by Megan Hart
Lir gave him a leg and left the room. Daelyn turned to me. "I'll need to change my clothes."
I was already at the armoire. He balked at the footwear.
"I thought, being around animals, you might not wish to wear anything you could ruin." I grabbed the shoes he threw at me. They'd been cobbled of heavy, tooled leather, with cord ties and thick but sturdy soles. "Animals make a lot of mess."
"If you mean shite, Aeris, I'm well aware of the amount of feces I can expect while visiting my menagerie. Think you the Prince Regent of Alyria can not afford to replace a pair of beshited shoes?"
"Of course you can. I just thought you might not want to." I looked down at my own practical footwear. "You could wear boots."
I might have thought I'd slapped his face, so loud was his gasp. "Never! Mother's Milk, Aeris, how dare you! Boots are for riding and hunting, two occupations I thoroughly enjoy, but which I am not participating in at the moment. Boots? No."
His affronted look made me laugh, I couldn't help it. To be so upset over a pair of shoes seemed ridiculous to me, yet somehow endearing. He raised one eyebrow at me.
"How many changes of clothing have you ever had in your life?"
I looked toward the small niche he'd given me for my own, and the wardrobe beside it. "Four, until I came here."
"One for wash and one for wear, one for here," he pointed at the ground, "and one for there." To the ceiling.
I nodded. "My uncle took me in as his ward when his brother died because he hadn't yet spawned sons of his own. When his own sons were born, he obviously gave them more than me."
"In my employ, I expect you to always be impeccably attired. It is the duty of the male to provide color and beauty, is it not? To flaunt what the Prince from the Land Above gave us? Show off our balls?" Daelyn grabbed himself between the legs. "That is our purpose, isn't it, as men?"
I thought he was jesting again, but his tone was serious. "I suppose so, my prince."
He snorted. "It’s a foolish, foolish thing, fashion. And yet, I derive great pleasure from putting on fine clothes, from wearing cosmetics, from having my hair brushed and fixed. Imagine this, Aeris." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "In other countries, the women are the purveyors of fashion."
I thought of the books high on his shelf, and the posters circulating throughout the city. "Once, in Alyria, it was the same."
"But that was a long time ago. Much has changed since then."
"And not all for the better?" I avoided his eyes as I busied myself with hanging his discarded clothes. When I looked up, he was studying me.
"I think we'll leave that question unanswered," Daelyn said. "For now."
Chapter Nineteen
Two days passed, and my hand healed enough to return to practice. I found a pair of brand new sword gloves in my wardrobe, and I took that to mean I had Daelyn's approval. I tried them on. They fit perfectly. Wearing them made me grin.
"Go on," he told me over his breakfast tray. "I know you want to."
"If you need me –"
"Aeris." His voice stopped me from saying more. "If I need you, I know where you'll be. Now go. Lir gets angry if he's kept waiting. And I've got other things to occupy my time."
I reached for his hand and kissed it. Daelyn made a soft noise of surprise, then laid his hand on my cheek. He stared at me for a long moment.
"Lir is the best teacher you could ask for," he said at last. "I pray you'll never need to be as good as he. But you should at least have the chance to try."
Confused at his words, I stepped back from his chair. "I'd like to be good at something."
"Wouldn't we all?" came his enigmatic reply, and he dismissed me.
My heart was light as I left his quarters and made my way to the fight field. The day had dawned bright, but chilly, with a stiff breeze that made me blink against it. For the first time since coming to the White Palace, I felt a sense of purpose and belonging. I was finding my place with Daelyn. I was learning a serviceable skill. I was...home.
I passed the lad who worked in the armory and paused to help him push the rack of weapons through the gates of the courtyard. "Good morn, Ichabod. A fine, bright, day, isn't it?"
The boy nodded and grinned. "Is you gonna beat master Lir again today? That was some kind of special, what you done."
"I doubt I'll be able to." I shaded my eyes for a moment and caught sight of Lir. He'd stripped off his shirt and was doing a series of exercises in the middle of the field. "It would be difficult to surprise him the same way twice."
"I think it's right hard to surprise him once," said Ichabod with a grin.
I left the lad to set out the weapons, and I went to meet Lir. I didn't interrupt him, only watched. His skin already gleamed with sweat as he put his body through the various positions I recognized as the Art. There were more fashionable fight styles, but the Art was the oldest.
I watched Lir move through the forms, and marveled to myself how movements so gentle and graceful could become so deadly. The Art is fluid and sweeping, with positions named after animals. The Standing Heron. The Crouching Dragon. The Leaping Cat. Every motion of his hands, his arms, his legs, brought a clear picture of the beast and its action, and every one was designed to provide offense or defense.
He caught sight of me, but continued his motions until he'd finished the final set. He swiped a hand across his brow. His smile was like the sun, and I had to turn lest it blind me the same way.
"Good morn," he greeted as he strode toward me. He gave a glance at the sun. "Daelyn got up early today."
"And he let me join you." I smiled somewhat unwillingly, but couldn't hold it back. "He said...he hopes I never need to fight as well as you, but that you're the best teacher for me if I'm going to learn."
"He's very fond of you."
I stretched beside him. "I'm his fetchencarry."
"He wouldn't have chosen you from the market if there wasn't something about you he liked." Lir took a short sword from the rack and held up its edge to the morning sun.
I worked my muscles until they began to feel pleasantly warm. "Why are you being so nice to me?"
He looked surprised. "What? Why by Sinder's Arrow should I not be nice to you?"
I opened and closed my fingers to limber them. "You don't like me."
"Is that what you think?" He laughed and tossed me the sword, which I caught neatly in my left hand. "I'm not so nice to Daelyn, and I love him."
His admission made me bite my lip in embarrassment. "That's not my business."
He gave me a narrow-eyed glance. "No, it's not. But I told you. And as for me being nice –" He grabbed his own sword and put me on point. "I'm about to stop."
He lunged, and I countered. He was faster than I, still stiff from a night's sleep. He slashed again, and his blade swiped at my sleeve. We'd begun to dance.
Lir had longer arms and a longer blade, but it was to my advantage because once I got inside his reach I could stay there and jab at him, and he had no recourse. Not with traditional sword methods, at least, which is all he'd taught me. With the Art, he had some other options.
Without letting go of his blade, he countered one of my strikes with his free fist. It caught my wrist as I leaned in to jab him. My blade dropped from the sudden numbness in my fingers. Moments later, pain blossomed from the numbness. In that brief span of time, he'd taken my wrist and whirled me around until my back was against his chest and his blade nudged my throat.
"Teach me that move." I swallowed and felt the sting of his steel on my skin.
"The Art is a discipline, Aeris, not just a move." He released me. "It takes many, many hours of work and practice. Some men never master it."
I put my fingers to the spot where his sword had nicked me. Blood painted my fingertips, and I drew them down the white sleeve of my shirt in three straight lines. "Teach me."
"First, show me what you think you know."
I could have been awkward and fumbling, with only m
emory of fights I'd seen to guide my hands. Yet when I moved, it was as though the heron, the dragon, the cat filled me, each in turn. I more than imitated what I'd watched him do earlier. I moved with the beast inside me and called its power for mine own.
I finished with closed fists, back to back over crossed wrists. "Coiled Serpent."
Lir shook his head. "You have a fine, raw talent. With practice, you might make a decent fighter."
"Might? Decent?" I frowned. Surely I'd been more impressive than that.
"Practice." His nonchalant manner made me grit my teeth. "Everything takes practice. I think that's enough today."
He gave me his back and called for Ichabod to take the weapons rack back to the armory. I panted and wiped my brow free of sweat, though the day was cool and I'd not been working that hard. I called after him.
"I think you're afraid of me!"
He stopped, turned, gave me a familiar bemused look. "Me? Afraid of you? Don't be absurd."
I stepped toward him. "I think you're afraid I'm going to be better than you!"
His mouth thinned in anger. "Enough. Must you always take it one step too far?"
Only with him. "Admit it." It was the first time I'd ever spoken to him by name. "I scare you."
He'd crossed the short distance between us before I had time to breathe. "You scare me, whelp, but not for the reasons you might think."
He'd grabbed my shirtfront and now he shook me, several short, sharp shakes like one gives a naughty puppy. I reacted instinctively and brought up my clasped hands between his arms to break his grip. In the next motion, my fist came across and struck his chin.
I hadn't really meant to strike him, not in anger. I wasn't as skilled as I'd thought. My hand throbbed from my mistake, but it was naught compared to the look I saw in Lir's eyes when he faced me.
Without a word, without a sound, he put his palm to his mouth and wiped away the trickle of blood coming from the corner. I had a moment of true fear at the look on his face.
I wanted to run, but cowardice has never been my nature. "My lord –"
His hand cracked across my face so hard it drove me to my knees. "I am the master on this fight field. You are the student. Do I make myself clear?"
I made to get up; men do not kneel to each other like women do. They show deference in other ways. He struck me again, back into the dirt. My head reeled. Blood leaked from my nose.
I looked up at him with hatred burning through my tears. "As glass."
"There is no place for anger in the Art. If you strike me, it will be in practice, for learning. Not for the foolishness of anger."
"And what did you just do to me?" I cried, helpless to ask and hating myself for giving him the satisfaction of knowing he'd hurt me.
"The lesson is not always an easy one to learn," Lir told me. "But a good teacher will continue to try to teach even the poorest student."
His contempt hurt worse than his fist had, though why I should suddenly care so much about what Lir thought of me, I couldn't guess. "I rejected your offer of teaching once, and you gave me another chance. Mayhap you were wrong to do so."
He nodded, slowly, his face impassive as stone. "Mayhap I was."
I watched him leave the field, then got to my feet and followed. I'd been foolish enough times in my life to know this was another. I'd have to plead his mercy...and I didn't look forward to that at all. Asking forgiveness from someone you care for is one thing. Having to say "I'm sorry" to someone you loathe is quite another.
I didn't loathe him, though. Not like I had in the beginning. He still pinched me like pins left in a half-sewn garment, but there was more there than that. I'd gained respect for him, for more than just his skills in the Art and with the sword. I'd fallen in his sight today, made myself a fool in front of him, and I was ashamed.
I passed Ichabod as I went through the gate. He had the guilty look of a lad caught with his hand in the cookie jar, though what he held in his hands didn't look much like a cookie. He carried a rolled piece of parchment with ragged edges. It was of the cheapest sort, pulpy and scattered with lumps and thin places, yet neat rows of scribbled writing covered every portion I could see.
"What've you got, Ichabod?" His cheeks had gone pale beneath his tan, and His fingers trembled on the paper. I unrolled it and groaned when I saw it. "Where did you get this?"
He pointed shyly toward the kitchen. Tears streaked his face. "Please, sir, don't tell Lord Rosten! He'll have me beaten....or worse! Such stuff is treachery, it's dirty!"
The badly drawn picture showed a man a woman coupling with what looked like great eagerness but not much finesse. "It's dirty, but only because whoever made it left in a place where small lads like you could find it. Can you even read this?"
He gave me a shame-faced look and shook his head. "No, sir. I have my letters but I can't read that."
"It's just as well." I crumpled the paper and motioned for him to get back to his duties. "I'll take care of this for you."
When he left, I headed off through the courtyard. No author had put his name to the piece, written with a skilled hand and flowing phrase. The discourse said women were made to be loved by men, not reviled. Respect and equality, I could agree with, but love? I had to admit I couldn't really fathom it.
What would men and women ever have in common?
"Ah, my lord's fetchencarry." Rosten's voice startled me out of my reverie. My fingers twitched on the parchment and drew his eyes. "What have you there?"
"Naught but some garbage."
"Really?" His smile revealed gray teeth. "What sort of garbage does the fetchencarry of the Prince Regent himself deign to hold?"
"Something the boy from the armory found."
"'Twould seem to me I've seen such trash before." His smile vanished, and he held out his hand. "Let me have it, just to be sure."
There was no purpose in refusing. He had the right to demand anything of me, and to take it if I would not give it. Yet I hesitated, for no other reason than I didn't like him.
His mouth twisted. "I told you to give over to me, boy."
He didn't have to threaten me with words. I knew what he was capable of. But I clutched the paper anyway. "I thought the prince might be interested to see this. Since it was discovered in his kitchen."
Rosten glanced toward the open kitchen doors. "Discovered? By you?" His gaze fixed on me again. "And you would have me believe that?"
"Discovered by the armory lad," I told him again. "I took it from him as being...unsuitable."
"Indeed." Rosten held out his hand. "It's my place to judge such matters, and mine to punish those who insist upon perpetrating them."
His threat was no longer so subtle.
"It would be better to put this in the fire than to read it."
He nodded but waggled his fingers. "I agree."
We stared at each other, locked in a battle of wills I would have to lose. I didn't wish to jeopardize my position at the White Palace, and I didn't wish to visit Rosten's interrogation chamber.
I held out the rolled parchment, and he grabbed at it with one hand while he snagged my wrist with the other. I pulled at his grasp, but Rosten had a grip like pincers of steel.
He flicked the paper until it unrolled. "Let us see what we have, shall we?"
He read aloud the first paragraph but stopped when his voice began to shake with rage. Without letting go of me, he crumpled the paper and stuffed it into a pocket on his coat. Then he pulled me closer until he could peer directly into my eyes.
"What happened to your face?"
"Lord Akean was teaching me to fight this morning."
Rosten's grin turned my stomach. "Was he? And are you a good pupil?"
"I'm trying."
My pride forced me to stop struggling. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction. He tried to be menacing, and I tried to pretend I was unaffected.
I must've acted well enough, because Rosten's nostrils flared and his grip tightened. "Possession of filt
h like this is reason enough to drag you into my interrogation room and find out what else you might know of this insidious rebellion."
"I don't know anything about it, my lord." I forced myself to calmness. I could break his grip, and his fingers, if I tried hard enough...but the consequences of my actions would have been too high. The thought made me grin slightly. I was learning from Lir after all.
"Wipe that smirk from your lips, else I take my hand to it." Rosten's eyes glittered.
