Masques (Sianim #1)(22)

The others were easier, so she lectured as she fought. By the time she was facing the last student, Edom, she was short on breath. Cleaning the inn had been good for keeping in shape, but a two-hour workout with a sword was enough to test her powers of endurance.

She opened with the same move that she'd used in all the other fights - a simple sidesweep that all the others had been able to meet. Edom fell, which should have shown him to be an utter idiot with a sword. She heard a few suppressed sniggers from the audience. But something about the fall struck her as a little off; if he had fallen from the force of the blow he shouldn't have fallen quite as far as he had. She wasn't big enough to push him that distance without more leverage than a sidesweep allowed for.

She helped him up and handed him his sword. Grasping his wrist, she showed him the proper block and swung again. He met it that time, clumsily. She worked slowly with him at first, gradually speeding up. He progressed slowly, with nothing more odd than ineptness showing in his fighting.

She worked with him on three blocks, aiming different attacks at him and showing how each block could be used. She was getting tired, and made a mistake that a better swordsman would never have made. She used a complex swing, difficult to execute as well as counter, and misjudged it. Horrified, she waited for her sword to cut into his leg.

He blocked it.

He shouldn't have been able to, not at his level. She wasn't sure that she could have blocked it. She certainly couldn't have executed the combination that he used. She stepped back and met his eyes. Softly, so that no one but she could hear, he said, "Can I explain in private?"

She considered a minute and nodded. Turning back to the others she dismissed them, sending them to watch Myr, still fighting nearby.

Alone, Edom met her gaze. He shuffled a foot in the dirt. "You ..." His voice cracked and he cleared his throat and tried again. "You know that I'm not quite what I appear to be. I'm not even Rethian, I'm from Darran. I don't know if you know it, but Darran is under the ae'Magi's influence too, I didn't know what to do. I played along with it as long as I could and then I left." He shrugged. "I don't know why I came here; something ... drew me here, I guess. It seemed as good a place to go as any. I found the valley full of people like me, hiding from the ae'Magi, but they were all Rethians. Given current feelings between Darran and Reth, I could hardly tell them that I was a nobleborn Darranian.

"So I told them that I was the son of a Rethian merchant. I thought that it was a good idea. I speak Rethian with a faint enough accent that I could pass for any number of western provinces, and it explained the richness of my clothes.

"Then Myr came and started this swordsmanship training. Where would a merchant's son get trained in Darranian-style swordsmanship? So I faked it."

Aralorn found herself grinning despite herself. "Quite a problem, I agree. What I would do is tell the truth to Myr; he's not as prejudiced as most Rethians are. Let him figure out a way to let you explain your sudden ability." She waved a hand in the vague direction of the rest of the camp, "With the lack of trained fighters here, Myr can't afford to waste your abilities."

Edom smiled then, looking slightly relieved. "I'll do that now. It would be nice to be useful, instead of sitting on the sidelines all the time." He gave her a brief bow and then ran off to where Myr was fighting.

Aralorn smiled and stretched wearily. Tired as she was, it had felt good to work out with a sword rather than a mop - if was almost as good as playing at staff.

The exercise had made her hot and itchy, so she wandered over to the creek. It took her a while, but she found a place deep enough to wash in with a large, flat rock that she could kneel on and avoid the worst of the mud. She ducked her head under the water, its icy temperature welcome on her overheated skin.

As she was coming up for air she heard a newly familiar voice say, "See, I told'ya she had a funny-looking sword. Look, the handle's made out of metal."

Aralorn took her time wiping her face on her sleeve and smoothing her dripping hair away from her face. Stan is and his silent but grinning companion, Tobin, stood observing her. She hid a smile when she recognized Stanis's solemn-faced, feet-apart, hands-behind-his-back pose. Myr did that when he was thinking.

"Have you killed anyone'?" Stanis's voice was filled with gruesome interest.

She nodded, rolling up the long sleeves of the innkeeper's son's tunic.

"You're not supposed to fight with swords that don't have wooden handles." The silent Tobin at last had spoken.

"Yeah," said Stanis. "If you kill a magician, his magic will kill you."

She nodded again. "I only wound magicians with my sword. When I kill magicians, I always use my knife."

"Oh," said Tobin, apparently satisfied with her answer.

They were silent for a moment; then Stanis said, "Tobin wanted to know if you would tell us about killing someone."

Aralorn nodded and sat cross-legged on the grass, far enough away from the stream so that the ground was relatively dry. Far be it from her to give up the chance to tell stories.

That was where Wolf found her. Her audience had grown to include most of the camp. He walked quietly closer until he could hear what she was saying.

"... so we snuck past the dragon's nose a second time. We had to be careful to avoid the puddles of poison that dripped from the old beast's fangs as it slept.