A few people reading this will recognize one of the characters. Her name is Shara Yvarai, Blooded of the Fox, and she will be my viewpoint character for this very long tale.
Enjoy this, a little look into the world of Houses of the Blooded.
There is no weapon as wicked as fear.
There is no tool as useful as desire.
— Lessons
When she walks into the room, a wall of heat hangs in the air, as thick as an old, moldy blanket. It stings her eyes and sticks to her tongue when she breathes. The smell of dirty sweat and work and men.
All the way across the room, he watches her. He looks exactly the same as the first time she saw him, standing on the street, blade in hand. From the comfort of her coach, she watched him, watched his movements, watched him kill another man with the same sword he holds now.
He pours himself a drink from a bottle on a slender table. The room is empty except for him, the table, the bottle and two cups. One of the cups is in his hand. In his other hand is that sword.
“What are those?” he asks, pointing to the clothes she carries. He gestures with the cup, the sword stays at his side.
She looks down at the folded bundle of clothes under her right arm. “Fencing leathers,” she says, pushing aside the heavy cloak guarding her face from the street and the tavern below.
He shakes his head. “You won’t be wearing those.”
Her eyes narrow. “Why not?”
“Because you won’t be wearing them when you fight. The dress you’re wearing now is just fine.”
She looks down. Looks back at him. “It’s a gown, not a dress.”
“Whatever.”
She drops the leathers, removes the bundle hiding the sword. She puts the sword in her hands, releasing the blade from its sheath. The sound it makes is different in this room. She’s used to the muffling effect from her fencing instructor’s room, the walls all padded in thick cotton and wool. The walls here are wood, as are the floors. They creak when she walks across them.
The loose panels. Her heels. “Not good,” she whispers.
He points at the blade in her hand. “Is that the sword you intend to use?”
She nods. “Yes.”
He puts the cup down. “Let me hold it.”
She steps forward, turning the blade toward herself, pommel toward him.
He stops a few steps from her. “Is that how they pass swords in polite company?” he asks.
She nods. “It is.” She watches his smile. His slow moving smile. “What of it?”
“Put it back in the sheath,” he tells her.
She takes the sheath from the floor and sets the blade inside. Then, she passes the blade to him. He takes it with his hands. “This,” he tells her, “is how impolite bastards pass swords.”
He draws the blade from the sheath. His blue eyes scan the steel. “Well made,” he says.
“There is no better sword smith than Renoit,” she says.
“Is it blooded?” he asks.
She hesitates. He looks from the blade to her. Then, he puts the sword back in the sheath. “You will be fighting me with a blooded blade then,” he says. He steps away, back to the table and the drink. “Are you dexter or sinister?”
Again, her eyes narrow. He walks back to her, this time, he does not stop at a polite distance. She can smell the wine on his breath. He asks, “Do you use your left hand or your right?”
She looks at the sword, sheathed. “I trained with my right hand.”
He steps closer, taking her right hands in his. “Which do you write with?”
She looks up at him. Tall. His beard uncut, untrimmed. “I write with my left.”
“Then we will train with your left.”
He steps away to a rack of swords.
“I’ve already trained with my right,” she tells his back.
“Use your left hand. 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 blade, heavier than the one she holds. “Now… let’s see what your teacher taught you.”
He moves quickly, crossing the floor in a breath. 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.
For a moment, she’s panicked. He’s killed her. Just like that, he’s killed her. But she looks where her hand covers the pain in her side and finds the dress uncut. There is no blood. She looks for the blood, but the dust on the floor is disturbed only by her fall.
“It’s called a slap,” he tells her. “A strike with the flat of the blade. Used for when your opponent overestimates her own skill and needs a lesson in humility.” Then, he walks back to the sword rack and places the blade back where it rested.
She watches him lift the bottle of wine and pour himself another glass. “You can go home now,” he tells her. “Your first lesson is done.”
He lifts the glass to his lips and it shatters. He turns back to look at her, smiling under the coils of hair fallen from the pins that held them. He looks back at the wall behind him. A small blade, half-buried in the wall.
“It’s called a knife,” she tells him from across the room. “Used for when your opponent turns his back on you and needs a lesson in humility.”
He is still holding the broken glass 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 glass back on the table and selects another blade. Lighter this time.
She smiles. “Let’s see what your teacher taught you.”
* * *
The heat in the room is deeper now, bringing up sweat heavy breaths. From across the room, watching her, he asks, “Why are you here?”
She wipes her brow clean, licking the salt on her lips. “To learn the sword.”
He laughs. Pours himself more wine. A new glass. “No, you aren’t.”
Her gown is ruined. Cuts and tears at almost every seam. Her shoes are in a corner of the room where she kicked them. She raises an eyebrow at him. “You presume too much,” she says.
He turns back to her, the wine glass in his left hand, the sword in his right. “You are a complicated woman.” A long sip. “You don’t do anything for the obvious reasons.”
She shrugs her bare shoulders, glistening with sweat. “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 the tears in the skirts. She made them with her own blade when her feet kept catching on the seams. She’d have to talk to the tailor when she returned home. She needed a gown 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 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 glass, letting some of it spill down her chin.
She gives him the empty glass. “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?”
The glass is full. He turns and walks back. “I’ve heard they train you in all manner of physical arts.”
She takes the glass from his hand. “They did,” she says.
“Why not fighting?”
She looks in his eyes, her own gaze steeling. “I taught myself to fight.”
He extends his hand, taking the half-empty glass. “I can tell.” He takes another sip. “So. Why are you here?”
She takes the glass back and 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 priests 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.”
“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. “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 still fresh, not even winded. She can barely hold her own breath. “Weapon or tool?” he asks. “So, you are blooded of the Wolf.”
She shakes her head. “My mother was.”
“And your father?”
“Of the Fox,” she says. She gestures at the sword resting at his side. “Another pass.”
“’Weapon or tool.’ You certainly do not believe that.”
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 the most fascinating woman I have ever met,” 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, ignoring his hand. At her full height, her eyes at his chin, looking up.
Then, she takes up the stance.
“Again,” she says.
