Page 37 of The Scent of the Ideal

Viau shrugged. “In the polite and civil every day, no. In the sort of duels the young get up to, no. In a fight for your life and the life of your charges? Oh, yes, it is done, but cautiously. When word gets out of a swersoldi that powerful and pitiless, they will be the first obstacle removed in any sort of attack. But again, most cannot, or would have to truly concentrate to manage it.”

Rafi nodded. “I won’t.”

This time, Viau scoffed. “You will. You take things far too seriously not to do whatever you need to do to protect someone.”

“It is a tool,” Rafi admitted, after a small hesitation. “So is the healing use of aer, if one wanted to use it for other purposes. Though I don’t know that I’d want to.”

“But you thought of it. Using healing to harm someone.” Viau didn’t even seem surprised. “Killer.”

“Are you not also a killer?” Rafi asked because Viau said it in a certain way, as if it was unusual.

“A requirement of the job, if a swersoldi is very unlucky.” Viau carefully set the peach on the desk. “But for most, this is something we do because it is work and we have few other options. For you too, yes, I know, but others happen into this. You are suited to it. Do you know what Daloit calls you? A cat.” He answered before Rafi could ask. “Efficient hunters, cats. Though they do toy with their prey, and that I don’t believe you would do.”

“But you’re the ideal,” Rafi protested, ignoring cat nonsense. “You’re what people think swersoldi are, what they should be. Poetry, courtesy, and your hair.”

“My hair?” Viau echoed, blinking.

“The ideal is not a killer, even if you are one,” Rafi explained his earlier point.

“Ah. That would imply that the entire system is constructed on violence, with unwanted children paying the highest price.” Viau sounded playful but his gaze left Rafi again. “That is not a story people want. They want noble warriors like those from long ago, with exquisite manners and bravery, strong calves and a quick wit. Poetry in their words, elegance in every flick of their wrists. Pretty hair,” he added, probably to tease Rafi.

That description was Viau exactly.

“Did you choose to become the ideal?” Rafi scarcely breathed it.

“I didn’t ask to become famous if that’s what you mean.” Viau reached for a ribbon on the desk and tied his hair at his nape. “I decided young to be as perfect as a human can be in the vocation that I was given.”

Was given. Delicately phrased but not poetry, so Rafi grasped his meaning.

“But your family love you.” And Viau was probably good enough with aer to have been a mage. Maybe not the most powerful mage, but a good one.

“Yes,” Viau agreed. “I was nonetheless extraneous, and I don’t mind it, I suppose. I serve to the best of my ability and have gotten something of a name for myself.”

He could be the ideal swersoldi, but as a mage, he’d be merely one of many. That sort of vanity was beneath someone like Viau. Rafi frowned as he thought of it, then sat up as he understood why Viau trained as much as he did, why he answered every call, probably why he befriended everyone.

If he was good, if he was close to the best, to perfect, then he’d be needed. He’d be kept. Nobody would throw away someone like that.

Rafi wanted suddenly, strongly, to touch Viau, or offer him something more useful than a peach. But he had nothing.

“You enjoy the sparring at least,” he suggested, and got a surprised glance and then a snorted laugh.

“Yes, I do,” Viau admitted, smiling again. “The challenge of it, getting breathless. The soreness the next day if I did too much. It’s fun.”

“But you’d rather be in a garden growing things and measuring them and the like?” That was more puzzling, but when outdoors, Rafi had been wandering fields, not tramping through gardens.

“I try not to think about it too much,” Viau answered lightly. “Do you have anything like that?”

Rafi spent a moment considering if destroying a sparring dummy was considered a real interest. “No,” he confessed at last. “I never saw the point. This is the only life I’ll have.”

“If you like this life, that is fine enough. But if you had a choice, if this weren’t forced upon you, or was one of a handful of mediocre choices, what would you choose? Or at least, what might you enjoy in your spare time? You should have a private pleasure. Everyone should.”

“Oh.” Rafi considered that too. He was tentative. “I realized the other day that I might enjoy healing.”

“After what you just said.” Viau’s grin grew. “Healing? Truly?”

“The weaving of aer and how they view it, it’s… challenging. And, well, everyone listens to healers.”

“A surprising number of people don’t, but I see what you mean.” Viau seemed thoughtful as he stared at Rafi. “I can’t see you as a dedicated healer, but I can see you being shockingly good in an immediate crisis. Oh yes. You know, those same aer-weaving skills are used in gardening, although many gardeners—the ones in demand at noble houses—are often not aware that they are manipulating aer.”