There is no weapon as wicked as fear.
There is no tool as useful as desire.
— Lessons
When she walks into the room, there’s a wall of heat hanging in the air, as thick as an old moldy blanket. It stings her eyes, sticks to her tongue when she breathes. The smell of dirty sweat and work and men. It’s a simple room with little furniture, a paneled floor and windows. The glass is thick and flawed, allowing only the vaguest hints of silhouette to the other side. The windows are frozen and there’s snow on her boots. She stomps them on the floor, patches of it falling on the wood. The heat of the room is melting it already.
All the way across the room, he watches her. Him, with his short cropped black hair, looking like a pox survivor. His skin is rough from too much sun and scarred from too much violence. He’s wearing a simple tunic, black trousers and high boots. The gloves on his hands are thicker in the palms. He’s standing by another door, sounds of the tavern below behind its thin wood.
He points at the clothes she’s carrying. “What are those?” he asks.
She looks down at the pantaloons and tunic. “Fencing leathers,” she says.
He shakes his head, walking to the corner where swords sit in a makeshift rack. “You won’t be wearing those,” he says.
Her eyes narrow. Green eyes, as green as the emerald waters of the southern seas. “Why not?”
He picks up a blade. He doesn’t try its weight. “Because you won’t be wearing them when you fight,” he tells her. “The dress you’re wearing now is just fine.”
She looks down. Looks back at him. “It’s a gown, not a dress.”
He mumbles something she can’t hear.
She feels a smile creep up on her, and she doesn’t send it away. She drops the leathers and takes her own sword from its sheath, putting it in her hand. The sound it makes is different in this room. She’s used to the muffling effect from Dandelon’s room. The walls there are padded in thick cotton and wool. He teaches her with a baited blade. He never ripostes, only parries.
The walls here are not covered in cotton and cloth; they’re wooden, as are the floors. They creak when she walks across them.
When she gets closer, he points at the blade in her hand. “Is that the sword you intend to use?” he asks.
She nods. “Yes.”
“Are you dexter or sinister?”
Again, her eyes narrow. Just for a moment. He sees her confusion and continues without missing a beat. He walks closer, close enough for the sword to cut. “Do you use your left hand or your right?”
She looks at the sword and where it rests. “I trained with my right hand.
He steps closer, taking her hands in his. The leather of his gloves against her skin. “Which do you write with?” he asks her.
She looks up at him. Tall. His beard uncut, untrimmed. His skin is dirty, his breath foul of beer.
“I write with my left hand,” she says.
His blue eyes are like the winter sky outside. He smiles, his scars stretching across his skin. “Then we will train with your left.”
He steps away, back to the rack of swords.
“I’ve already trained with my right,” she tells his back.
“Use your left hand,” he says without turning. “It’s stronger. More used to complicated and subtle moves.”
She switches the blade to her left hand. It feels awkward. Heavy.
He selects a different blade, this one heavier than the sword she holds. “Now then,” he says, turning, a smile under his bearded lip. “Let’s see what your teacher taught you.”
He moves across the room like a cat, each step a pounce. Three overhead strikes, faster than she’s ever seen before. The one to the head, she parries, the second hits her square in the right arm, and her sword drops. The third hits her belly and she falls to her knees.
There’s panic in her heart now. She was careless. She’s been killed. This man an assassin, sent to murder her father’s only… wait.
No blood.
She’s looking for the blood, but there’s only dust on the floor. Her hair has fallen from the pins that held it in place, coiling down in front of her eyes.
“It’s called a slap,” he tells her. “A strike with the flat of the blade. Used for when your opponent needs a lesson in humility.” Then, he walks back to the sword rack and places the blade back where it rested. He walks to the only piece of furniture in the room: a small table with a bottle and a ceramic goblet.
She watches him lift the bottle and pour the dark liquid into the goblet. “You can go home now,” he tells her, not looking up. “Your first lesson is done.”
He lifts the cup to his lips and it shatters. He turns back to look at her, and she’s smiling under the black coils fallen from the pins that held them. He looks back at the wall behind him. A knife, half-buried in the wall.
“It’s called a dagger,” she tells him. “For when your opponent turns his back on you. Used for when your opponent needs a lesson in humility.”
He’s still holding the broken cup as she shifts the blade back to her right hand.
“Lesson for lesson,” she says. “Would you like to try again?”
He puts the broken cup back on the table and selects another blade. Lighter this time.
She smiles. “Let’s see what your teacher taught you.”
* * *
They’re drinking straight from the bottle, handing it back and forth. She’s out of breath, her brow beaded.
“Sorry about your dress,” he says, pointing to the rips and tears.
She takes the bottle from his hands. “It’s a gown.”
His face is flushed as he drinks deep from the bottle, passing it to her. He drinks it and he watches her. Watches her, and he asks, “Why are you here?”
She wipes her brow clean, licking the salt on her lips. “To learn the sword.”
He laughs and she gives him the bottle back. Another long drink. “No, you aren’t.”
She raises an eyebrow at him. “You presume too much.”
More laughter, his voice like whiskey and broken glass. “Why me? Why here?”
She takes another deep breath. “You come highly recommended,” she tells him. “And I needed a teacher who would teach me. Not coddle me.”
He turns back to her, the bottle in his left hand, the sword in his right. “You,” he pauses, considers his words. Then, a long sip. “You don’t do anything for the obvious reasons.”
She shrugs her bare shoulders. “Perhaps you see more than what is here.”
“Not today. But I must admit, I admire what I do see.”
She pauses, her lungs still half-empty, still trying to re-fill. Her legs show through tears she made in the skirts. She made them when her feet kept catching on the seams, while he was teaching her a particularly useful sidestep. She’d have to talk to the tailor when she returned home. She needed a skirt she could move in.
“Why are you here?” he asks again. He crosses the room, pulls a chair behind him, and sits down where she rests.
“Give me some more of that,” she says, pointing at the drink. He puts it in her hand. The leather of his gloves touches her skin. She drinks what’s left in the bottle, letting some of it spill down her chin.
She gives him the empty bottle. “More,” she says.
He smiles. “Did they teach you to drink like that back home?”
“They taught me all sorts of things… back home.”
“I’ve heard–“ he starts, but stops.
“What have you heard?”
He turns and walks back. “You’re an Yvarai, aren’t you?” he asks.
She doesn’t nod or shake her head. “You’re more perceptive than you look.” She watches him carefully, watching his hands and his eyes. “How can you tell?”
He smiles a little, the creases in his face curling up. “A couple of things.” His smile broadens. “You think you’re the first Yvarai I’ve trained?” He looks at the empty bottle. “More, yes?”
“Yes,” she says, touching the bottle. “More.”
He rises up, turns to the door. She watches him leave, the sweat on his back making his skin stick to his shirt. He opens the door. “Felden!” he shouts down the stairs. “Felden, another bottle!” He closes the door behind him.
“Feldon lets me stay up here,” he tells her. “For a nominal fee.”
“A large room,” she says. “It must get loud at night.”
He shrugs. “I’m usually awake after Feldon locks the door.”
“Downstairs, you mean?”
“Downstairs.”
There’s a knock on the door. Still standing there, he opens it. A young boy with cornflower hair and a bottle in his hands.
“Thank you, Jerek,” he tells the boy.
The boy looks at her. A long, lingering look. Then, he’s gone.
“Handsome lad,” she says.
He shuts the door and brings the bottle over to her, popping the cork off. “The tavernkeeper’s son,” he says. “You should hear the boy sing.”
“Maybe I will.”
He takes a swig from the bottle, handing it to her. She takes one and hands it back.
“How did you know I was Yvarai?” she asks.
“Your hair,” he says. “No Shanashee has hair like that.”
Her green eyes find fire. “Like what?” she asks.
“Like a raven’s wing.”
She laughs. “A vadin, you may be, sir. But no poet’s soul rests in that body.”
He laughs with her, taking another swallow.
Then, her lips lose their smile. Her gaze finds his. And she asks. “Will I ever be one?”
“Be what?”
“A swordsman. A vadin.”
He watches her for a moment, then takes another drink. Another moment. Looking at the floor. Then, back at her.
“No,” he says.
She nods. “I see.”
“You have some talent,” he tells her. “But not enough.” He takes the bottle from her and when his swallow is done, he asks, “Why are you here?”
She’s looking at the floor, at the spaces between the long wood planks. She’s quiet. “What’s the other thing?”
“Hm?”
“You said there were two. Two things that told you I was an Yvarai.”
He smiles, puts the bottle down. His gloved hand reaches forward, touching her bare shoulder. She watches his hand. Not his eyes or his face, just his hand. He pulls gently at the fabric, pulling down. Her skin is hot and damp, the fabric clinging tightly. Just below the fabric is a tattoo. A crest.
“I saw that,” he says, “the last time you tried to thrust at second position.”
She nods and smiles, taking up the bottle. “I should have known.”
“I’ve heard,” he says, “you are trained in all manner of… physical arts.”
She holds the bottle. “I am,” she says.
“Like?”
She looks at him, her lips trembling for the smile trying to escape. “Physical arts?” she asks. His only reply is a nod. So, she leans forward, her lips next to his ear.
“The sixteenth secret kiss,” she says, “is just…” her fingers find the bone below his neck, reaching to his shoulder, “… here.” Her lips lower, her fingers pull away his tunic. Her breath on his skin, her lips. Her tongue. Her teeth.
His body stiffens… and its done. She’s back to the bottle. Watching him.
He takes a moment to recover. Then, his only words are, “I…see.”
“Seeing had nothing to do with it,” she says, almost laughing.
“They teach you this?”
She nods.
“Physical skills?”
Nods again.
“Why not fighting?” he asks.
She looks in his eyes, her own gaze steeling. “I taught myself to fight.”
He extends his hand, taking the half-empty bottle. “I can tell.” He takes another sip. “So. Why are you here?”
Despite the wine, she swallows with a dry throat, still parched from the fighting. She looks over to the window, to where the smoke of the city rises up to the blue sky. Sounds below echo up, muffled by distance. When a moment has passed, she speaks.
“I was born with three things,” she tells him. “My mind, my body and my soul.”
She sits up, the tears in her skirts showing her thighs, the sword resting there. “My family took my body from me, and turned it into a tool. The Gods offered me power, but they wanted my soul in exchange. Nobody was interested in my mind. So, I turned that into a weapon.”
“A weapon?”
“The only weapon a woman in my position can have. And even then, she must keep that weapon sheathed and out of sight.”
He nods, pushing himself up off the floor. “Not proper for a woman to think?”
“Think, yes. Think of her family, think of her duty, think of her responsibilities, yes. Think for herself? No.”
“So you are here to learn the sword.”
She nods. “Yes.”
“Another weapon.”
She stands then, the sword in her right hand, the bottle between them. “Everything is a weapon,” she says, looking into the steel of the blade. “Or a tool.” She steps away from the wall into the center of the room. He watches her from his chair, watches her take the stance.
He lifts himself to his feet, pushing the chair away. She can see his body is fresh again, not even winded. She can barely hold her own breath. “You certainly do not believe that,” he says.
She doesn’t flinch. “I do.”
Their swords cross. “And if everything is a weapon…”
“Life is a duel,” she says.
He thrusts, she parries. “What of love?” he asks.
She ripostes. “Love is a war,” she tells him. He parries her, and counters. Her counter puts her weight on her back foot, a telling sign of retreat. He moves forward, striking at her right shoulder.
“You are not the first to say such a thing,” he says, delivering the blow, but finding it countered. She catches him off guard, stepping forward when the correct move is a step back.
“Love,” she tells him, “is a war with no victors.” She crosses the blades, pushing hard for a corp á corp. “Only casualties.”
She pushes her body against him, hoping her momentum will hit his strength hard enough. His surprise drops, and he pushes back. Too strong. She falls. Her wrist hits the floor, but her fingers are tight on the blade. She lifts it, putting the tip between him and her, but he does not press the attack. Instead, he laughs.
“You are intriguing,” he tells her. He puts his blade aside, lowers his hand to help her rise. She pushes both hands against the floor and lifts herself to her feet. Her eyes at his chin, looking up.
“That pseudonym you used,” he says. “It is silly. From a dimebook. Tell me your name.”
She smiles. “Master vadin, you know better than that.”
He shrugs, each arm out to the side. “I must know.”
“I’m afraid not.”
He lets the point of his sword rest on the wood floor. “No name, no lesson,” he says.
Her eyes green like emeralds. Her lips curl. Then, smile. “Shara,” she says.
He takes up his sword, she takes up the stance. “Lady Shara,” he says.
She lowers her blade against his. Only one word.
“Again.”