by Phil Tucker
“True enough.” Kethe caught the waterskin one-handed and took a swig. The water was cool and tasted faintly of wine. “But this time it worked.”
It had been over a week since her father’s Mourning, and she was surprised to find that she didn’t actually miss him; instead, his memory had impelled her to work even harder. Her mail coat was finished. A little more training with Brocuff, and then she might reach out and seize her dream.
Brocuff grunted and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “ And you’re still relying too much on your eyes. I told you, in a real battle, you won’t be able to keep everyone in sight. You’re bound to get surrounded. Enemies on all sides. You need to relax. Sense ‘em. If we could, I’d bring a half dozen of the boys down here and arm them with sticks. Let ‘em have a go at you. You’d see what I mean soon enough.”
“Yes, well.” Kethe tried not to let his words sting her. “I’m afraid that might ruin the ‘secret’ aspect of my training.”
Brocuff grinned, showing all his yellow teeth. “Right. Which is why I’m right proud of my alternative. Here.” He pulled out a kitchen rag.
Kethe raised an eyebrow. “You want me to clean some tree trunks?”
Brocuff snorted. “That’d be a first. No. Tie this around your eyes.” He bunched up the rag in his fist and tossed it to her.
She tossed him the waterskin at the same time so the two crossed paths in midair, and caught the rag in her free hand. It was clean enough. “A blindfold?”
Brocuff nodded. “Trust me.”
Kethe sighed. “Fine. Though if you spin me around three times and tell me to pin a tail on a donkey, I’ll come after you.” She trapped her sword between her knees and pulled the rag about her eyes, knotted it closely behind her head, and then straightened, taking up her sword.
“Now you can’t see me, so don’t bother trying to. I want you to relax. I ain’t going nowhere.” And then Brocuff went quiet.
Kethe stood stiffly. She expected a blow at any moment, but resisted the urge to lift her sword. A breeze blew past once more, and she heard the branches sighing overhead. It felt good against her brow. She forced herself to lower her shoulders and took a deep breath. Held it. It was so hard to relax.
Silence. No, not silence; Greening Wood was never truly quiet. A branch fell somewhere in the far distance and she started. She thought she could hear Lady whicker in the near distance where Hessa was waiting, but that might have been her imagination. She became very aware of her own body. Her heartbeat. The burn in her shoulders and arms. The tension in her calves. The ground through the soles of her feet. Despite her having just taken a drink, her mouth was dry.
“Now. I’m going to walk around you in a circle. Try to track me.”
Kethe closed her eyes beneath the cloth and focused. She heard steps, but from where? She turned her head to one side, then the other. To her left? She started to turn.
“No, stay still. Just follow.”
She stilled. She heard the faint crack of a branch. The soft tread of his boots on the loam. A crackle of leaves. Then silence. He was right behind her.
“What you’re doing right now, this using your other senses, it’s purposeful. You’re putting your mind to it. But you need to get to where you’re doing it all the time. In the keep. In the bailey. Start feeling people all around you. Tracking ‘em. Exercise this skill. Always know where people are, even if you can’t see them. You lose track of somebody, they might run up behind you with a knife. A trained soldier—a good one, at any rate—is always alert. You never know where an attack might come from.”
Kethe nodded. It seemed obvious, but she’d never thought about it. Training meant sneaking away to Greening Wood. But she should always be training—while doing her needlework, or sneaking down to the kitchen for fresh cream.
“That’s enough. You can take it off now.”
She did so. The gloom under the canopy seemed extra bright, and she blinked before tossing the rag back to Brocuff. “I understand.”
“No, you only think you do.” Brocuff grinned again. His smile could be so annoying sometimes. “Listen, and listen good. I’ve seen some real killers in my time. Men to whom fighting was as natural as breathing. You can mark ‘em out in a battle when you know what to look for. When everybody is gasping like fish out of water, leaping around and waving their swords like fools, these men are as calm as you please. They’re in control of themselves. And as a result, they’re aware. They’re masters of the battle. What you felt there for a moment with that blindfold on? They’ve got that going on all the time.”
Brocuff paused, watching her. Watching to see if his words were sinking in. “First you master your fear. That done, you work on getting past being excited. Then you swallow your pride and kill the urge to show off. In the end, your final challenge will be to subdue your anger. Only when you’re calm and clear and collected, with all those emotions passing through you like the wind through these branches, only then will you be on your way to being a real fighter. Master yourself, girl. Stop thinking so much. Calm down. Be in your skin, and open your mind to the world around you. Odds are you’ll still die screaming, but until then, you’ll fight hard and you’ll fight true.”
This time it was Kethe’s turn to snort. “Great. That’s a rousing note to end on. For a moment I was almost inspired.”
“I’m a constable, not a bard. Now, let’s do the three-chop against your favorite tree. Five minutes. Neck, chest, knee, then the other side. One-handed. And in the other,” he said, moving back to gear, “you get to hold this lovely shield.”
Kethe refrained from groaning. Groaning meant double the time spent hacking at a tree trunk. She took the shield with her left hand, heavy boards rimmed with iron. Great. Taking a deep breath, she stepped up to the scarred beech tree. It probably hated her to no end, unable to fathom why she attacked it every few days.
“All right,” said Brocuff, sitting down and leaning back against another tree. He kicked his legs out in front of him and sighed contentedly. “Let’s see some spirit. Start!”
Kethe fell into her fighting stance and chopped at the tree at neck height. The blade bit into the wood and she immediately hauled it free only to slice it back in. She fought back a grimace and put all her focus into the blows, over and over, until she forgot about the passage of the seconds and the world narrowed to her elbow, wrist, her knees, the strength coming from her hips, the blade dancing and flickering, over and over and over again.
The tree disappeared and she saw the knight approaching. His dense, bristly black beard. Face like a shovel blade, hooked nose, eyes blank with murderous hatred. Broad shoulders, narrow waist. One of her father’s best Wolves. Her blade thunked harder against the tree, sending a jarring vibration up her arms that felt right. The knight was closing on her, lips pulled back in a snarl. It was his eyes that had terrified her so. He wanted to kill her. Was willing to charge an armed caravan to cut her open. She heard her screams again, knew that she would not get away. He was massive. He loomed like a monster, blotting out the sun.
Kethe tightened her grip and cut faster. Each blow slammed into the knight’s body. Neck. Chest. Knee. Still he came, unstoppable, death incarnate. She put more weight behind each blow. The blade sank deeper with each cut, but she wrenched it out all the quicker. Over and over again, she poured her fear and anger into the strikes. Nobody would find her helpless again. Nobody would take advantage of her. Nobody would tell her what to do. Tell her who she was. Hold her life in their hands. Make her scream. Make her fear.
Faster. Harder. Her blade was thunking into the tree so quickly now that the blows were becoming a drumming tattoo, hard to tell apart. Kethe felt something blossom within her. Felt something open, like the petals of a morning glory opening to meet the sun. She was snarling, she realized. Something was wrong with her sword. Brocuff was calling her name. No. She dropped her shield and grabbed the hilt with both hands. Thunk-thunk-thunk. Switch sides. Sweat was flying from her brow
.
She felt something burning in her shoulders, her breath scorching her throat. Faster. Strength flowed through her. She could do this forever. The knight’s face blotted out the sky, lined and cruel and driven mad by hatred. No matter how fast she attacked, he still came after her. Faster. Each blow was digging several inches into the tree. Wood chips were flying.
His blade was coming down toward her face. Death. Death. Death.
Kethe screamed and struck the tree as hard as she could. Her blade shattered. Half of it remained embedded six inches into the trunk. The rest went spinning across the ground.
Kethe stared at her hand. Blood was welling from the creases of her palm. She could barely hear over the ringing in her head. She looked over at where Brocuff was standing, his eyes so wide she could see the whites all the way around his irises. She followed his gaze to the tree. Three massive wounds had been dealt to the old giant on each side, as if a pair of woodsmen had attacked it with great axes for an hour. She’d cut deep grooves right into the heartwood.
“By the Ascendant,” whispered Brocuff.
She straightened and stared at the constable. “Not a word,” she said, voice low. “This stays between us.”
“As you command, my Lady.” His voice was almost fearful. “But what exactly is ‘this’?”
Kethe looked at the half of her blade that remained buried deep in the tree. The image of the blossoming flower faded from her mind, that exhilarating sense of strength and limitless power. She sagged, suddenly exhausted. “I don’t know.” She hesitated, and suddenly felt drained beyond belief. She’d never be able to pull the shard of her blade out.
She looked down at her bloody palm, and then slowly squeezed it into a fist. Blood ran down her wrist and soaked into the hem of her sleeve. “But whatever it is, I welcome it.”
~~~
Half an hour later the three of them rode out of Greening Wood. The wind was developing some bite, and Hessa pulled her bright yellow cloak with crimson tassels tightly about her chin.
“Your calluses are going to give you away, you know.” She could barely keep the disdain from her voice. “Your hands are starting to look like those of a stable boy.”
Kethe frowned down at her palms. It was true. A ridge of calluses had formed at the top of her palm and the base of her thumb. “Well, I’ll wear gloves.”
“To dinner?” Hessa sniffed. “And, look, I’ve been meaning to tell you.” She turned in her saddle to fix Kethe with her gaze. “Your dresses. Honestly. That green velvet one? I thought you were going to burst the seams when you reached for your third plate of ham last night.”
Kethe felt her face burn. She searched for a sharp retort, but couldn’t find one. She couldn’t fit into half her gowns any longer. Her shoulders had grown. Thank goodness her thighs and calves were hidden by her skirts. If she wore leggings like Menczel, her mother would faint.
“Yes, well, in case you hadn’t noticed, a certain amount of strength is needed to wield a blade.” As retorts went, it was pretty weak.
Hessa shook her head and turned back on her saddle. “Given the way you look, who couldn’t help but notice? You do realize that you’re starting to become so muscular that you look like a man, don’t you? Is that what you really want? Really?”
Kethe set her jaw and stared ahead at the narrow trail. She was barely able to keep Hessa quiet about her training, and she’d yet to find a way to stop her mouth altogether.
“Kethe. Seriously. You can’t keep doing this.” Hessa stopped her horse, and a genuine note of plaintiveness entered her voice. “These three years that I’ve been assigned to you as your lady-in-waiting are going to be interminable for both of us if I can’t help guide you the way I should. I’ve tried subtle hints, I’ve tried forbearance, I’ve tried everything I can think of, but you seem more intent on escaping me than paying attention to what I have to say. Please. Listen. We’re meant to be like sisters, so take these next words to heart: with the shape your House is in, you’re going to need to wed, and soon. You are your mother’s greatest asset. A wise marriage right now could bring in a strong ally and shore up your weaknesses. But if you keep disappearing into the smithy—yes, I know about that—and hiding in the woods to chop down trees, what man is going to want you? You can’t sing, you don’t care to dance, you don’t play any instruments, you brood at the table and don’t laugh at Menczel’s witticisms. All you think about is fighting and killing and pretending to be a knight. This can’t go on. If you really want to help your family, stop this foolishness and start playing your part. The great Winter Shriving is coming up in two months. Have you even picked your dress? Your mask? If you don’t start preparing, you’ll have no choice but to go looking like a dancing bear.”
Dull anger beat at her temples. Kethe pulled on her reins and Lady came to a stop as well. Brocuff, she noticed, was keeping a wise distance.
“Look.” She’d tried explaining in the past, but each time had failed to make Hessa understand. “Everyone has a path they wish to walk. Mostly life sets your path, but sometimes, if you’re lucky and you try really hard, you can pick a different one. That’s what I’m trying to do.” She stared down at her hands. She could make out the veins on their backs. They were nothing like a true maiden’s hands. “I know you don’t understand. I know you think beautiful gowns and feasts and gossip and courtly love and a fine marriage are the most important things in the world. And that’s fine. I don’t judge you. You can have them.” Kethe looked over to her companion. “But I don’t. I don’t want any of it. Just accept that I want to walk my own path.”
Hessa sat still, and for a moment, Kethe thought she’d reached her. Then her companion sighed and shook her head. “The world is full of wonders. Very well. You can walk this path, but I tell you true: it’s unnatural, and the world will punish you for it. But enough. I’ve finally spoken my piece. From now on I’ll leave you well alone. Just don’t come to me crying when it all comes crashing down around your head.”
Kethe felt a sharp pain like broken glass in her chest. Not that she cared for Hessa. They’d sized each other up on the day that Hessa had come to stay at the castle a year ago, and known they were two very different creatures. But Hessa’s words, Hessa’s thoughts—they were everything she fought against.
“Don’t you worry,” she said, nudging Lady back into a canter. “I won’t come running to you. That you can count on.”
The forest path wound its way around the end of Greening Wood and then broke into view of the castle. It was monstrously large. Fearsome. Its walls were unscalable, and the great keep rose on its private hill, daring any army to break itself against its walls. Kyferin Castle. Her home.
Up ahead on the main road she saw two men riding up to the gatehouse. One was clearly a knight, clad in gleaming armor, a lance held upright by his side, a pennant fluttering in the wind. Kethe studied the man, then slowed to allow Brocuff to catch her. “Who might that be?”
Brocuff shielded his eyes against the sun and studied the distant figure. “A black wolf on a field of azure. That’s Ser Wyland’s coat of arms.” The constable smiled and ran his hand over his hair with excitement. “Ser Wyland. The Ascendant be praised! Now, that’s a stroke of luck!”
“Are you sure?” Kethe rose in her stirrups and laughed. “It is! Come on! Hurry!” She kicked her heels into Lady’s flanks and crouched in the saddle. Lady needed no urging; she burst forward into a gallop, and Kethe laughed anew, giving the mare her head. She pounded down the narrow trail and out onto the road, then turned and surged up the hill toward the distant gate.
Looking back, she saw that Hessa had refused to go any faster, forcing Brocuff to lag behind so as to not abandon her. No matter. The guards were accustomed to seeing Kethe come racing up to the gate in a most unladylike manner. Up ahead she saw Ser Wyland and his squire reach the massive drawbridge and cross over. A trumpet sounded, announcing his arrival, and Wyland lifted an arm in greeting. The portcullis rose, and the knight rode
into the tunnel beyond.
Moments later Kethe reached the drawbridge herself and crossed at a canter, the wood resonating with each thud of Lady’s delicate hooves. The portcullis had remained raised, and she passed under its heavy teeth and into shadow. Up ahead she could see Ser Wyland dismounting in the bailey. Guards were spilling out of the base of the gatehouse, a couple of them laughing and cheering as they approached.
Kethe slid off her saddle as she emerged back into the sunshine, handing Lady’s reins without looking to one of the stable boys. Ser Wyland was surrounded by soldiers now, but he stood taller than all of them. Reaching up, he removed his greathelm and handed it to his squire Ryck. He grinned, and Kethe felt a thrill of joy. Her father had been served by a wide variety of men, but all had been marked by a certain lethal brutality. Lord Kyferin’s Black Wolves were feared as much for their skill in arms as their merciless nature, yet amongst that company Wyland had stood apart.
“Ser Wyland!” She waved, and he turned and on catching sight of her smiled broadly.
“Lady Kethe!” His voice was a rich baritone, the kind that with little effort could be projected across a battlefield. The soldiers parted and Ser Wyland approached. He looked every inch the perfect knight, his armor gleaming, his cloak the same peerless azure as his banner. Dark brown hair was cut close to his scalp and grew in a thick beard along his jaw and upper lip. Handsome, kind, and prone to laughter, Ser Wyland had easily been her favorite amongst the Black Wolves, and the sight of him standing once again within the bailey gave her a surge of joy and nervousness.
“My, one season away from the castle and you’ve grown an inch.” He beamed down at her. “And you’ve grown into a beautiful maiden as well. I see I’m going to be kept busy from now on, repelling all sorts of bothersome suitors.”
