A time-honored tradition in Imperial military jurisprudence is the assignment of tasks of almost superhuman boredom as punishment for relatively minor interactions or to teach the value of obedience in everyday things or both; for as the Father teaches, "When the mind learns the proper road by rote, it is less likely to wander into evil." (3 Axioms 17:1) Gifted are gifted not just with Will and the phenomenal power that comes with it, but universally-sharper bodies and minds, and so repetitive and pointless tasks are a more brutal punishment for Gifted than for the non-.
A Gifted military camp is first prepared with sewage outlets and storage areas, and then, before anything else, with layers or Wardings against attacks, in overlapping and expanding rings, with variable mixes of alarms, diversions, deadly markings, and freezing signs. Such etchings are obvious to Gifted and essentially invisible to all but the best-trained non-Gifted, written as they are in a system that dates to just after the Second Wave of human colonization of the continent, before even the first Orders were created, and so tend to look like random scratches on rock, soil, and wood. While sentries are posted even so in active war zones or in nearby lands, here, at the heart of the Empire, the runes suffice to warn away, apprehend, or kill thieves and particularly stupid bandits; sentry duty is a waste of valuable time and energy.
Kamiéra was thus performing an exceptionally pointless and repetitive task after the turn of the day with no light except for what a tightly-controlled use of Wind allowed her eyes to take in, after a long day of combat exercises against Imperial Legionaries who were veterans of numerous campaigns and therefore not secretly sure they were being used as expendable training fodder for overenthusiastic Gifted.
For the eleventh day in a row.
For any of his sisters, the breaking point would be near. Due to a peculiarity in his disposition
because he would become the Witchspear he was there to learn to be and so he took everything he learned here as a truth and a truth well-learned because his past life did not matter and only who he was now and who he would be when he left the Academy mattered as nothing else could and so he had to become the Witchspear he was there to learn to be and he has to take everything he learned as a truth well-learned because
this particular genus of punishment was not punishment at all. Dividing his attention between the perimeter, the Wards etched about him, and his assignment, he simply marched every night, aware of sore muscles and feet only the next morning.
Step and eyes sweep. Wards and their gap. Step.
...control. I must always be in control in battle. I must always be in control of my Gift. Others could be hurt otherwise so I must be in control. I must always be in control in battle. I must always be in control of my Gift. Others could be hurt...
No one approaching, no sound, nothing on the wind or the Wind. Step and eyes sweep. Other wards, three abreast to hold for the fourth to the right. Step.
... perspective. I must maintain perspective. A sword-thrust is not a battle is not a war is not the reason to fight a war. War is terrible and must be held in check for innocents and for those who fight equally, teaches the Mother, and so I must always keep matters in perspective. I must maintain perspective. A sword-thrust is not a battle...
Joran had not been punished so.
Joran had been punished far worse.
Stripped of rank, Joran had not been in the rolls for most of the last Mark and more of increasingly vicious (but controlled on the Gifted side) battles. While they knew his punishment was not in any sense their concern, the Witchspears, being young women of a certain age, had carefully, slowly, surreptitiously extended a collective Will to spy him out -- to no avail, because one of their instructors had anticipated this as she had once been a young woman of the same age.
He wasn't dead; they simply could not locate him. For days, they'd wondered what had happened until, at a random moment just before a bout with the XIV Legion, Ever-Steady, one member of Third Company had seen Joran race back to the Blademage camp, soaked in sweat, with a large sack on his back; pour out ten or so very large stones; pick and pack them back up; then run off again.
This apparently went on most every day. As Kamiéra was marching a picket and aware of every coming and going
and control
and perspective
until past the turn of the day every night, they could not imagine what exactly was happening after dark.
As he turned the corner on the octagon at the exact spot where a focus-stone had been placed, he saw and heard a familiar block of muscle steadily approaching him along the same side of the octagon. Without active Sight and with no light, Kamiéra wouldn't have seen Malamo until the Blademage was almost on him, and even with Sight, he barely heard the big fellow's surprisingly soft steps.
The Temporary(?) First was obviously not an intruder and Kamiéra had not been assigned to engage in idle talk with a recurring source of frustration, so he simply nodded and kept marching, eyes forward.
And nearly jumped when Malamo pivoted smoothly and started marching in perfect parallel.
Unwilling to disobey orders or give Malamo the satisfaction of thinking he'd won some stupid battle the Blademage thought he was fighting here, Kamiéra continued his methodical pace around the perimeter of the camp, carefully ignoring his thrice-cursed shadow.
This self-discipline lasted exactly one path around the camp until he'd found he could no longer concentrate on his sentry duties, his meditation, and being increasingly irritated at what must surely be mockery from the stupid boy who had silently marched in time with him for an entire round and why was he even here?
Kamiéra barely realized he'd said that last part out loud.
"Your punishment is, I think, just," came the voice from the source at which the Witchspear refused to look, compounding frustrating behavior with a frustrating refusal to answer the Chasm-taken question. "The refusal to punish me, despite my request for it, was not."
Kamiéra managed not to trip over a rock he had seen two spans away. "Your what? Why should you be punished?"
Other than the slight whisper of soft leather boots on the ground and the bare sound of Malamo's breathing, silence. Then: "I took an Oath before the Father to be Joran's shadow and right hand, because he is the Heir and because of what his father, light of the Father and Mother upon him, did for mine at the Battle of the Three Tides." Kamiéra could not immediately place that one, let alone one where Cleosine VI had taken the field personally, but Malamo continued. "My father became what he is because of the Emperor, and I swore I would repay that debt at the cost of my own life if needed.
"And I did not get back to him in time to stop him when you had us, bare as on the Final Day."
Kamiéra stumbled that time and would have likely hit the rocks but for a very large hand whipping out, sunray-quick, and catching him by the upper arm. He turned.
Malamo da'Kelsra chuckled. "Did I actually surprise the great Kamiéra dal'Falein? I will treasure this day forever."
Kamiéra shook his arm free, and was slightly and inexplicably unhappy when it took virtually no effort. "You first said you came for punishment, but I think you're just here to mock me."
Two hands up and an oddly arresting white grin against coal-black skin. "I would never mock you, Witchspear," the Blademage responded solemnly. "I might jape, but not mock. After the first few Trial battles, we thought we had the measure of you, but combat against you has become like wrestling water. 'What will Kamiéra do today? Screens and diversions? Make us fight ourselves again? Maybe she'll change every Witchspear into a rock and then attack us as a landslide while we're out hunting Fifth Company!'"
He paused at the look he got for that. "Perhaps a bad example, given everything, but in my defense, that is a thing we were saying the night before that last battle."
Finding himself strangely flattered and inclined to listening more, Kamiéra forced some self-discipline. "The punishment not given?"
The long blonde braids shook. "I failed. I knew when were fighting only part of Third Company and didn't get pinched or skewered or whatever you'd do to punish us for being away from the main Brotherhoods that you were diverting us and likely striking at Joran, because you always aim to finish battle quickly. But in that moment, determined to break free and with no resistance before me, I did exactly what you expected.
"You were brilliant, I was stupid, Tesliain executed perfectly, and I couldn't be there to stop Joran as his father, light of the Father and Mother upon him, did my da'. So what should have been a defeat and a tie became a near-disaster and an unearned victory. My brother Blademagi could have died that day. Your sisters. The Heir.
"Joran deserves his punishment and right now he is hopefully thinking about that and remembering to hold his breath." Kamiéra couldn't make sense of that, as the nearest body of water was over a day's run away. "But I deserve it no less. The Kyros, however, disagreed. So I assigned a punishment myself."
He smiled and held out those large hands as if to say, I am at your mercy. Then he grinned that endearing grin again. "But I got tired of following you every night and hiding successfully for over a Mark."
Kamiéra shook his head slowly, somehow feeling warm but also exasperated. "Malamo, you did not merely take too much on yourself, you would have cheated Joran of his own chance to learn-- wait, you did what for how long?"
The grin widened and he gave a Court bow. "You are not the only one who can learn, Kamiéra, and while Flame and Wind are very different, they can sometimes be put to similar ends. Your mind has been before you and inside itself, and never behind. And while this has been difficult, it was worth it to see a side of you that wasn't bearing down on me with a blazing sword.
"And while you have a beautiful front, you also have a very nice rear. Good night, Kamiéra dal'Falein." He loped off, still not making a sound, before Kamiéra could manage more than a surprised sputter.
