Free Sword of the Bright Lady by M.C. Planck Page B

ignored the snatches of conversation and laughter, and went to his snowy childhood. The meditation was difficult, but the trance it brought on was more than just a state of mind. The hallucination was vivid and real.
    In front of him, on the white dark-bright moonlit street, stood an empty suit of armor. It addressed him in chill and hollow tones, although not unfriendly.
    â€œGreetings, Pater Christopher,” it said, or rather he, since it was clearly a male voice. “How will you serve the Marshall of Heaven today?”
    â€œI need a menu,” Christopher said. “Help? Where’s the help key?”
    The apparition was a little taken aback. “I cannot provide instruction. You should look to your elders for that. I can only provide you with spells.”
    â€œIt’s my first time. Do you have any default settings? Preferably for a duel or just general fighting.”
    The suit paused, considering. Christopher couldn’t make up his mind if the suit of armor was a program or not. On the one hand, it seemed to interact like a real person, even displaying emotions despite a total lack of facial features or even a face. On the other hand, it felt a lot like talking to Siri on an iPhone.
    â€œThe most commonly requested spells before a duel are these.”
    Pearly symbols appeared in the air next to the suit of armor. They were fantastically complex, like Chinese ideographs gone wild, subtly shifting shape whenever he stopped focusing on them. Yet he could divine their meanings as easily as reading a sentence. The suit took the symbols down and handed them to Christopher.
    â€œOkay, thanks. Anything else?”
    â€œNo, young priest,” the apparition said with amusement, “you are charged with only this much of the Marshall’s power.”
    The suit of armor and the snowy background began to fade, and Christopher found himself concentrating fiercely on the mystical glowing pretzels in his hands. Keeping them intact and separate without dropping them drained his attention like an open spigot. The symbols slid through his fingers without sensation, and only pure thought kept them from drifting away. But it was a losing battle; eventually they faded like the afterimages of a bright light, and he felt saddened by the loss of beauty.
    When Christopher came to his physical surroundings again, Svengusta was watching him. “I intended to offer you advice on what spells to prepare, but I am glad you did not take it. An old village healer is perhaps the worst source of wisdom before a battle. I am not even sure of the rules for dueling.”
    â€œThere are rules?”
    â€œMany,” Karl said, coming into the room, “as any village boy could tell you, no doubt in exacting detail. But in your case, you need only worry about surviving. What will you do for armor?”
    â€œNothing,” Christopher said. “I don’t need armor.” Your armor is in your mind , his sensei used to say. Not getting hit was the key.
    Karl stared at him, as if the words were a challenge. Then he shook his head. “Shameful enough that we throw you to wolves with hardly a day’s rest. Must we send you defenseless?” He began unlacing his chain-mail tunic.
    â€œI don’t want it,” Christopher said, but Karl ignored him.
    To Christopher’s surprise, the heavy armor did not impede his movement. It also fit well; although he was taller than the younger man, he was no broader around the shoulders. The weight of it gave him confidence.
    â€œAnd how shall you perform your duties without it?” Svengusta asked Karl.
    â€œFor an unranked man, armor is merely vanity,” Karl said. “But for the Pater, it may slow a killing blow long enough for a healing spell.”
    â€œI’ll give it back afterwards,” Christopher said.
    Karl shrugged, unconcerned.

    The next day Svengusta charitably let him sleep in, and the household was already up when