Disclaimer: The characters, Tessa Alvarado, Juan Torres, Marta, are copyrights of Paramount and Fireworks Productions. No infringement is intended by their use. The story plot is original and copyright to the author, Maril Swan.

The King of Swords

by Maril Swan

The personality of the King of Swords is a combination of the positive air energy of the Swords suit and the active, outward focus of a King. He is a man of intellect who can absorb and work with information of all kinds. As a master of reason and logic, he analyzes any problem with ease. He can work out solutions quickly and explain them lucidly to others. In a chaotic situation, he cuts through the confusion and provides the clarity needed to move forward. Others seek him out to present their case as he speaks with eloquence and insight. He is always truthful and can be relied on to handle any situation fairly and honorably. When a judgment is called for, he can render an impartial but just decision. He is incorruptible and lives by the highest ethical standards. He encourages those around him to do the same, and they often live up to his expectations.

Chapter One

This one has a little nick on the blade, he mused, sighting along the shaft. I must get the Gypsy knife-sharpener in to fix it, he thought, setting it down beside the row of rapiers he had been inspecting. Next, he moved to the epees, lined up on the table. Picking up one of the fine light weapons, he tested it for flex and balance. He crossed to the large wall-mirror, saluted his image and began a series of lunges and thrusts, the blade flashing as he fought a mock duel with his mirrored self. The reflection showed a man in his prime, with dark curling hair, and a pair of dark brown eyes that glittered in the brightness of the room. The fencing master smiled at his image, noting with pride the spareness of his tall frame, the muscularity of his forearm. His chest was well-formed and belly still tight from years of concentration on the perfection of his art. In 1808, Madrid, Spain, Señor Juan Torres was the foremost fencing master in the city.

Satisfied with his style and speed, he saluted once more and laid the epee down near the others. He glanced around the sun-filled fencing gallery, its tall windows pouring light onto the dark wooden floor. Torres loved these moments of quiet in his salle which usually rang with the clash of swords and grunts and cries of the students. On his one day of rest, Sunday, he prized these peaceful hours in his domain where he was master of swords.

A sound interrupted his reverie and Torres turned as his manservant, Jaime, entered, his steps hesitant and mien somewhat fearful. The elderly servant knew how his master valued this little private time, away from the demands of his students. The old man squinted his dark eyes in the brightness of the gallery, searching for Torres then limped toward him. "There is a young gentleman to see you, Señor Torres," he said in his high nasal voice.

"What does he want?" Torres asked, then with an impatient laugh, added, "What do they all want? Tell him this is my day off. I don't see prospective students on Sundays."

Jaime turned to leave but his way was blocked by a youth who had entered the gallery, and was standing uncertainly near the door. "He can't see you today," the servant said curtly, as he took the boy's elbow and began to propel him through the door. The lad shook off Jaime's hand easily, and dodged past his futile attempt to grab him.

"Señor Torres," the boy said, a soft high voice denoting his prepubescent age. A bit taller than the manservant, the young man was slim and graceful - and agile too, Torres noted with a little smile. "May I speak with you...privately," he added, keeping his distance from the manservant who scowled as he advanced again on the boy.

Torres laughed as he watched the cat and mouse game the two were playing. The lad was too quick for the old manservant's clumsy and ineffectual attempts to get hold of him. "All right, Jaime, you may leave us alone." Torres waited until the older man was gone, then said sternly, "You have my attention, now what do you want?" He watched emotions chase across the young face as he waited for the lad to speak up. Too pretty for a boy, he thought, noting the soft sculpted face, lustrous dark eyes with long black lashes, and finely arched brows. His long dark hair was tied back and he wore a velvet cap. The clothing was expensive, Torres observed as he evaluated the boy, fine velvet jacket, soft black leather boots, and breeches of the finest linen. A spoiled aristocrat, Torres decided, whose Papa has sent him to me to make a man out of him. How often has that happened? The fencing master expelled an impatient breath. "Well, you wore my man out getting in here, now speak up, boy!"

The youth swallowed, his dark eyes downcast suddenly. "I want to take fencing lessons," he said. Raising his chin with more bravado, the lad continued, as he strode forward, loosening a purse from his belt, "I can pay-whatever your fee, Maestro." He held out the purse, and Torres took it, looking inside.

"This is more than my usual fee. That is, if I even decide to accept you. Have you ever fenced?"

"No, Maestro, but I can learn quickly." The boy's eagerness made Torres smile. "The extra fee is for private lessons," he added somewhat more boldly.

"I don't give private lessons to any but the most promising students. After about a year of group lessons, I can determine if a student has the ability to become a champion fencer. Then, I will spend the extra effort, after he has proved himself to me." Looking over the boy's slight frame, Torres was not sure he would have the stamina for the rigorous training the students went through. Torres would not take on a student, only to have him fail; he had the reputation of his academy to think of. He came to a decision and said, "As it is, young señor, I have no room in my academy just now for any new students. Perhaps one of the other fencing masters could accommodate you."

"I can pay you more, Señor Torres, if you will take me. I want to learn from you. You are the best."

Colour rose to Torres cheeks and he said coldly, "Not everything is a matter of price, boy. Now I bid you good day." The lad rushed over to the table, and picked up one of the epees, making it whistle as he saluted the fencing master. He assumed the correct en garde position and waited as Torres watched, too astonished to move for a moment.

The fencing master chuckled to himself, getting an epee and preparing to engage. "I thought you said you've never fenced," Torres chided, even as he had to admire the boy's form. It was perfect.

"I haven't," the youth admitted, "but I have watched others many times." Torres raised his eyebrows at this, then saluting his opponent, quickly disarmed him with a few moves. The epee clattered to the floor. The lad gave Torres a chagrined glance then, shoulders sagging dispiritedly, turned toward the door.

"Do you own a sword, boy?" Torres called to him.

"No, Señor," he said without turning.

"Better get one. You'll be needing it. Be here tomorrow at nine-thirty."

The group of chattering youths milled around the gallery, dressed in their white fencing costumes, while they held their masks in their hands. Señor Torres had not yet made his appearance and the boys jostled and jibed with each other, free for now of his strict discipline. Another student entered the gallery, his mask already in place, standing apart from the others. Several glanced his way, then ignored him. Señor Torres entered and silence reigned for a moment, followed by a chorus of, "Buenas dias, Maestro."

The fencing master led the group through a series of drills, keeping an eye on the new student who seemed to be able to match their movements for the most part. He's a game one, Torres had to admit; he has the passion if not the strength, still not certain how long the slim lad would last.

At the end of the class, he dismissed the group but held the new boy back. "I wish to speak with you, young señor," he said, as the other boys filed out, their loud voices eventually dying away. "How old are you?" Torres asked.

"Thirteen, Maestro," the lad replied.

"I haven't met your father yet," Torres began. "It is usual for the father to bring the son to me, and arrange for the lessons. I don't even know your name." He regarded the lithe young man closely, as he waited for an answer. I don't think I've ever seen such a fine face on a boy, he remarked to himself. No wonder his father wants him to take up fencing. With a face like that, he will have to learn to defend himself, if only against certain types of lecherous men. Torres noted the lad's movements, though athletic, were graceful and effete. Yes, Torres thought to himself, I would worry if I were his father.

"My father cannot come to meet you, Maestro. He is away on business." The lad stepped forward and gave a quick bow. "I am called Diego," he said with an uncertain smile.

"Diego what?" Torres asked

"I prefer to keep my family name to myself." The lad flushed deeply under Torres harsh scrutiny, and looked away. The hand holding his mask trembled as he waited for Torres' answer. He blushes like a girl, Torres thought with mild contempt. A few months of fencing will cure that. The boys can be rough and he will have to toughen up to hold his own in this fencing group. Aloud, Torres said, "As you wish, Diego. You may go. Be here the same time tomorrow. Adios."

Weeks passed and the fencing group progressed satisfactorily. Torres was a difficult master and he would not accept anything less than perfection. Over and over, the boys went through the training drills, advance, retreat, advance, lunge, until the consensus seemed to be that Torres was uniformly hated by all the students. The fencing master was relentless in his striving to turn these beardless boys into fighting men, men of honour who could defend themselves with the sword.

As time went on, the new boy, Diego, still kept apart from the others, scarcely speaking to anyone. He learned quickly and caught up with the group, holding his own in the practice bouts, but did not enter into the rough-housing that went on when the Maestro was absent from the gallery. This self-imposed isolation was not lost on the other students, who began to resent his separateness, to snigger and make remarks just out of earshot. Diego ignored them, as he went through his practice routines while waiting for Torres to start the lessons.

The boy's continuing aloofness provoked the others into more aggressive actions. They were a unit, a group with a leader, and he was not part of them. He made no effort to be a member of their clique, preferring his own company. The group could not tolerate his self-sufficiency, his lack of interest in their adolescent jokes, their boasts about their prowess with women. He tried to keep clear of their leader, Tomas, a burly red-haired youth, already tall for his age, who seemed to delight in taunting Diego with disparaging remarks about his manliness or lack of it. When the insults did not provoke a response, Tomas resorted to clandestine acts of violence - a sudden push to send the other boy stumbling, causing the group to laugh, a quick jab in the ribs while passing by, tripping him up with a carelessly placed foot, then apologizing mockingly to the amusement of the other boys.

Diego bore this all without retaliation. They called him a coward and worse. Whenever Torres was out of the gallery, this raillery would start, but the youth could not be goaded into a fight.

It maddened Tomas, a challenge to his leadership. So long as one boy remained apart, his dominion over the group was not complete. Diego must capitulate and join them.

Torres knew of the hectoring the boy was taking but felt it was better they settle it among themselves. Boys will be boys, he reminded himself, recalling his own youth. But, he thought with disappointment, he would never have taken the insults handed to Diego without fighting back. Maybe the boy was a coward. His lack of manly looks seemed to be matched by an equal lack of male courage. Too bad, Torres mused, since in every other way, the boy was their equal or better. I haven't had such a promising student for a long time, but he may quit before too much longer. If he can't take their bullying and won't defend himself, what good is learning to fence? he thought sadly. What a waste of potential!

By the end of the first year, it had become obvious to Torres that, though not a fighter, Diego was also not a quitter. In the practice bouts, he was a fierce contender, often the winner against more experienced fencers. The other boys had grown taller, heavier, but Diego retained his effete agility and this gave him an advantage against the clumsier efforts of his opponents. Their voices were changing and some had even begun to shave, but Diego remained beardless, his voice soft and pleasant, unlike the comical croaking of the other adolescents. A late bloomer, Torres thought, watching him gracefully fencing with one of the other boys in a practice bout. But such a talent! With a bit more time, and strength, he could be a champion fencer. Torres began to dream about the fencing contests, how Diego would bring honours to his academy. It had been so long since he'd a pupil this talented. Fencing was becoming a lost art, the pistol replacing the sword as a duelling weapon. Torres sighed. There is no honour in standing off twenty paces and firing a bullet at your opponent. Man against man in a duel of honour with the sword, that is the way it is done.

One afternoon in the late fall, the fencing students had ended their lesson, and were preparing to leave, putting up their swords in the rack. Tomas strode up to Diego, and said, "We are all going to the house of the putas. Come with us. Show us you're a man at last!" he jeered, to a chorus of sniggers from the rest.

Diego shook his head, turning from the sword rack to move toward the gallery door. "I have other plans, gracias."

As he walked away, Tomas jibed, "What's wrong with you? Don't you like women? Or do you prefer men?" Tomas grabbed the boy's arm and spun him around, his freckled face crimson with rage. "That's it, isn't it? You'd rather go with a man. Do you also get paid for it?" The other boys laughed uproariously as Tomas gave Diego a hard push. "Grab him. Let's take him with us, boys. We'll make a man out of him, today!"

As the others closed in, Diego suddenly landed a hard kick to Tomas' stomach, sending him to the floor with a loud thump. Tomas was back on his feet in a second, grappling with the other youth, his superior size and strength soon giving him the advantage as Diego tried to stay out of the way of his fists. The other boys howled and cheered as Tomas punched and kicked, narrowly missing his opponent many times and enraging him further. He charged Diego, colliding heavily and taking the boy down to the floor, where he began pummelling fiercely with both fists.

Suddenly, Tomas howled with pain as Torres gripped him by the ear, hauling him up. "What in the name of god is going on here? I step out for a minute, and all hell breaks loose! Is this any way for young gentlemen to behave? Who started this fight and what is it about?"

Tomas, panting and red-faced, spoke up. "I just invited him to join us for an outing, and he kicked me in the stomach. I had to defend myself, Maestro," he added with a slight whine in his voice.

Diego arose slowly, painfully, his nose bleeding, but an intense rage in his eyes. "I will have satisfaction for what you said," he rasped, the voice no longer soft. Stepping up to Tomas, Diego pulled off one of his gloves and smote the bigger boy across the cheek with it, then dropped it to the floor.

Tomas's face lost its high colour as he glanced down at the glove, then looked around uncertainly at the other boys. He had to pick it up or be accused of cowardice. But it meant a duel with unguarded blades. And Diego was a good fencer, possibly as good as he was. The room was strangely silent as the moments ticked by, then Tomas bent and picked up the glove. "I accept the challenge," he said in a flat voice. "Alfredo, you will be my second."

Torres was in a agony of self-recrimination. I should never have let it go this far, he reprimanded himself. I should have put a stop to the bullying long ago. Now, it's come to this. Damnation. "I will be Diego's second," he said, realizing none of the other boys would volunteer for this office.

The fencing master crossed to the sword rack and chose two rapiers, returning to the very subdued group. "As the injured party, you have the first choice," he said to Diego. The boy solemnly took one of the swords, and Torres removed the guard from the tip. Torres looked at the boy, wondering what was going through his mind. The lad's face was calm and set with determination. Alfredo accepted the other sword, removed the guard and gave it to Tomas. The gallery was so silent that the ticking of the wall clock seemed unnaturally loud.

"A duel of honour is a heavy responsibility," Torres began. "It is no small thing to take a sword with the intention of killing or wounding a man. Too many young men have wasted their lives in duels of honour over the most insignificant things, a harsh word, an insult. Before we begin, can we settle this dispute without swords? Will you accept an apology instead of the duel?" Torres said to Diego.

The boy shook his head wordlessly, keeping his jaw firmly clenched, his eyes fixed on his antagonist. Torres sighed, "Very well. Assume your positions. The duel will be to first blood, if that is acceptable." The two boys nodded, in their terror, unable to speak. This is a turning point for both, Torres thought. I just hope no permanent harm is done here today.

The boys assumed the en garde position and Torres said, "Engage." The duel began slowly as each fencer watched the other's moves, trying to anticipate an opening. Tomas' larger frame and reach kept Diego at a disadvantage while he parried the hard thrusts. For several long minutes, the two fencers fought with concentration, Tomas always seeming to have the upper hand. Suddenly, a line of red appeared on Tomas' cheek and Alfredo rushed forward, saying "First blood." Torres sighed with relief as he moved to take the sword from Diego.

From behind he heard, "No, Tomas!" and turning saw the boy with a rictus of hate on his face, advancing quickly on Diego, his sword already arcing toward the other boy. Diego jumped clear, sustaining a gash on his arm, and the duel began again, this time in deadly earnest. No one dared get between the fencers in what seemed now a life and death duel. The clanging of blade against blade took on a surreal aspect as the onlookers watched. Tomas abandoned style for strength, hoping to wear down the smaller boy and this tactic seemed to be working. Panting with exhaustion, Diego's strength seemed to be waning. A smile of victory crossed Tomas' face as he drove harder for the kill. Diego laughed as the sword suddenly sailed out of Tomas' hand and the bigger boy found the point of a blade at his throat.

Torres hurried to grab Diego's arm before he could make the final thrust. The boy was in a trance almost, watching the point creating a thin trickle of blood on Tomas' neck. In a daze, he allowed himself to be pulled away, and Tomas stumbled back, his face ashen from his narrow escape.

"Get out of my studio!" Torres bellowed at Tomas. "You slinking coward, backstabber. I will not have my academy dishonoured by someone like you. Get out!" Turning to the other boys as Tomas left the gallery, he said harshly, "Class is dismissed for today. I hope you have all learned a lesson from this."

Torres turned to Diego, noting his pale face and trembling body. A large spot of blood was dampening his fencing outfit just below the left shoulder. Taking the boy quickly under the arms, he led Diego into the dressing room, and sat him down on a chair. "Take off your jacket, Diego. I will cleanse and bandage the wound. We can't let it get infected."

The boy arose and backed to the door. "I'm all right, Maestro. I'll go home now."

"We can't let you go home looking like that. What will your mother say? She would never let you come back." Torres smiled at the boy. He was proud of the lad's courage, found late, but there.... and steadfast. It was a triumphant moment. He felt vindicated in his choice of student.

"My mother is dead, Señor Torres. She died when I was very young."

"And your father?"

"In California. I hardly ever see him."

"Who looks after you, then?"

"I have a guardian, Marta. She is as good as a mother to me."

"Well, we still have to clean you up. Your Marta would faint if she saw how you look." Torres took a towel, dampened it and dabbed at the blood under the boy's nose, then swabbed at the cut on his lip. "Now, let's bind up that cut on your arm. Take off your jacket."

"No, I cannot." The boy's eyes widened and he trembled. Perhaps Tomas was right about him, Torres thought. Maybe he does prefer men. This modesty is covering up something, that is for sure. "Do as you're told, Diego."

The boy turned away, reaching for the buttons on his jacket, then back. "I cannot do as you ask. I am not a boy," Diego said levelly, watching his eyes.

Torres stared for a long moment, trying to make sense of what he had just heard. He felt he was suffocating, unable to get his breath. Finally, he bellowed, "Madre de dios! I am ruined! For nearly two years, I have been teaching fencing to a girl? I will be the laughing stock of Madrid. My name will be struck from the Spanish Academy of Arms!"

How could I have been so blind? It was there before my eyes all the time. The beautiful features, the effete grace, the lack of manly attributes. I just couldn't see it because it was unthinkable that a girl would want to fence.

"Why did you play such a cruel joke on me all this time? Why me? Why not some other fencing master?"

"Because you are the best, Maestro Torres," she said matter-of-factly.

Torres found he was more angry with himself than with this girl. He had been duped, made a fool of. But he was suddenly curious about her, a young woman who would take such chances. "Why would your father ever allow you to do this?" he asked incredulously. "What was he thinking?"

"He doesn't know about the fencing lessons. Nor does Marta. She thinks I'm taking music lessons."

Torres laughed shortly. "Why did you want to learn to fence? It is a very unusual thing for a girl to want."

The girl glanced away, collecting her thoughts. "At first, because it was a challenge. I didn't actually think I could do it, getting someone to give me lessons. After a while, I loved it and just wanted to be the best."

"Well, this is your last lesson. Please go and do not return. I cannot continue giving you fencing lessons. It is impossible."

"Why," she asked. "Just last week, didn't you say I was the best student you'd had in a long time? That I showed promise to be a champion fencer? What has changed? I am still the same person."

"Ah, you use my words against me. You must see that everything has changed. I thought you were a boy, and now I find you are a girl. It changes everything. You cannot continue. It isn't done." As he spoke, he watched her face, a desolate look coming into her eyes. She's very pretty now, Torres thought, but in a few years, she will be a beauty. Perhaps, learning to defend herself may not be a bad thing. Especially, if she joins her father in California. Who knows what wildness is there? She may someday need this skill. He tried to talk himself out of considering her request, harden his heart against her for her duplicity, but he could not. In spite of everything, he admired her courage, to come here three times a week, and to have put up with the bullying of the boys. She must want this very much. And she is so talented, he added wryly.

"Please do not take this from me, Señor Torres. It is all I have. These fencing lessons have become everything to me. I have no mother, and never see my father. No brothers or sisters. I am left in the care of servants. This is what my life is. But the fencing lessons make it bearable. Please, Maestro. I'll beg if I have to," she said resolutely, already bending her knee.

With a quick grasp, he pulled her up. "That won't be necessary." He laughed harshly. "I am probably making the biggest mistake of my life, but we will continue the lessons...privately." He smiled paternally as she flung her arms around him in a burst of joy. Pushing her back gently, he said, "Well, I guess I can't call you Diego any longer. What is your name?"

"Maria Theresa Alvarado," she said proudly, glad to be relieved of the burden of her disguise. "But you can call me Tessa."

THE END

King of Swords ©Maril Swan - 2000