In The Darkest Midnight

by Grace Draven

  “I’m easily twice your sister’s size and weight,” he said. “But did you see the effort it took to make her budge? That’s all due to her stance.” He raised an eyebrow at Sodrin. “Footwork is the backbone of sword fighting. You can’t fight if you can’t keep your feet under you. Swinging a blade around doesn’t make you a swordsman, Sodrin.”

  Suitably chastised and more willing to listen, Sodrin worked harder at curbing his impatience and listening to Radimar’s instructions. He wasn’t always successful, but he tried. His disappointment when Radimar, one morning, presented him and Jahna each with a wooden waster showed clearly in his expression.

  He gripped the wooden sword, tipping it one way and then the other, his upper lip lifting in a scornful curve. “What is this child’s toy?”

  Jahna rolled her eyes. She found her brother’s unending complaints irritating. Radimar’s unwavering patience with Sodrin spoke of his abilities as a teacher as well as an expert swordsman. Had she been him, she would have strangled Sodrin by now.

  Radimar hefted his own sword, a waster as well. “This ‘toy’ will become your best friend over the next several weeks. You’re going to fight with it, sleep with it, dream about it, and fall in love with it by the time you’re ready to hold a steel blade.” He then proceeded to show Sodrin and Jahna how the “toy” could be a lethal, awful weapon capable of dealing out bruises and split flesh when wielded by a capable hand.

  The current lesson incorporated all the things Radimar had introduced in the previous weeks—tumbling, footwork and bladework with the wasters. Sodrin struggled against the tyranny of the training circles painted on the floor.

  They fought in the largest of the circles, the one Radimar called the Student’s Circle. “All students start here and stay here for the longest time,” he said. “As you learn and improve, you move to the next smaller circle.” He tracked Jahna and Sodrin as they sparred with each other within the Student circle.

  Sodrin glanced at him. “How long did it take you to reach the Master’s Circle?” He yelped at the hard swat Radimar laid against the back of his legs with the flat of his waster. The move made him jerk forward, allowing Jahna what would have been a lethal stab to his gut had she been fighting him in true combat.

  “And you’re dead,” Radimar snapped. “Don’t take your eyes off your opponent. You don’t need to look at me to hear me. Resume your stance.” Jahna and the flinching Sodrin jumped to do his bidding. “Bout.”

  The measured whack of wood on wood sounded through the solar. Radimar answered Sodrin’s question, peppering his answers with commands to “Bend your knees. You’re standing too tall,” and “Slower, Jahna. You’re holding a sword, not wielding a whip.”

  “I reached the Master’s Circle when I was eighteen, a year older than you are now, Sodrin.”

  Jahna gasped. So young! She’d been surprised to learn Radimar was only five years older than Sodrin and seven years older than her. He seemed so much older, so much wiser than either of them. Lord Uhlfrida’s concern over the unprecedented youth of Sodrin’s teacher faded away once he observed a few lessons. Young he might be, but Radimar Velus lived up to the reputation of the Ilinfan swordmasters who trained him.

  She countered one of Sodrin’s attacks. He moved slower, distracted by Radimar’s comments. “Then it won’t take me long to reach the Master’s Circle.”

  A short chuckle from Radimar revealed he thought Sodrin’s statement as ridiculous as Jahna did. “I started training when I was five years old. I might have attained the Master’s Circle at eighteen, Sodrin. You won’t, even with my training. That isn’t realistic.”

  They fought several more bouts before Radimar called a halt to eat breakfast before returning to the lesson. Sweaty, breathless, and certain her arm was about to fall off, Jahna thanked the gods her participation in the swordmaster’s lessons were done for the day. He’d been correct when he said participating instead of just observing would serve her better when she went to record the details of a lesson given by an Ilinfan teacher. Hopefully, after clutching a waster for so long, her sore hand would allow her to hold a quill.

  The three made their leisurely way downstairs to the kitchens where one of the cooks had set aside a pot of porridge and slices of pork to warm on a sheet of metal set over hot coals. The first time they ate breakfast together, Radimar had surprised Sodrin and earned the eternal devotion of the kitchen staff when he made his two students serve themselves.

  It wasn’t a first for Jahna. She often sneaked into the kitchens and helped herself to a slice of bread and honey or a wedge of cheese drizzled with blackberry syrup while she harassed the cooks for stories of their lives before they came to Hollowfell. Some were born and raised in neighboring villages, others had come from farther away, where Belawat shared a border with the Kai of Bast-Haradis and the wild hinterlands were controlled by the margrave of High Salure.

  Sodrin, indulged only son and heir of the master of Hollowfell, had balked at first over the idea of waiting on himself. Radimar’s unflinching gaze and the unspoken threat behind it convinced him avoiding such labor wasn’t worth a thrashing in the Student’s Circle.

  They sat down together with their plates and bowls at one of the work tables the head cook reserved for their use. Jahna sat beside Sodrin, with Radimar across from them. Her stomach gurgled the moment hot steam, scented with butter and salt, reached her nostrils. She was starving and dug into her porridge with gusto. The two men with her did the same, and the table was quiet for several minutes while they ate. Sodrin rose to refill his bowl, offering to do the same for Jahna. She declined and watched as her brother made his way to the hearth.

  “You were right,” she told Radimar. “I can describe better and recount the details more clearly if I actually go through the lessons.”

  A pleased smile softened his hard face. “There’s much more to learn, and it will be good for you both to train together at first.”

  Sodrin returned to his seat and dug into his second steaming bowl of porridge. “It still seems wrong to fight a woman, even my sister.”

  Radimar rested his elbows on the table and pointed his spoon at Sodrin. “That thinking will get you killed. The greatest swordmaster ever to come out of Ilinfan was a woman.”

  Jahna’s writing hand itched. She sensed a wonderful story ripe for the telling. “I’ve read of Beotra. She was legendary. Some books say she wasn’t even real.”

  “She was both.” Radimar’s mouth twitched at Jahna’s enthusiasm, and even Sodrin paused in eating to listen. “Her students were Andalin Helparn, Marius Godok, and a Kai warrior named Senakhte.”

  Sodrin swallowed a spoonful of porridge before speaking. “Everyone knows of Helparn and Godok. They’re famous. I’ve never heard of Senakhte.”

  Jahna gave an indignant huff. “Of course they’re famous. They’re men. I’d wager Senakhte was a woman.”

  Radimar nodded. “You’d win that wager.”

  After breakfast, they returned to the solar, Sodrin to continue his training with Radimar, Jahna to gather up her unmarked parchment, quills and ink. She could just as easily write about today’s lesson in her chamber and not distract her brother by watching him.

  “You won’t miss anything,” Radimar assured her. “It’s more of the same for the rest of the day. If we do something different, I’ll tell you tonight at supper and demonstrate it tomorrow so you can record it.”

  He had already been extraordinarily accommodating to her requests for observing his training, and she hesitated for a moment in asking him for more, but her curiosity would eat her alive if she didn’t.

  “When you have time, could you tell me more about Beotra and Senakhte?”

  He considered her for a moment. “This evening, after supper,” he said. “With your father’s permission of course.”

  She clapped her ink well against her ink bottle and grinned. “I’ll talk to him right away!” She sped off, turning once to wave. He watched her leave, lifting a hand
in farewell.

  Supper that night lasted forever, and Jahna thought it couldn’t be over soon enough for her liking. She fidgeted in her chair and tried not hurry her father along with speaking looks. Had he always stirred his soup that many times before swallowing a spoonful? And did the meal have to consist of six courses?

  She forced herself not to wolf her food or yank Sir Radimar from his chair when he pushed aside his plate, signaling he was done. No one left the table until Lord Uhlfrida was finished. She tapped her fingers impatiently on the arm of her chair while he, Sodrin and the swordmaster chatted about various topics, only half listening as she counted the seconds under her breath.

  When her father announced he would take his wine to his solar and invited Sodrin to face him in a game of turni menet, she almost bellowed “Finally”!

  “I’d challenge you, Radimar,” Uhlfrida said. “But it seems my daughter has decided you’re to play storyteller for her this evening.”

  Radimar bowed. “It will be my pleasure, my lord. Good evening.”

  They walked beside each other toward the small library that was Jahna’s favorite room in the house.

  Radimar relieved her of the burden of initiating the conversation between them. “You did well today in practice. Don’t let your brother convince you you’re a distraction or in the way. If you were, I’d tell you.”

  “I never listen to Sodrin anyway.”

  “Much to his frustration, I’m sure.” Radimar smiled.

  Jahna smiled back. “Just so.” She flexed her hand, still aching from earlier. “I think I need to practice more. My hand and arm grow tired faster than I’d like.”

  “That isn’t unusual for beginners.” He lifted his arm, palm facing her. “It’s less about practice and more about strength.” He pointed to the underside of his wrist and traced an invisible line from where it met the bottom of his hand to the crook of his elbow. “You want to strengthen not only your hand but your arm here as well. I can show you exercises that will help.”

  They reached the library, and Jahna nudged the door open, pleased to see someone had readied it for their visit.

  The library was modest in size but lush in comfort. Tapestries carpeted the floors and warmed the walls, while tables and chairs were spaced around the room in settings that invited intimate conversation. At some point during the evening, a servant had entered to light the torches and hearth. A merry fire crackled over a small rack of logs and chased away much of the chill that had settled in the room.

  Jahna hugged her shawl closer around her shoulders and made her way to a pair of chairs flanking a table. The scene mirrored the one in the training solar earlier, with her stack of blank parchment, bundle of quills and well of ink waiting for her. A pot of tea and two cups sat on a tray at another table adjacent to one of the chairs. Jahna claimed a chair and motioned for Radimar to take the other one.

  He sat and surveyed the table crowded with writing material. “I see you brought your supplies to record more of my life and all its sins on parchment.”

  Jahna had wondered more often than she cared to admit just how many sins the kind but enigmatic swordmaster had committed. “Do you have a lot of sins?”

  His soft chuckle sent a pleasant shiver down her arms. “Not really, at least none I’ll admit to. I’m a simple man of simple means. Besides, I don’t like inviting trouble.” He gestured to the teapot. “Now, let’s pour the tea, and I’ll tell you what my master told me about the legendary Beotra.”

  Radimar spoke and Jahna wrote until her ink ran out. She shook her quill and peered into the dregs of black morass coating the glass. “I’m out of ink.”

  Radimar gestured to the guttering torches. “Pitch and wick as well, and the hour is late. We’ll need to seek our beds. Did what I tell you satisfy your curiosity?”

  Not even close, but his beguiling voice had be a joy to listen to and lent depth to the tale of Beotra, swordswoman of legend. “I think it only whetted it more, but I thank you, Sir Radimar. Would you be willing to tell me more about Ilinfan and its teachers later?” Her father would likely peel off a strip of her hide if he knew she pestered the swordmaster as much as she did, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him (or her), and so far Radimar hadn’t shown any irritation regarding her constant questions.

  “I’ll bargain with you,” he said “Train with your brother and me every morning instead of every other morning, and I’ll give up all of Ilinfan’s secrets to you after supper on those nights your father doesn’t require my company or I’m not teaching your brother additional swordplay.”

  Mornings promised to be painful, sweaty and exhaustive. Jahna leapt at the offer. “Our bargain is made, Sir Radimar.” At his insistence, she and Sodrin had abandoned the more formal convention and addressed the swordmaster as simply “Sir Radimar.” As their teacher, he was even more informal with their names.

  She held out her hand, and he clasped it in his, giving a light squeeze before letting go. She liked his hands with their callused palms and long, bony fingers. Tiny scars decorated their backs, memories of nicks and cuts he must have received when he trained as a student of an Ilinfan swordmaster.

  The days bled into weeks, then months as the seasons waxed and waned at Hollowfell. Jahna spent the early hours of her days practicing with Sodrin, the afternoons working with the estate’s housekeeper in managing the large household and the evenings either reading to her father or recording Radimar’s tales of Ilinfan.

  She had warned him that what she wrote down, she’d send to Dame Stalt to read. “So if there’s something you don’t want her to know about Ilinfan, don’t tell me.” She’d never lie to him. He was an honorable man and respected the trait in others. It hadn’t taken long for Jahna to realize she desperately wanted to earn his respect in many things, including this.

  He had shrugged, unconcerned, an approving glint in his eyes that made her blood sing. “I doubt I’m telling you anything some earlier dame didn’t already record or that isn’t common knowledge, but I thank you for the warning, Jahna.”

  Their comfortable routine was interrupted one late autumn day by visitors to Hollowfell. Jahna groaned under her breath at the sight of the house banner fluttering in the breeze as the point rider in the small entourage led the way to the Hollowfell gates. Lord Uzbec was once more gracing her father’s home with his presence and that of his latest wife.

  She sighed and left the balcony on which she sat, working at an illumination she planned to present to Radimar right before they all traveled to the capital for Delyalda months from now. She closed her paint jars, rinsed her brushes and sanded the illumination to hurry along the drying time. Her maid arrived, a stack of folded garments in her arm. She opened her mouth to speak.

  Jahna forestalled her with a raised hand. “Are the housekeeper and cook panicking?”

  The maid carefully laid her burden on the bed with a smile. “If they aren’t yet, they will be. Your father has asked that you wear one of your finest gowns to greet Lord Uzbec and his family. I brought this one for you, and I’ll take care of your hair when you’re ready.”

  If she didn’t care for her father’s good opinion, Jahna would find some ready excuse to hide in her room and wait there until their visitors returned to their home. Twice a year, Lord Uzbec showed up unannounced and uninvited to Hollowfell, throwing the household into chaos as they tried to prepare for his visit with no notice.

  He was a dull man, with a great appreciation for Uhlfrida’s wine cellar and the gullet to prove it. He was, however, her father’s longtime friend, and Marius always welcomed his company, even when it was unexpected. Jahna simply settled in for a tedious visit that would consist of Uzbec clucking in sympathy for his friend every time he looked at Jahna, and the new wife gawking at her as much as the old wife had.

  The gown the maid brought hugged her shape, its color—a pale shade of lavender—contrasting with the gold highlights in her hair. No gown could offset or lighten the dramatic stain on h
er face, but the sweep of her hairstyle did hide some of it.

  “There, my lady. All done,” the maid declared and met Jahna’s eyes in the mirror’s reflection. “I think Lord Uhlfrida will be pleased.”

  Jahna hoped so. Marius had never hidden his daughter away from society. Sometimes she caught a pained expression in his eyes when he looked at her, one quickly hidden away behind the screen of parental affection. He loved her, of that she had no doubt. Nor was he ashamed of her appearance. If he was, he’d encourage her inclination to avoid people and society as a whole. His insistence she join the world around her was sometimes a trial, but she understood his motivation and in some instances appreciated it. Necessity had stiffened her spine, and while she still preferred retreat in the face of conflict or ridicule, she didn’t crumble under their weight.

  She rose from her perch on the stool in front of the mirror. “Thank you, Ona,” she told the maid. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Their supper that evening went exactly as she thought it would when it came to Lord Uzbec. The other guests, however, offered a few surprises. The new Lady Uzbec was nothing like Jahna expected. Much younger than her husband, she possessed a grace and dignity that made Jahna aware of every bit of her own youthful awkwardness. A startled flicker lit her brown eyes when she met Jahna and saw the mark on her face, but she didn’t stare or even worse, avoid looking at Jahna all together. Her smile was sincere, if infrequent, and she engaged Jahna in earnest conversation regarding the Archives and Jahna’s plans of apprenticing there as a king’s chronicler.

  Her cousin who accompanied them was Lady Uzbec’s opposite in every way. A haughty creature whose features might have been beautiful were they not marred by a vulpine expression, she scrutinized everything and everyone with an eye toward their worth, whether in silver or influence. She gave an obvious shudder when her gaze lit on Jahna before sliding away, a response that, to his credit, earned her Sodrin’s smoldering enmity for the rest of the night.

  During their procession to the dining room, he hung back and tucked Jahna’s hand into the crook of his elbow. His breath tickled her ear when he leaned down to whisper. “We should keep a close eye on that one. Did you see her eyeing the furnishing and paintings? If we aren’t vigilant, I suspect we’ll wake up on the morning of their departure and discover great-grandfather’s portrait missing from the wall.”