Moonwater Perfume/Written while watching a duel

No, this isn't a real act of combat between two opponents. What is taking place down there in the courtyard is yet another exercise between two young men of the nobility letting go of barely contained energy in a constructive fashion. One of those participants is Lord Sennes Huranz, the oldest son of Lord Arcadin. The other member of the dueling dyad is, of course, Josym.

For the past ninety minutes, they have gone through several rotations in a seven-linked pattern called The Heart of Eternity. It's one of the traditional exercises in Kishenua, the ancient martial art created by Ysonesse Jedi to begin training their students in armed combat. Over the centuries, this practice was taken out of its original and proper setting to be corrupted by the aristocracy; now it is yet another method to instill pointless chivalric tendencies in the sons of privilege. In those days when it was taught at the Chatos Academy, the lightfoil was utilized; an imitation lightsaber was the first step to train aspiring Jedi. Ancient Ysonesse lightfoils are highly prized among collectors of rare antiquities. Even those of more recent vintage still possess luster unto themselves that never fails to catch the attention of those drawn to beautiful objects. Of course, they are indeed to be cherished, since lightfoils and their more powerful cousins are illegal. Nothing that was associated with the Jedi should appear out in broad sight. Yet that doesn’t stop two Huranz boys from practicing forms down there; we’re all safe behind the gates of Lord Reunahn’s manse. Everyone here is loyal to the highest degree, and would not be inclined to report Josym or Sennes for their actions to the constabulary. Which is fortunate, since they might resort to utilizing less civilized objects when their high spirits are truly let loose. I can imagine another night of Belinigransa overindulgence and scrolls unleashed on those poor suits of armor. Or they might have to settle for battle sticks, which are inferior to everything, and apt to splinter. The risk of bruises and worse injuries probably would not appeal to either of them. Well, certainly not to Josym. His exuberance in physical exercise doesn’t mean he would enjoy the affliction of cracked bones. Many of Deiu’s sons look upon scars and twisted limbs as badges of pride in coming out scathed yet alive from petty skirmishes. Brawls in the streets are taken for granted in the capital. Stupid, silly, and not the sort of thing anyone would find appealing.

In the courtyard, Josym swings around in a half circle, just a fraction behind his cousin, then brings up the foil in a grand arc. ANext maneuver comes from you, Sennes.” Only a young man could find something within armed conflict that is enthralling. Sweating, with a smile that could bring The Lost out of Abysos...he’s enticing, my dearest charge. Clad in a black sleeveless vest, and the standard third weave catan pants used by all warriors of The Ouroboros during their sessions, with only thin-soled training boots to keep his feet from touching the cobblestones. A boy playing at war, or some formalized ritual that mimics some act of battle.

For a moment, fear bubbles up from a hidden place in my psyche. If this war between the Empire and those opposed to it continues, the universal draft might force even the sons of Deiu’s nobility into combat. Privilege is a gift that yields munificence to those blessed by its presence. The children of the lower classes are conscripted into the military, a most unfortunate reality written into the treaty created soon after Deiu formally joined with Palpatine’s tyranny. Sons of merchants and innkeepers, even those boys whose fathers hold some form of leadership in the cities, all must leave home for training facilities that do nothing more than brainwash unfortunate children. It’s well known how the common citizens feel about the government that rules the galaxy. The majority, both in the capital and every hamlet that lies around the valleys, hate the oppressors.

“So, what's the plan to get our last rotation started?” There's a gleam in his eye, at least judging by the luminescence of his smile. It's a wicked little grin, one I've seen more in the last few weeks, even in the midst of all the sadness that has plagued Josym. I'm awed by this resilience of his spirit, that he could maintain a thread of happiness and almost supernatural joy. It's a quality that rises up from a natural source, an inherent spring bubbling forth from the depths of his soul, a brilliant radiance that I have grown to love.

Love...yes, I did write that word. To be honest, I am not familiar with that feeling; twenty-five years I've been alive, and the emotion held sacred by all humanity is one that I know nothing about except through poetry. The golden words of Suiame have taught me about devotion...no, that's hardly adequate to describe such intensity. Love is devotion, yet it's bigger, stronger, intense, pure, so hard to describe with mere syllables. Suiame did her best with the vagaries of language to educate and illuminate all who read her texts. Eight thousand years ago, she composed odes to a mysterious paramour; sonnets written under the influence of moonlight, wine, and divine euphoria. So I could live vicariously through Suiame's interwoven narratives; days spent in the garden, intertwined together in her bed, and all their encounters suffused with passion and tenderness. She wrote of happiness, pain, anger, running up and down the spectrum of grand insanity that is part of the love experience. Now, I have to compare those feelings she described to what I've had run through my brain these past weeks. Have they been intense? Yes. Have those feelings transformed me? Well, there certainly has been a revolution within myself. Detachment is often required for any courtesan. But this attribute also serves to protect a cortigia against the rare yet sometimes inevitable reality of feeling something strong for her benefactor. Sometimes, particularly in those fresh out of the cortigiamira, attachments are formed between those who serve and the ones they must serve. I don't understand how this is possible; that kind of relationship has no future, even after the Prestatine gains a wife. Courtesans are routinely exchanged for younger models, so any girl who is foolish enough to lose herself in this exchange deserves her disappointment.

Yet, here I am, sliding towards a dilemma. Yes, a strong bond is growing between us. There is a mutual attraction that continues to grow, and I definitely consider myself devoted to him.

Perhaps it should be called love after all.

"I'll do the volto asundeo." So Lord Sennes shall make his move in the duel, as custom and practice dictates. The ascension trip step is one complete loop that Kishenua combatants perform as a transition between patterns.

Josym traces his foil along some imaginary line, inches above the dusty sand that serves as covering surface for any impromptu fancy steps. "Wonder how it feels to actually hold this in saber form?"

His cousin laughed. "Only you could think of something so unlikely."

"It doesnt have to be unlikely." The shimmering silver-blue of Josym' s lightfoil danced against the sky, just for a moment, as he moved the blade in a half arc over his head. That movement is third to last in the volto; it will be Lord Sennes' responsibility to complete the circle by performing the final two moves. He does this in a quick fashion: a forward thrust, then a spin with a flourish twirl from the left...and so ends another excursion into ancient fighting.

Part XVIII