Chapter 3

"The complete arms. They were a main clue to me, at home, of that part of your culture. The clan name, combined with arms of a scarlet-bladed light-saber, led me to study the Black Lord's part of the Saga. I'd seen it as a child, of course, but as entertainment, not cultural study."

"That's enough, then," Ryan decided. "As clan-chief of Vader, I judge the similarity between the Clans Vader in the two universes to be sufficient that we are liable for the life-debt. What repayment do you require, James?"

Medart sighed, letting his relief show. "I want you or someone you choose to teach me Sandeman magic, clan-chief. The only way I can see for an outsider like myself to end this war is to challenge whoever the clans designate to single combat, and I'd have no chance in a conventional battle. I was told shortly after I arrived that I have strong magical powers, though, and that you were the only ones who could train me to use them at their maximum. I have had no training whatsoever, so I have no bad habits to unlearn."

Ryan frowned. "I can testify to your power, Prince; that was obvious in the strength of your automatic defense against my compulsion spell. But magic training is started young, as soon as the . . . I suppose you could call them magical-energy channels . . . begin to develop. With respect, you are no longer young; such training would be both painful and dangerous. And fighting a magical duel would be even more so. I would prefer not to pay our debt in such a negative way."

"I was under the impression the choice was mine," Medart said quietly.

"It is, Highness, and if you insist I will begin your training myself as soon as proper preparations can be made. But honor also requires that I point out the drawbacks and possibility of injury."

Medart frowned. "The Imperials didn't want to teach me because their training would limit my powers, not because the training itself was dangerous."

"They also told you, I'm sure, that there are great differences in methodology. Terran magic operates primarily through symbols, tools, and ceremony; ours operates through personal mana. There's very little danger in their method, but as they admit, it costs them power. We accept the risks in return for that extra edge."

Medart chuckled. "Exactly the reaction I'd expect. Since I need that edge too, I have to accept the dangers as well. How long will it take for me to learn enough to fight a duel?"

Ryan shrugged. "We have very little information on training adults, none on training Terrans, so I have no way to give you an estimate. Why?"

"I want to end this war, and end it as soon as possible. It's as simple as that."

"In that case, I'd suggest you issue challenge right away. That will bring an immediate truce, which will last until after the duel. And the duel cannot be fought until Clan Vader has finished discharging its life-debt, now that we've begun."

"How do I do that?"

"Since you're leaving the choice of opponent to us, you inform a Warleader or clan-chief. You've already told me, and I'm willing to pass it along as a formal challenge if you want me to."

"I'd appreciate that. You do realize the Empire'll use the truce to regroup and rebuild?"

"I certainly hope so; they haven't been doing too well the last several weeks."

* * * * *

As he had for the last month, Medart woke feeling like he hadn't slept for a year. If anything, Ryan had understated what he'd be going through, starting Sandeman-style magical training so late. He hurt all the time, and was usually on the edge of nausea, making it difficult to eat. That, in turn, meant he'd lost weight he could ill afford.

On the whole, he knew, he was in lousy shape--probably his worst since the early part of his recuperation from that Traiti almost tearing him in half. He'd been having doubts, the last couple of days, whether or not he'd be able to make it through the training, much less be able to fight and win a duel with someone who'd been using magic all his life. He couldn't quit now, though; at the very worst, he was buying the Empire some time. And there was always a chance he'd win the duel; pure dumb luck had been known to come to the rescue before.

He sighed, then forced himself to get out of bed, bathe, and dress. He'd been supplied with warrior-drab coveralls, complete with his arms on the breast--not too different from his uniform, and more practical than the civvies he'd worn at first.

And after the first couple of days, Ryan had ordered him exempted from the chores the entire warrior caste shared--cooking, clean-up, laundry and the like--because of the toll his training exacted even that early. Medart was grateful, though he'd felt guilty about it at first; by now, guilt had been swallowed by the chronic pain.

It amused him that he'd been more or less adopted by the lady Kelly and her son Haley, one of the young warriors in training. Like the rest of the clan, Haley had been aloofly superior at first--the typical Sandeman reaction Medart expected from those who hadn't been around Imperials much--but his stubborn determination to learn in spite of what the lessons did to him had broken down that reserve. The clan accepted him, and those two had practically become mother hens. As usual one--Kelly, this time--met him at the dining hall door, then brought him a tray and joined him.

"Thanks, Kelly." Medart picked up his fork and stared at the food for several seconds, trying to ignore his stomach. That didn't work any better than usual; at last he gave up the effort and started eating in spite of the queasiness.

"No improvement?" Kelly asked, after a few minutes' silence.

"No. I've given up expecting any, but I can't help hoping." Medart took a few more bites, then shook his head and put the fork down. "Who'm I going up against today?" He'd learned the necessary spells for a duel the first week, both offensive and defensive; he'd been practicing them ever since, trying to learn control, but that was frustratingly elusive. One day he'd barely be able to make his opponent feel his efforts or protect himself, the next it would take the monitors to erect fast barriers to keep him from injuring the other, while his own defenses were at peak.

"The warrior Loren of Clan Raynor," Kelly told him. "I think Chief Ryan is trying to force a breakthrough, finding you strong opponents who won't pull their punches the way we've started doing because we don't want to add to your problems."

"Um." Medart frowned at that. "I hadn't noticed--but then my control's so erratic I probably couldn't. Whoever I fight the duel with damnsure won't pull his punches, though, so I have to go along with Ryan--best I train with someone who's going all-out, too."

"That part no one can argue," Kelly said. "But . . . James, can you tolerate the added stress? Watching you is like watching a warrior in constant need, with no hope of being able to give you release."

Medart winced, aware of how much that would distress any warriors'-woman. "I'm not in that bad a shape--I've seen some who were, remember? What I'm going through is no fun, but I think I can hold out long enough."

"I pray to all the gods you're right."

* * * * *

By the end of the next week, Medart was praying too, to all the gods he could recall from his childhood. He'd been brought up Omnist, so there were quite a number of them, and he added a pair the Sandemans in Alpha Prime said should be favorably inclined to him: the two warriors he'd given Last Gift to, Leigh DarVader and Keith DarLewies.

It didn't seem to help. Despite Ryan's instructions, his opponents' best efforts, and his own increasingly urgent attempts over the next month, his control remained erratic. Unfortunately his physical condition didn't remain as stable; it worsened steadily. By the end of that time, Medart had lost close to twenty kilos, and the constant pain allowed him only the sleep his body absolutely had to have.

He'd given up even trying to eat breakfast, beyond the hot chocolate that contained the caffeine he needed as a stimulant; he ate only after his afternoon practice sessions, when he was too tired to gag.

And he'd wondered how long Ryan would keep supporting him, so he wasn't surprised when the clan-chief joined him, Kelly, and Haley--both of whom had taken to remaining close except when Haley was at his own training sessions--at the evening meal.

Medart endured the clan-chief's scrutiny, certain he knew what was coming, so he wasn't surprised when Ryan spoke. "Prince James, will you admit I have done my best to teach you as you asked?"

"You have, Clan-chief," Medart replied. "My inability to benefit by more than the most basic instruction cannot be laid to your lack of effort." He took a deep breath, rubbed his aching eyes. "You've done your best; I can't hold you to a repayment I'm incapable of absorbing. As far as I'm concerned, that part of Clan Vader's life-debt has been discharged."

"I thank you for your generosity, James. I will have you returned to the Empire; perhaps they can heal you where we cannot."

"No. My job's not done, and you still owe me one thing--I have a duel to fight, as soon as you can arrange a meeting."

"In your condition, I cannot permit that."

"You don't have any choice, Clan-chief." Medart pulled himself together as well as he could, reminding himself that these peoples' origin made them Imperial citizens whether they knew--or liked--it or not. He didn't have any enforceable authority over them, true, but sometimes that wasn't essential. "You issued the challenge on my behalf and implicitly agreed to arrange the duel, without specifying my physical condition. The only criterion was that I be trained to use Sandeman magic as well as I could, which has been done."

"It has, and I did issue challenge for you--but I did not agree to send you to certain death."

"It isn't--I'm running about fifty-fifty minimum power and maximum. That gives me a reasonable chance, better than the Empire'd have if I don't even try." Medart felt himself weakening, summoned his remaining resources. "You'd do the same if it were the Sandeman race at risk; I know that from personal experience. Even if you knew it'd cost you your life."

"That is true," Ryan replied slowly. "Very well, Highness, I will make the arrangements. But you should rest until then, doing no magic--and you must try to eat. In your present condition, even winning a duel would be fatal; to have a chance of surviving, you need to build yourself back up."

"I will," Medart promised. "I don't want to die; I've got too many interesting things to do first. And--" he looked from Kelly to her son--"I have a couple of guardians who wouldn't let me overdo even if I wanted to."

* * * * *

Medart kept his promise. It took Ryan six days to finalize arrangements for the duel, including what Clan Miklos needed to broadcast it to Sandemans and Empire alike; Medart spent the time resting as well as he could, nibbling on the food either Kelly or Haley kept him supplied with, and talking to the two of them.

He regained some strength, but the pain didn't ease in spite of Kelly's healing spells, so finally, the evening before the duel, he decided to ask her for a prognosis.

When he did, she frowned. "There's been no relief at all?"

"None that I've been able to notice."

"That is bad." Kelly paused. "As Ryan told you, we've had little experience with training adults to use magic, and you are our only experience teaching our system to a Terran. This makes it difficult for me to give you an accurate evaluation; I have almost nothing to base it on."

"I understand that."

"With that caution, then," Kelly said slowly, "I'm afraid our efforts to teach you have caused permanent damage. Either your age or your Terran physical characteristics--or possibly your extra-universe origin--have made it impossible to clear what Ryan called your magical-energy channels. Since my healing spells have no effect, I would say the attempts to train you have been . . . the best analogy I can think of is burning . . . them out."

Medart leaned back, sighing. "That's what I was afraid of. Is my opponent going to be battleprepped?"

"Of course."

"Will I be allowed a similar form of preparation?"

"Of course, if you have it."

"I do. Not built in, the way yours is, but I had a special medikit set up just in case; I have drugs that'll boost my strength and speed. And to block the pain, now that the duel's close--unless you think the painkiller'd interfere with what little control I do have."

"I can see no reason it should," Kelly said. "It should help, in fact, by allowing you to concentrate better. Why didn't you mention it before?"

"Because I don't have much, and wanted to save it for when I'd need it most." Medart opened one of the pouches on his belt and took out a small injector. "As you can see, my medikit's not that big, and I damnsure didn't think I'd need enough quidine for two months plus. I've got four doses, which is enough for about thirty hours." He felt for his carotid, triggered the painkiller into the artery, and seconds later sighed in relief. "Whew--that's a lot better."

"You look better, even so soon," Kelly agreed. "That quidine appears to be extremely strong--is it dangerous?"

"No." Medart shook his head, smiling as much at the relief from pain as at the question. "It is strong, but it's the safest analgesic ever discovered. It doesn't affect your reflexes or thinking, and it's not addictive--all it does is kill pain for about eight hours. The worst it does is numb you if you take an overdose."

"Doing that tonight might be wise. You haven't slept properly in that same two months plus, and you will need to be rested tomorrow."

"Recommendation accepted," Medart said promptly.

"Good." Kelly smiled. "I believe it would also help if you think of something besides the duel, so may I take advantage of your respite to ask you some things?"

"Be my guest."

"I found it revolting at first to think of being friends with a Terran, but after being around you for a brief time, that became a more attractive idea than otherwise. We seem to have more in common than I would have believed possible--do you have any idea why?"

"I know exactly why, and I think you could figure it out for yourselves--but you're like the ones at home. You don't want to think about it."

Kelly frowned. "I must lack information, because I've been trying to figure it out since you began training."

Medart grinned. "You have the necessary information. Want me to prove it, or just tell you outright?"

"Prove it," Kelly challenged.

"Remember you asked for it, and try not to attack me. I trust you both, but I also remember how strongly the ones at home reacted to the same information."

"I will control myself. Haley?"

"The same."

"Okay. You remember I told Ryan I recognized the design of Clan Vader's arms from seeing the Saga as a child?"

"I remember," Kelly said.

"And your Standard is almost the same as Imperial English, right?"

"Right."

"And you know the Shapers began creating the Sandeman race from their own genetic material in 2130, according to the calendar you and the Empire share."

"Every child knows that."

"Uh-huh. Given all that, tell me where the Shaqers originated."

Kelly thought about his statements, her expression going from intent to disbelief to revulsion. "They came from Terra!"

"They sure did," Medart said. "Which makes you Terrans, too. An improved version, so changed my Empire classes you as human variant rather than standard human--but Terrans. And that makes you Imperial citizens by right of birth."

"That's obscene!" Haley burst out.

"Matter of opinion," Medart said calmly. "Both personally and as a Prince of the Empire, I think it's great--as long as you're not fighting the Empire you're rightfully part of."

"Ryan has to know about this," Kelly said. "Haley, would you please inform him and ask him to join us?"

"Yes, lady." Haley stood and bowed to her, then left.

"Is it really that bad?" Medart asked the w'woman as soon as the young warrior was out of hearing. "It doesn't change what you are, how you live, or have any other bad effects; what it does is give you new opportunities." He grinned. "I'm biased, of course--have been since I first met Sandemans. I've liked you even when I couldn't identify the reasons, and that grew when I could. Your absolute integrity is one, and it's also one of the most valuable things you've brought to our Empire."

"Put that way," Kelly said slowly, "it sounds almost reasonable. But you didn't grow up hating the Shapers and everything about them."

"You can't hate everything about them," Medart pointed out. "They did manage to engineer your race, after all. I personally think they were absolute, unmitigated idiots for thinking they could create and then control a race of the most deadly warriors in the known universes--but from my own experiences with Sandemans, I can't help but be grateful to them at the same time."

"Grateful to whom?" Ryan asked as he entered the room. "The Shapers, if I interpret what I heard correctly."

"You did," Medart told him. "They committed one of the worst crimes in Imperial history, meddling with human genetics just for the fun of it--but the results were so good I can't fault them totally for their arrogance."

Ryan smiled, taking the seat Haley had vacated. "It's good to see you feeling well again, Prince, and able to converse. So we are Terrans, are we?"

Medart nodded, pleased by the clan-chief's calm reaction. "Yes." Then he raised an eyebrow, grinning, and said, "You knew, didn't you? That emphasis on the first 'are' was a giveaway."

"We--the clan-chiefs--have known for centuries." Ryan sobered. "Or strongly suspected, at least; all the evidence pointed in that direction."

"So why in Chaos haven't you done anything about it?" Medart demanded.

Ryan shrugged. "You know we aren't as powerful as your nobles, Prince. We can only lead our people where they want to go--and that hasn't been into the Empire."

"But you could have told them, at least!"

"Not and lived," Ryan retorted. "You, of all people, must know how deeply unacceptable that particular truth is to most of us. Coming from you it's bad enough; coming from us, it would trigger a reaction I prefer not to think about."

Medart nodded, reluctantly. "I think I can understand that. What's going to happen now that I've spilled the beans?"

"The warriors' hall was full when Haley gave me the news; I'd imagine it's spreading as quickly as people can get to commsets or cast the necessary spells." Ryan looked serious. "I should contact the clan-chiefs as well. Prince James, would it upset you to speak to all the chiefs through me?"

"Not a bit--I'd jump at the opportunity."

"A moment, then, while I cast the spell. And some will need a few more moments to wake up."

"Go ahead." This wasn't anything he could have expected, Medart thought, and he had no idea what effect it would have. A drastic one, he was sure; Sandemans weren't known for moderation in their reactions, especially to strong stimuli, and this was one of the strongest possible. If he lost the duel, it could easily send them back into combat with the determination to eliminate every trace of the Shapers and their kin. If he won, their reaction was less predictable. They wouldn't continue the war; honor wouldn't permit that. But that still left two possibilities. They might pull back and refuse all further contact, or--Medart's earnest hope--they might decide to give the Empire the benefit of their improvements, and join it. Here, they'd be a full Sector--probably the biggest one, Medart thought, and certainly the strongest.

"Ready," Ryan said. "I'm linked to all the clan-chiefs and Warleaders available, Prince James. They see and hear what I do, and can speak through me if I permit. Would you summarize what you told the lady Kelly and the student warrior Haley?"

"Gladly." Medart did so, thinking that he preferred something like the Mjolnir Conference, where he could see that he was talking to a group. This was like talking to a camera, he supposed--but it felt decidedly peculiar, speaking to one person and knowing hundreds of others were watching and listening through that person's eyes and ears.

"That's it," he said at last. "Now what?"

"Now what, indeed," Ryan said. "I think that determination will be primarily up to you, Highness. Bryan of Alanna wishes to speak to you." His eyes lost focus for a second; when they regained it, Medart knew it was the Alanna addressing him.

"I am Bryan of Alanna," Ryan said, confirming that. "Are you aware that we have been following your training, Highness, as one of the most important events in this sphere?"

"I've been too preoccupied to give any consideration to my news value," Medart said. He didn't particularly enjoy being on public display, even after a lifetime of it--especially when he was at his worst. But he'd been there before, and if he survived he'd be there again; he could handle it. "I suppose it does make sense, though. What about it?"

"Your efforts have done you great honor, and earned you more regard than I can recall being given any other Terran. We understand your motive is to win our friendship or alliance as well as peace--but do you really believe one person can achieve that after three years of war?"

"I don't know," Medart admitted. "All I can do is try my best and hope. I know you from my universe, remember, and I achieved it once, even though the circumstances were drastically different."

"Dell, of Raynor," Ryan said, his voice changing as another chief spoke. "Why did none of this universe's Terrans make such an effort?"

"You didn't give them a chance. They know you the way we knew the Traiti--as ferocious, bloodthirsty killers. It took the Traiti asking one of my colleagues to take their Ordeal of Honor for him--and later the rest of us--to learn about them as they really are. I know that about you from home, so naturally I'm willing to take the same sort of chance to give you and this Empire the opportunity to become friends."

"Gareth, of Levva," was the next introduction. "I believe your acceptance of such a risk, and your willingness to endure such painful training, have earned that opportunity; win your duel, and Clan Levva will send a delegation to investigate the desirability of acknowledging the citizenship you say is ours by right."

Medart let his relief show. "That's all I ask, Clan-chief." Sandemans thought a lot more alike than their standard-human cousins; if one was willing to make such a concession, most others would too. And the few that wouldn't immediately would probably change their minds as soon as they saw the benefits of Imperial citizenship. Of course, that still left him with the problem of winning the duel . . .

* * * * *

If he had to fight a duel, Medart thought, at least he had a good day for it. The weather at Vader clanhome was clear and sunny, the temperature a comfortable twenty degrees as he stood waiting for his opponent in the outdoor practice arena. And he was in uniform; Ryan had brought one from his courier ship--even had it tailored for his weight loss--in case he needed it as his ceremonials.

He'd taken the drugs that would bring him as close as possible for a standard human to the Sandeman battleprepped state. He was keyed up, unnaturally alert, sensitive to every movement around him, and eager to get on with the duel. It was mildly amusing to see that the Sandemans gave him the same cautious respect he'd give a battleprepped warrior; maybe the drugs brought him closer to that state than he'd thought.