Chương 166: Chapter 27: A Beautiful Contradiction

Selena, catching that silent understanding, sat between them on the grass with a gesture of measured annoyance, as if deciding to stop swimming against the current for a moment. Then, she let out a long sigh, a sound that seemed to expel the accumulated tension. And only then, abruptly changing her tone, she declared: —Enough of this. With this infernal heat, the only thing I need is ice cream. Ralish blinked, bewildered by the sudden turn, but a smile of relief appeared on his lips.

It was clear he preferred this to the previous tension. —Ice cream... well, that shouldn't be too hard. There is snow in the kitchen storerooms here, and syrup can be found in many places. —He paused thoughtfully, as if mulling over an idea— But I think there is a shop in Kaelburg, near the market square. We could go. Perhaps... it could be a peace offering.

Hassan looked at them with unexpected excitement, his eyes shining with a nearly childish expression, so rare that it contrasted sharply with his usual diplomatic serenity. —Did you know that ice cream is never seen in Sandstrohm? —he said, his voice heavy with curiosity. Both looked at him with raised eyebrows, but Hassan hurried to explain— When I arrived here at the university, it was already autumn, and it was terribly cold. Far too cold to think about ice cream. This will be my first ice cream.

His eyes, as dark as ever, now reflected a gleam, one that both of them noticed. It was the gleam of a deep desire. —I could even spend the water of an entire oasis on it, but I want it. With the flavor of wild berries... those small, purple ones that grow in the northern thickets. —He cleared his throat, a gesture of slight embarrassment— I don't know what they are called, I'm sorry. Ralish pondered it for a few seconds, but it was Selena who beat him to it. —They are berismoras.

—A light, genuine laugh escaped her lips, dissolving the last residue of annoyance— A friend from the Natural Sciences path taught me the names of many plants and animals. She looked up at the fluffy white clouds sailing across the blue sky, and then blurted out in a tone of playful longing: —I want pineapple flavor. Both turned around and looked at her with expressions of absolute perplexity. Ralish was the first to break the silence. —Pineapple? —he asked, wrinkling his brow— Does that exist? What is it like?

Selena smiled, her shoulders deeply relaxed; she was enjoying the moment. —It's a silly thing I read in a book of myths —she explained, adopting a storytelling tone— It said it was a fruit that came from a plant that grew directly from the ground. It was yellow, as if it had hard scales, with a crown of green, pointy shoots at the top. Its flavor was sweet and very refreshing, sour too. The myth said it could cure the heat of any place, that a single slice was enough to quench the thirst for the desert...

but that, precisely because of this, it could only grow in the most implacable deserts. A beautiful contradiction, don't you think? Something so refreshing, born from the driest place. The explanation, fantastical and poetic, had its effect. The tension vanished, replaced by shared curiosity, by the simple desire for something cold and sweet.

After correcting the misunderstanding about the pineapple, agreeing that Selena would try the closest flavor they could find, perhaps a mixture of citrus and honey, they headed straight to the Kaelburg shop Ralish had mentioned. The establishment was modest and impeccably clean, bearing a massive painted wooden sign that read:"Aelsi and Desserts of the North."

It was tended by two old people with sharp Nordic features: a tall, straight-backed grandmother with white hair tied up in a thick braid, and her husband, equally gray-haired, with a carefully trimmed white beard and pale blue eyes like glacier ice. Both spoke Erahari with perfect fluency, barely betrayed by their roots in the soft cadence of their voices and the frugal precision of their gestures.

The aroma drifting from the shop was intoxicating fresh cream, stewed berries, mint, and the faint dampness of stored snow. Selena, Hassan, and Ralish placed their orders, berismoras for Hassan, a mix of honey and dried fruits for Ralish, and for Selena, an experimental combination of belish, lugers, and a wild flower syrup. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

The old Khelganor woman, upon handing the wooden bowl into her hand, added in a sweet grandmotherly voice: —This one has the soul of a traveling fruit. —She smiled widely at her. Selena took it and tried a spoonful immediately. The flavors mingled; it was actually a blend of orange, cherries, and sweet floral notes, yet it did not disappoint her. She raised her voice to speak one of the few phrases she could manage well in Norrun: —Thrumir, gaž wón wšykne twóje drogowanja rědne cyni a je pśed tormami wachuje.

She had said: May Thrumir make all your journeys pleasant and keep them safe from storms. Though her accent had been immensely clumsy. Both old people were smiling at her now. However, it was the man who answered her with affection, his voice like that of a loving father: —With such beautiful words, we will give you the second one for free. Hassan and Ralish smiled, pleased with the man's words; in particular, the baron gave her a small, complicit nudge. Selena could not help but catch the small moment of peace.

The following days, Selena dedicated her mornings to practicing Denadi Stili with Remo, the veteran instructor whose face looked as if it were carved from old leather, his scars telling stories of countless broken shields and blows received. The man was sparse, almost Spartan in his method. There were no theoretical explanations, nor elaborate demonstrations. Upon her arrival, his first order was always the same, his martial voice marking the start: —Meditate. Do not run. Do not train. Just meditate.

Selena obeyed, sitting on the dirt floor of the training courtyard, trying to quiet her mind. But Remo would not leave her in peace. While she tried to concentrate, he created interferences: he would strike two stones together to create a sharp snap, throw a bucket of cold water at her back, or light a small fire near her feet so the heat would distract her. His philosophy was brutally simple: concentration in battle was not a luxury, but a necessity of survival, and it had to be cultivated in the midst of chaos.

After the meditation, or the attempt at it, they would move on to physical training. But there were no methods there either, not choreographed steps. Remo simply planted himself in front of her and said: —Attack. You will only learn if you understand it by yourself. Selena attacked. Time and again. Sometimes with her practice sword, with her hands, with everything she had learned from Alistair and from bloody experience.

Time and again, Remo blocked her, deflected her, and threw her to the ground with movements that seemed to spring from the earth itself, economizing every single drop of energy. It was during one of those falls, during a particularly determined charge, when it happened. Selena attempted a low takedown, but Remo anticipated her movement, deflected her weight, and projected her against the ground with a dry, blunt impact. She fell badly, with her right arm extended and twisted beneath her body.

A sharp, electrical pain shot through her shoulder, followed by a strange sensation of emptiness and of something being out of place. She sat up slowly, without emitting a single sound. There were no tears, no complaints, nor the instinctive cry of pain. Just a cold, rapid clinical evaluation. She looked at Remo, who was observing her with eyes like those of a predator, perhaps waiting for a reaction of frustration or surrender.

With a calm voice, which held only a slight tremor of contained effort, Selena declared: —I have a subluxation. In my right shoulder. Remo looked at her, and for the first time, something resembling admiration or, at least, respect crossed his impassive face. It was evident he did not expect such a contained, professional reaction. He nodded once, a sharp gesture.

Without help, Selena used a piece of her own clothing, tearing it with her teeth and her good hand to improvise a sling, securing the injured arm against her chest with precise though painful movements. She rose from the ground, a bit pale but steady, and looking directly at Remo, said: —I am going to the clinic. To Anselmo, he is the best. As soon as I improve, I will return. Remo said nothing. He only tilted his head slightly, a gesture of recognition. Not toward her pain, but toward her determination.

Selena turned and left the training courtyard, walking with a steady pace despite the immobilized arm, another small battle fought and another lesson, hard and physical, learned on the path toward mastering the art of the flowing shield. Upon arriving at the clinic, Anselmo examined her with his usual meticulousness, his old but sensitive fingers feeling the joint with expert gentleness.

He diagnosed the subluxation, reduced it with a swift and precise movement that made Selena grit her teeth but emit no sound, and then handed her a small pouch with painkillers made of dusaut bark and sedative herbs, along with strict instructions for rest and limited movement for a full month. Selena sighed, resigned. Her plans to train, work in the workshop, and perhaps start planning the trip to the royal capital to see Eliud's book were all disrupted once again by the whim of physics and pain.

She accepted reality with the pragmatic frustration that was already her second nature. So, during the following week, she adapted to her routine. In the mornings, she went to the library, where she immersed herself in the detailed notes Anselmo had kept for her, often accompanied by Hassan and Ralish, who took the opportunity to study related topics and, in the process, try to redeem themselves with their silent and useful presence.

Most of the afternoon was spent practicing Norrun with Fjora and Samira, speaking exclusively in that harsh and musical language, forcing her mind to think in its structures, to feel its nuances. At night, she sometimes went out with Maya and Ren to drink cheap beer in bustling taverns, to laugh at absurd things, and to pretend, for a few hours, that they were just ordinary students.