Achan loved the smell of fresh sawdust and always enjoyed coming to the woodshed. Sir Gavin sat on a fat stump that was used as a chopping block. Rows upon rows of firewood were stacked up against the curtain wall. Achan had always wanted to see if he could climb it and reach the walkway above.
“Aye.” Sir Gavin whittled a small block of pine. Achan had no idea what he was making. “But it would look mighty strange for me to tote around two swords everywhere I went, wouldn’t it?”
Achan nodded. As he filed, he weighed matters with Gren. Strays were rarely permitted to marry anyway, so his hopes of a future with Gren had never been founded on reality. And, like Gren had said, her father had been looking for a husband for her for years. But Riga Hoff? Sure, Achan had expected someone to snatch up Gren. But not Riga. Someone older. Someone with life experience. Someone less like a swine. Someone mature and wealthy who could give her better clothes, provide for her. Young men rarely took a—
“If you’re not careful, lad, the blade will be uneven. An uneven sword is difficult to learn on.”
Sir Gavin’s warning snapped Achan out of his lament. He quickly looked over his work and turned the wood to work a new spot. He clenched his teeth and returned to his thoughts. Never mind Gren — unless Achan could succeed as a knight and get out of Sitna, the best he could hope for was to end up like Poril. He shivered at the thought of a life serving Lord Nathak’s meals and having to watch Gren and Riga’s children chase the chickens around the outer bailey.
It took three days to finish the new waster. It wasn’t as smooth as the last one, but Achan liked it better. It was his craftsmanship, after all. He set about his squire training with renewed vigor. The rest of the time he did his regular work for Poril, steering clear of Gren. He couldn’t bear to face her just yet. Tired of walking around barefoot, he’d begged Noam to go and fetch the boots from her.
After one late-night practice, Achan asked, “Sir Gavin, can’t I try a blunted blade? I’d like to at least hold one.” The old knight had mentioned that blunts were used prior to real blades, and Achan was eager to get to the real thing.
Sir Gavin sniffed in a deep breath. “Aye, then. Tomorrow morning you can try it, but I think you’ll see right away that you’re not ready.”
The next day, Achan met Sir Gavin in the wheat field before dawn, eager to prove himself worthy of knighthood and impress Master Fenny. As quickly as possible. Maybe a long engagement was planned. Maybe there was still a chance.
“Before we start,” Sir Gavin said, stabbing one of the steel blades into the grassy soil, “we need to go over the basics.”
Achan hid an impatient sigh. He recited: “Stay focused. Breathe deep. Mind your footwork. Look your attacker in the eye.”
Sir Gavin cocked his head to the side. “Look him in the eye, but not just to stare him down. You want to watch all of him at once, see if you can anticipate his next move. Right?”
Achan nodded.
Sir Gavin handed him the blunt hilt first, then drew his own blade from the ground. “Now we’ll see how you hold up against some real cuts. But I warn you, blunts are much more painful than wasters.”
The fun was over. Sir Gavin knocked the blunt from Achan’s hands six times before Achan could grip it tightly enough to hold on to it through a strike. Every hit rattled the bones in his arms all the way to his teeth.
He had trouble remembering everything at once. If he focused on following through with his arms so the strikes didn’t sting, he forgot about his breathing. If he focused on his breathing, he forgot his footwork and stumbled. If he focused on his footwork, he forgot his arms and took a bruising blow or dropped his blade. And when he did get hit, the strikes hurt deeper than with the waster. He never once managed to look Sir Gavin in the eyes.
Sir Gavin paused for Achan to retrieve his blade from the ground yet again. “This is why we start with wasters. Tomorrow we go back to my way, but for today…” Sir Gavin grew ruthless. He nagged with each blunder and whacked Achan on the forehead with the flat of the sword.
Thwack! “Ow!”
“Pick it up! If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.”
Thwack! “Ow!”
“Never parry with the edge. Always use the flat.”
Thwack! “Raise your sword. Middle guard. Else I can run you through.”
Thwack! “Don’t attack from low guard. You’re not good enough yet.”
Thwack! “Stop whining and keep your grip tight…but not too tight.”
That night, Achan slept like he’d been drugged.
He woke to tremendous aches. They were back to using the wooden wasters that morning, and Sir Gavin guided him through slow motion role-play lessons. This was a much easier way to learn.
By the time Sir Gavin brought back the blunts, Achan could actually keep up. Still, he went to bed each night with fresh bruises on his hands, forearms, and shins.
Little by little, with each passing day, Achan improved.
3
One morning, as Achan choked down his tonic under Poril’s careful eye, Sir Gavin entered the kitchens.
The knight’s presence sent Achan’s heart racing. Had Sir Gavin convinced Lord Nathak to give him up already? Achan breathed deeply to calm his stomach.
The three serving women who were gathering meals for Prince Gidon’s officials stopped what they were doing and stared at Sir Gavin.
Poril hovered around him like a fly. “How can Poril service yeh, my good sir knight? Do yeh desire bread? Some porridge?” Poril waved one of the women over. She carried a tray that was being readied for Chora, Prince Gidon’s valet.
Sir Gavin ignored Poril’s offerings and stared over the cook’s shoulder, his expression curious. “What does the lad drink?”
Achan stumbled around the other two other serving women and headed toward the spice baskets in search of mentha leaves. He didn’t want to miss a moment between Sir Gavin and Poril, but he also didn’t want to lose his stomach on the kitchen floor.
“’Tis a tonic to keep the ills away,” Poril said.
Sir Gavin’s boots scuffed against the dirt floor as he moved to cut Achan off between two tables. Achan stepped back as the knight snatched the empty mug away and sniffed it. “If it’s sour enough to turn his stomach, perhaps the recipe is wrong or the ingredients stale.”
“I assure yeh, my good sir knight, the recipe is precise. Poril does not make errors in measurements or ingredients.”
The smell of hardboiled eggs and sausages set Achan’s stomach roiling. If only he could reach the mentha basket. “That’s how it always tastes, sir.”
Sir Gavin held out his empty hand to Poril, still clutching the mug in his other. “A crust of bread?”
Poril fluttered to the racks and handed the knight a chunk of flatbread. Sir Gavin ripped off a corner, wiped the inside of the mug, and popped it into his mouth.
Achan watched, cringing slightly, but knowing it couldn’t taste as bad muted by bread. Nevertheless, Sir Gavin’s face flushed. He spat the doughy lump into the mug and rounded on Poril. “You’d poison this boy?”
“Gods, no, my good sir knight! ’Tis not poison!”
“Nor is it given to ‘keep the ills away.’” Sir Gavin spat again. “Why, then, do you give him this?”
Poril’s eyes widened. His face flushed. “Because…Poril is sworn to…to keep him from…infecting the prince.”