the sword is mother, the sword is father (eithne, sleeping tiger)
The knife's blade dragged across his scalp. Every hiss, every snap of hair, was another reminder of what he did and did not do. Did and did not value. There was a mirror in his chamber to trouble his mind. There was a way to see the serpent's slit that ran down the front of his face. As much a battle standard as any banner had been, that scar, still livid and red despite the time that had passed. Talon swept the knife into the bowl, rinsing it free of hair, then returned it to its duty. All the while his eyes burned into his own reflection. How strange it must have been to see those tattoos for the first time. Eragos had always been a hard man, harder than their own father, but beneath that lay anger and pride - also in greater measure than Valos. His brother thought of himself as inferior to his parents, but he'd surpassed them in every way possible. Except, perhaps, for one. He took Vaili's idea of honor and applied it to the world around him. He proselytized about the virtues of defending the weak. Yet he did not see where that path ultimately led.
Ruin.
Another splash. Water spilled onto the stone floor. Rivulets began seeking their own end - rug or crease or crack into which they could be poured for no good cause. Talon stared at them far longer than he should have. Then the knife resumed its work. The bark of its blade was his only accompaniment in the silence. Whatever the means, whatever the methods one used, the end was always meant to be the same. You were rewarded with true peace. The sword was everything to a knight. The sword was mother. The sword was father. And if one were particularly skilled, the sword was both the weapon of war and the pacifier. You could bring everything that life required to yourself and to others if only you would use your sword. If only you could cast aside the chains which society placed on your form, unseen and burdensome. Every man did what he thought was best. Yet the world was not subjective. It was objective. There remained a right and a wrong way to pursue one's ends. Eragos, sadly, chose always the wrong way.
Another splash of water. Another hiss of the knife. Seca had her own disagreements with Vera. Yet these disagreements were not fundamental. They were grievances over power and territory. Of the youngest and fifth child's place in a house who had only four. Of the prophecy which spoke of the end of Beit-Orane by the hand of the fifth child. There were ribbons and splendor. There were meetings and politicians. There were houses attempting to rise and fall each day. They did not see what was before their eyes. To possess something, you had to take it and make it your own. No respect. No dignity. Only the hard and the strong against those who felt bullied or used. What did it matter if Vera was the fifth child? Had she been accepted and trained properly, she might well have been following her father's orders now. Eragos had come to this place late in his life, when his mind had already been poisoned. There was no salvation for the truly mad. There was only the release of death, and the promise provided. A promise of silence.
"What are you doing?" the elder asked.
"I am preparing myself for the day," Talon replied quietly. "Attend to your sister, Veros. Soon they will be upon us."
His undershit was on first. It sealed away the scars on his chest, at last, round scars where pokers had been used to sear his flesh. Long, wide scars where his tissue had been ruined by the steel of his opponent. Smaller scars where knives had found their homes. All of it was replaced by white. Unimpeachable white, endless and brimming with promise. This shirt had been designed carefully, with pockets that pressed scales into his flesh. The scales were there. At least thirty of them. Only when he had the shirt settled did he pull on his trousers. They were lose, and baggy. Meant to be gathered at the knee. Yet now they flowed beyond his ankles and under his heels. That would come later. The narrow, woven leather cords which were his underbelt cinched into place easily. The trousers reached just above his belly button. They were meant to be high, so that they could be easily secured beneath his coat. This he did next, working each and every hidden button of the white coat as quickly as he could.
Eragos would be here soon, without a doubt. Talon did not believe for an instant that his brother was anything but dedicated. Part of the reason he hated Eragos now was for what he'd done. Accepting the rules of the order, as though he needed to bind himself to laws and accords that were clearly of no use to anyone. They would have an entire temple wiped out to save the life of one dragon. One dragon who was not noble, or wise, or any of the things one expected from the great beasts. Talon would spare the life of no one who sought to take Talon's last breath. It was not a matter of chivalry or honor. It was a matter of stupidity against reason. There was reason to allow someone to butcher you in such a fashion. That was Eragos' fatal flaw. It was the reason that Valos and Vaili had died, it was the reason that Eragos would die today, and it was the reason that the White Riders would fall in the end. They would not take the life that deserved to be lost, no matter how much cause they were given.
His armor was pulled on over the coat. Hard leather reinforced with inserted metal plates covered his chest. Spaulders hung over his shoulders on either side, segmented and staggered to give him the most freedom of movement. Metal forged into long, flat pieces curved around his torso from front to back to cover his sides and his ribs. The leather was pulled on over his head, and tightened into place with leather straps that were easy to reach and pull using only one hand. The metal was steel, strong and fast, but it would not stop everything. It would have to be enough. This had been Talon's armor in Aetherius. It would be his armor today. One last sign of respect for the brother who had lost everything. Next came the vambraces, carefully fitted to his forearms with the coat securely tied underneath. One solid piece of carefully forged steel, hard leather underneath, and his family's crest engraved into the metal. These were able to connection directly, by three metal clasps, to the gauntlets that he favored. The flare of the cuffs was minimal. Yet hand protection was essential.
After the armor was secured, Talon added the final article. A sleeveless robe was pulled on over the chest armor, concealing it well beneath black fabric. The robe clasped in the front, with cylindrical wooden buttons and tense silk loops. This robe had no adornment. Like his trousers, it was black, and it reached his knees with a square cut that kept the hem even. Talon stared at himself in the mirror for a long moment before the sword belt was settled into place. Wide, treated leather supported his saber and his cinqueda. There was a dagger, as well, with the ornately carved hilt. Yet it was not important. Even if a weapon violated his armor, chances were good that it would strike one of the dragon scales concealed by his shirt. The sleeves. The chest. The back. His legs were vulnerable, and his neck, but his torso was as safe as it could be in a fight.
There was little thrill in it. He would seek those thrills elsewhere.
Only when his flambard was braced against his shoulder did Talon go to collect the children. They were together, huddled for warmth against the winter's chill and rain. This was their chance to do something that no one else had ever done before. This was their chance to die for a cause they did not understand and would not agree with. Yet save the world in the doing. Veros and Hania were just children. They could not agree to anything. And if it was not something he did easily, killing children, it was something he would have to do. It was something he had agreed to do in exchange for Eragos' presence. He would use the children for more than the fate of the world.
He would use them to provoke Eragos into fighting with deep rage.
Then, he would pay with his life.
The main room of the chateau was easily its massive, sprawling open area. There were tremendous glass windows on either side - as tall as two men, and single pane, requiring a great deal of both time and effort. In the rear of the room, on either side, were spiral staircases leading to the second floor. Beneath those staircases were entrances to the first floor hallways. Talon had spared himself from the bulk of food preparation, but not always, and the stone kitchen was in the rear of the first-floor hall. His guest would be arriving soon, no doubt, and as he reached the center of the main room Talon decided it was time to wait and see.
The furniture had been removed. The doors were unlocked. The single-pane windows inviting and accessible. Snow capped the hills to the east and west. He would see Eragos coming, if Eragos approached from either direction. Time to stop wondering. Eragos would be here soon enough, and then the true fight would begin. It might have looked odd - a grown man, standing with two children in the center of an empty room - but he would have waited all day, here.
Where he would be easy to find.
"Why don't we run like before?" Veros asked quietly.
"Stand close to me," Talon ignored the question. "If you hear anything - glass breaking, a door opening - then stay very close indeed."
"How come?" Hania repeated Veros' question, but for the wrong reason.
"Because Eragos Feareborne," Talon answered with a laugh. "Is a damned killer."