motion of the floor and walls around him. “As you said, nothing is impossible if
the will is strong enough.”
“Good,” Vertan said with a malicious laugh, “then you won’t mind walking back
and forth a bit.”
“Walking?” Jubal clutched at the wall, a wave of dizziness washed over him. “You
said nothing about walking!”
“Of course,” the wizard shrugged. “If I had, would you have attempted to stand?
Now, walk-or don’t you remember how?”
* * *
The thunderstorm raged, giving added texture to the night. Jubal practiced alone
without Ver-tan’s supervision. This was not unusual now that his mobility was
returning. He slept and woke according to the demands of his healing body and
was often left to exercise by himself.
The rain had driven the goats away from the hut; they sought and usually found
better shelter, so even his normal audience was absent. Still, the slaver
practiced, heedless of the sucking mud at his feet. He held a stout branch in
one hand-a branch the length of a sword.
Block, cut, block behind. Turn and duck. Cut at the legs. Move. Move. Move! Over
and over he practiced a death-dance he had learned as a gladiator. The pain was
a distant ache now, an ache he could ignore. He had something else on his mind
now.
Turn, cut. Move. Block, turn, block, cut! Finally he stopped, the raindrops
collecting in the wrinkles of his forehead.
Slow-all of it. Slow.
To the untrained eye his swordwork might seem smooth and expert, but he knew he
had a mere fraction of his old speed. He made to test his suspicions; he stooped