the rock and dirt around her. She could taste the lingering spice of the clove tea on her tongue. She heard light rockfalls as some of the men further along the ridge dislodged stones as they shifted positions. And she could feel her own heartbeat, quickened now with both dread and excitement as she peered into the darkness for any sign of Rogero. But she saw nothing. Just the glistening remainder of the rain on the dark grassy field below. And then suddenly there it was: movement. Her breath caught. Rinaldo saw it, too. They both watched as a shape emerged from the trees. Then a second shape, then a third. “Go tell Orlando,” Rinaldo said. “Wake the others.” But Bradamante didn’t move. “Brad—” “He won’t listen to me,” she said. “You know that. You have to send someone else.” Ever since the revelation that the warrior who had defeated Orlando at the king’s tournament was a girl—and that King Carleman had invited her into his army despite it—Orlando had made a practice of refusing to acknowledge Bradamante’s presence. Even when she stood in front of him, speaking directly to him, he looked past her as if she weren’t there. For such a large, powerful warrior as Orlando, the behavior was small and petty, but he persisted nonetheless. Would he continue the game if Bradamante brought word that they were under attack? She didn’t want to believe it, but she also didn’t want to test it. “I’ll stay,” Bradamante said. “You should go.” Rinaldo peered down at the meadow again. It was empty now, but the shapes had been there. Both of them knew it. They were about to be attacked. Rinaldo pushed away from the rock. “Tell the rest of the watch. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He hurried down to Bayard while Bradamante set off across the ridgeline to warn the others guarding the pass. He’s just a man, she reminded herself as she raced through the dark, her heart beating wildly in her chest. Flesh and blood. Only a man. She had fought men before and won. But none of them had been a sorcerer.