Blood Memories [Last of Elves book 1] (NaNoWriMo 2014)

Seven: Panthera

Panthera

After that day, he was no longer bound. He was still not permitted to leave the temple, but he found that he had a greater range of freedom within the walls than he had before. He saw the priestess even less than before, not even catching glimpses of her as he roamed the passageways, but he had no time to ponder it. His sessions with the swordsman had increased, until he was forced to show some of what he knew.

Once he did, the swordsman suddenly became a lot more deadly, challenging him, testing him, making him invent new ways to move the blade so that he wouldn’t be killed. In a way, he enjoyed the challenge. He had nothing else to occupy himself with, and he often found himself wandering down to the large room at any time of the day. What he didn’t understand was how the man knew he was coming. He was always there, waiting with a drawn sword. And despite the hindrance of the hood and cloak, he always managed to best him.

He had yet to reveal that he was losing by choice.

Eventually, he went in search for the priestess again. It had come to him in the night, the answer, perhaps, for her silence and his ignorance. She was waiting for him to go to her; for him to ask the questions. So he tried to find her.

As before when he had searched for her, he found her in the entrance room, kneeling in front of the mother goddess statue. He waited until she rose and came over to him, and she pushed her hood back, studying him.

“So,” she said.

He nodded slowly, and she seemed to find it amusing.

“Come, then. If you must.”

He followed her again down dark passageways. She led him to the same room as before, and he sat, trying to work out what he wanted to ask. She stood in front of the fire, deep in thought, her eyes shadowed.

“What am I doing here?” he finally said, unable to work out another way to say it. He didn’t know what she wanted from him.

She didn’t move as she answered. “You gave yourself to the goddess, Panthera,” she said quietly, putting the right lilt on the name. It was almost like she spoke the nearly forgotten language of his people. “Why did you do that?”

He shrugged, spreading his hands, studying them like he’d never seen them before. “I … I had to.”

“And why was that?”

“I don’t know,” he said softly. “Something told me to.”

“Yes. And what made you learn the art of the sword?”

“I don’t know,” he repeated.

“What made you leave your home?”

He stiffened, unaware that she had taken control of the conversation; that he was answering her rather than the other way around. “I had no choice.”

“Really?”

He lifted his chin, anger flashing in his eyes. “If I had stayed, we would have been destroyed,” he growled. She looked at him calmly.

“Control your anger, Panthera. It will not serve you well.”

He hissed in annoyance. “What am I here for?”

A smile curved her lips. “You return to that question? It is not the one you need to ask.” She resumed looking at the fire, as if she could see the future in the flames. He wouldn’t have put it past her if she could.

He growled again, under his breath. “What do you have me here for, then?” he almost snapped.

She chuckled slightly. “At last. You ask the question you need.” She didn’t answer it, though, and he battled with his growing anger, refusing to let it control him.

“Well?”

“You have been trained in the art of the sword,” she said softly, and a chill went down his spine. She wasn’t speaking with her voice any more. “Yet you do not carry a sword. Your time here has honed your skills, and now is the time to take your rightful place.”

He stared at her. “Where?” he whispered. “What do you mean?”

She sighed, shaking her head slightly. “I was told you were coming, Panthera,” she replied quietly, and her voice was her own once more. “I knew who you were before you were born. We have been waiting for you. Waiting such a long time.”

He swallowed. He had no idea what to think of this news. Slowly, he slid from his seat to kneel in front of her, his head bowed. “What do you want me to do?”

She turned then, and he felt her hand on his shoulder. He lifted his gaze, meeting hers.

“Priestess?”

“Do your duty,” she whispered. “You know the sword for a reason. If you best my captain, you will understand.”

He swallowed. So that was who the mysterious swordsman was. The priestess’ captain. The most skilled swordsman in the known world. He had held the post as head of the priestess’ guards for as long as anyone could remember, and there was a firmly believed legend that only the man who beat him in fair combat would become the next captain.

“No. I can’t.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “So be it then.”

His arms were gripped from behind, his hands bound behind him. Remembering what she had said before, he tried to slip free, but this rope was different. He couldn’t.

She was watching him as if from a distance, and he tried to read her expression as he was forced out of the room. He couldn’t. What she was thinking was carefully hidden behind her mask. He narrowed his eyes at her, but he was taken away before he could do anything else.