The Withering Sword

Chapter 35: Family

SILARON

Tyovato-feg, Gyoto

Silaron set down his quill and rubbed his eyes. “There,” he said. “I’ve finished.”

Nerion leaned over his shoulder to peer at what he’d written. “It’s short.” His eyes moved back and forth across the paper. “It’s good. It’s a bit formal, but….”

“I’m writing for a newspaper, not to a lover,” said Silaron.

“All right, all right,” said Nerion, holding up his hands.

Gathering the papers and writing instruments, Silaron stood. They had spent a little while every night here in the dining hall, composing their letters for the Miihing-run Bainling newspaper. Tomorrow night would mark a month since Silaron had discovered Nerion and Woyo sneaking down to the plateau to exchange letters with the Miihing sailor who would take them back to their country. Nerion had finished his own letter over a week ago, although it had been at least four times as long as Silaron’s.

“Aren’t you going to bed?” asked Silaron.

“I said I was going to meet someone here,” said Nerion.

“Who?”

“There’s no need to act so suspicious. It’s just some people who want to talk about Miihing.”

“You’re not telling anyone who we are, are you? Dyomo would have both our skins.”

Nerion waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry. No one knows anything except that we both come from Miihing, which they’ve known since they first saw us anyway. I think you’re in more danger of divulging our secret identity than I am, in any case.”

“Why would you say that?” Silaron fumbled with his papers, which had suddenly become elusive to his fingers.

“Oh, no reason,” said Nerion innocently. “Well, maybe one reason. A very pretty, large-eyed reason.”

“I haven’t told Woyo anything.” Silaron frowned. He had wanted to, but he hadn’t. Of couse he hadn’t. Sometimes he wished his twin didn’t know him so well.

“Who said anything about Woyo?” Nerion wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Silaron rolled his eyes. “Do you want me to stay?”

“You should get some sleep,” said Nerion, suddenly serious. “The training master will notice if your performance suffers tomorrow. He already thinks I’m hopeless; there’s no harm in reinforcing that idea.”

Nodding, Silaron headed out of the dining hall in the direction of the trainees’ sleeping quarters. It was so strange to him to see a determined Nerion. He kept expecting his brother to lose interest in this whole rebellion and turning to some more stimulating entertainment. But no; he lost sleep, spent all of his free time either trying to gather information about the outside world or seeding contacts among the Tyovadh, and allowed himself to get pummeled in the training field every day due to distraction and exhaustion. Silaron had never seen Nerion this committed to anything before.

As usual, that night he dreamed of one of the hundred different ways the empress could make them pay.

The next day Nerion arrived late to the training field, but he looked pleased with himself. They had been in pairs, practicing drills with long wooden staffs. The training master glared at Nerion when he entered.

“Since you didn’t feel like showing up on time today, trainee, you’re going to demonstrate a new move to the rest of us.” The training master tossed Nerion a staff, took up one of his own, and without warning made a jab at Nerion’s side. Silaron recognized it as a feint, but his brother didn’t, and tried to block. The training master twirled his staff around and knocked Nerion on the side of the head. “What did you miss, trainee?”