The Year 545 HR (Highland Reckoning)

Palace of the Silken Emperor

Near the Fayoum Oasis, Fezzan Province, Asland

Coinneach

“But Amiri, if this continues, he’ll die!”

Coinneach could hear his teacher’s urgent whisper, though the blood flowing from his scalp in his eyes prevented him from seeing the sword master.

“It is his choice,” the Prince responded, loudly enough to ensure Coinneach himself heard clearly. “He may yield my brother’s blade at any time.”

Lacking the strength to respond verbally, Coinneach merely shook his head, wiping the blood from his eyes where it streamed from his scalp wound.

“Continue.” The Prince’s cold voice echoed in the darkened chamber.

Coinneach stood slowly on trembling legs, his sword arm dangling limp at his side, useless and dripping blood. Gripping the precious captured blade with his left hand, he wiped his eyes again with his forearm and turned once more to face the giant. He had wounded him, but not enough. The colossus still smiled through bloody lips, hefting his great khopesh lightly and preparing to charge.

Despite the dizziness that kept the chamber spinning, Coinneach calmed his breathing, settled into Willow stance, and prepared himself for the huge eunuch’s attack.

With a shout, the giant rushed at him, sweeping the oversized, wicked, hooked blade at the Highlander’s head. As the willow bends in the wind, Coinneach arched his back and relaxed into the movement. He avoided the vicious cut by mere inches, then with an effort that drained him of his last reserves of strength, he sprung back with the elasticity of a bent sapling, burying his blade to the hilt in the chest of the onrushing behemoth. The giant’s momentum bore his mass forward onto him, their bodies falling in a heap. Coinneach heard, rather than felt, the bone in his left arm snap under the weight of the eunuch and all went dark.

***

Desert sunlight sparkled through a series of dangling glass baubles suspended before the arched windows of his room. Coinneach flexed his left arm, finding it mobile. He then did the same with his right, inspecting the long, jagged scar the eunuch’s khopesh had made. It had been almost two months since his trial and ordeal. The royal physicians had tended him as closely as if he had been the Emperor himself, and though he had lost much muscle during his convalescence, both arms had healed fully, as had the broken ribs. More worrisome to him had been the gash down his back that had come close to severing his spine. Standing in the flowing silken garments of his convalescence, he stretched and moved gingerly, testing each injury. The scar on his back felt tight and his weakened limbs trembled, but nonetheless he began moving through his forms—Badger, Willow, Mountain, even the lengthy Ocean form—testing his range of motion, his power, his speed. Pleased with his returning mobility, he executed a rapid open-hand strike series from Badger form, noting that while his arms trembled with the effort, his strength too was returning. The physicians had worked a miracle—several, to his mind.

“Well, that is progress, I think,” a grinning Yazid said from the doorway, where he stood holding a tray of hibiscus tea and a steaming bowl of rice porridge spiced with cinnamon, cardamom, and nutmeg. He had also brought a small pitcher of fresh goat’s milk to pour over the porridge. The smell made Coinneach’s mouth water immediately and he was surprised by how hungry he was. He smiled ruefully at his friend. 

“I suppose I’ve managed tae hold off Fel’s hand for another day,” Coinneach responded, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“You were looking rather, how is it you say, peely wally?” the jovial Aslene said, setting down the tea service and sitting beside him.

“Ach,” Coinneach said gripping his side. “Dinna make me laugh, you great bawface bòidheach! I’m still recovering!”

Yazid’s rumbling laughter filled the room as Coinneach desperately tried not to join in, grimacing, holding his healing ribs, and swearing colorfully at his friend.

Swordmaster Ashahl’s entrance interrupted them. Though small of stature, he had a regal bearing and natural grace that seemed to fill the room.

“I am pleased to see you smiling,” the stoic master said by way of greeting, his voice deep and mellifluous.

“Master,” Coinneach said, rising with Yazid’s help. “You honor me with your presence.”

“Sit before you fall,” the sword master told his student gently. He strode gracefully to the window and began to examine a sapphire-blue piece of cut glass with an uncharacteristic absent-minded air. Coinneach knew it to be affectation, as his master was anything but absent-minded.

Yazid helped him to sit once more and he waited respectfully for several moments, a stone of dread resting in his stomach. He sensed from Ashahl’s posture that the man bore weighty news. His teacher was doing everything in his power to seem casual, but Coinneach noted the tension in the fist held tucked into the small of his master’s back. He was a man of iron discipline, and a rigidly stoic demeanor. That fist, clenched so tightly that the knuckles whitened, belied an inner storm raging. Ashahl continued casually inspecting the blue bauble, turning it to catch the morning sun. Finally, Coinneach could bear the suspense no longer and asked, “Is there word from the Prince, master?”

Lifting his head and gazing across the lush gardens of the palace, Ashahl responded thickly without turning. “The Prince has decreed your banishment. You must leave this land. Forever.”

Coinneach’s head bowed and he leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees as he absorbed the edict; the stone in his stomach turned into a black void that threatened to swallow him. He had been expecting this, or worse, but had desperately hoped Ashahl might persuade the Prince to allow him to stay and continue training. He had learned so much, and was on the cusp of understanding so much more. Yazid squeezed his shoulder in brotherly reassurance.

“I was able to convince him not to have you executed,” said the short sword master in his rich voice, his words tight and clipped.

“How soon, my master?” Coinneach managed.

“There is a caravan departing tomorrow evening.” Ashahl turned and looked meaningfully into his protégé’s eyes. After a long moment, he turned and strode from the room, his fist still clenched tightly at his side.

***

“Here,” Yazid said, wiping his brow with a brightly colored kerchief. “Let me help you up.”

Coinneach paused before mounting his camel to take in the view, one last time. The fabled palace of the Silken Emperor. He shook his head in wonder at the twists of fate that had brought him here. The setting sun painted the white marble walls and pointed arches a brilliant red-orange as the evening birds that made their home in this oasis came alive.

“Will I ever see it again, Yazid, d’ye think?” Coinneach asked his friend quietly.

“Who knows the paths our lives will travel?” His friend responded. “Who could have ever predicted that you would see it even once? It is a wonder it has been your home these two years, I think.”

“Aye,” Coinneach said, smiling at Yazid. “True enough.” He turned and gripped the saddle, preparing to mount.

Ashahl’s voice stopped him. “Ajnabi, a moment.” Turning, he saw the sword master striding toward him across the manicured gardens. 

“Saydaa,”Coinneach said, placing his hand over his heart and bowing deeply as his teacher approached with three attendants trailing after him, each carrying silk-wrapped bundles.

“Is all in readiness for your departure?” Ashahl asked formally.

“Yes, my master,” Coinneach said, glancing at the pack camel that Yazid had just finished loading. “We depart with the sunset.”

“Good, good,” his teacher affirmed stiffly. He was a man who was uneasy showing emotion. In the two years that Coinneach had studied with him, he could count on one hand the number of times he had seen the man smile, and only once had he heard him raise his voice in anger.

“I have some things which must accompany you,” his teacher said, breaking the awkwardness. 

“Master, I…” Coinneach started to object, but was silenced by Ashahl’s raised hand.

“You may examine them at your leisure as you travel. But there is one detail that has been overlooked.”

Coinneach looked from his master to Yazid quizzically. 

“It is customary,” Ashahl said, taking a long, wrapped bundle from an attendant, “that when a student attains the rank of master, through training, trial, and ordeal, he is to be given a new name. And though your training here has been truncated, your mastery of the forms you have learned is clear.” 

Coinneach’s eyes flew wide in surprise and he dropped to a knee.

“Though our Prince has decreed that these lands are forever forbidden to you,” Ashahl continued, with ceremonial formality and in a clear voice, for all present to hear, “he has grudgingly accepted that you have earned the right to carry this blade. None can deny your skill—your mastery of the blade and the forms.” His master unwrapped the bundle in his hands as he spoke, revealing the very sword that Coinneach had seized from the dead hand of the Prince’s brother in the desert.

Nodding to Coinneach to stand, Ashahl presented the elegant weapon to him, the curls of its intricate handguard and the scallops along its blade glinting orange in the rays of the setting desert sun. 

“No longer will you bear the name Coinneach MacLir. From this day forward, you shall be known as Corvus Corax, the Raven, both the harbinger of death, and the messenger of the ancestors..”

Coinneach, now Corvus, looked from the beautiful weapon in his hands to his master, whose eyes were moist.

“May the Ancestors guide you in all things, my friend,” Ashahl whispered.