Chapter 270 (1/2)

Randidly felt it then, years of experience, of implacable will, of dominating violence, of a deep, sad, knowing love, and a yearning. More than anything else, the spear was filled with yearning. It was wide and deep, and so thick that Randidly couldn’t make sense of it all.

There were flecks of memory, soft, warm moments with his sons, as Aemont slowly grew, as he returned to visit them while he fought on the front line. He was so desperate to make more memories each time he returned, Randidly could feel, because he had to keep feeding the spear. This strength wasn’t enough. The challenge set for him by the elders of the Endless Heat Style was impossible, some might say.

Curious, Randidly pushed, looking for what he had to do, but he was swamped then with a wave of dread and hatred, a deep primal fear, that caused Randidly to begin to tremble. He pulled his mental feelers back, shocked, but it was exploding forth now, a huge fear and anger, threatening to consume Randidly. Wave after wave of hungry emotion crashed into him, threatening to eat away at his sanity and Randidly could only buckle down, pressing his eyes closed and smashing the emotions back with his own Battle Intent and Rejection.

It was a long slow slog through the waves of crashing emotions, and no longer could Randidly spare the attention to sift through the memories. They all swirled together in a jumble, and just had to be slowly neutralized.

Even though it had been years since their inception, the poignancy of each individual emotion was intimidating. Aemont… truly was a master, and just from the level of emotions he felt, Randidly knew that Aemont’s Battle Intent was absurdly high. So high it scared him.

But then Randidly lost it again, and could only sit there, bobbing up and down in his own body, besieged by the raging emotions that had been bottled up in the spear for so long.

*****

Azriel Blanche cleaned her spear, applying small amounts of oil and then rubbing them into the spear with an old rag. This was something that she had been taught long ago, by her grandfather. To care for the spear, and not just the Spearman himself. Although they were part of the Spearman School, that didn’t mean the Spear School didn’t have its own merits.

‘Your spear is just as important as you, just as vital,’ Her grandfather had said, whispering because his windpipe had been crushed one too many times on the frontline, the injuries so heinous that even healing spells couldn’t correct the bone deviations. ‘Care for it… train it… as you do your own body.’

Her grandfather was profoundly weird, but he was one of the only people who saw her talent early on in her life, and supported her, giving her tips and attention when she was just one of a brood of distant relatives. Without him, she would not have been able to see the things she had, or followed the path that led her here, to cultivating a monstrous physical memory.

Out of respect for him, although he was long dead, Azriel continued to clean her spear.

It was a spear she had been given recently, this thin needle of a spear, a spear she had demanded from her Style after she had demonstrated impeccably that she was the best bet the Style had to return to prominence.

It had been a win she had long fought for, and Azriel had originally thought that this would put the matter of marriage to bed; the spear was a peace offering, a silent apology given by the Style leadership. And yet…

There was a knock on the door, and then a man entered into the room, bowing.

“Ms. Blanche, Master Wyrd has invited you over to his courtyard for dinner.”

Azriel’s lips twitched. And yet, it was still like this. “Master Wyrd,” Huh…

“It’s 4. Does Drak dine so early in the evening?”

The spear attendant shook his head. “No, but there are matters to dis-”

“No. I’ll arrive at 7. Have the food hot for me.” Azriel interrupted, throwing out a powerful, drilling Battle Intent that smashed into the man’s gut, sending him staggering.

“Azriel-!” The man said through gritted teeth, but then he seemed to realize the situation he was in, and hurried away. Not that killing him wouldn’t cause hassle, but both the leadership of her own Style and the Breaking Dawn Style would relish it; it would give them an excuse that Azriel couldn’t deny to force her into talks with Drak. After all, it was tradition to pay a price for murdering another’s spear attendant…