“Oh, my. Oh, my.” Tunsall paced around the table, regarding it from every angle but not touching it. “Oh, my.”
“Is there—” Something wrong, he would have finished, but Tunsall cut him off.
“It’s beautiful. Quite lovely. I knew you did good work, Aric. But I never anticipated … simply lovely.”
“Do you want to try it?”
“Oh, no. No, boy, it isn’t for me, after all, is it?” He clapped his hands twice, long fingers coming together along with the palms. Aric heard the rustle of someone he hadn’t even seen, who must have been standing just behind a doorway.
Moments later, Rieve walked into the courtyard. Torchlight caught in her red hair and winked at Aric, and he felt his cheeks warming. Her hair was braided, falling well past her shoulders. She wore a simple white dress, belted loosely at the waist, with straps that bared those shoulders.
She graced Aric with a smile that he expected to remember until his dying days. “That’s it?” she asked.
“That’s it, lady.”
She looked expectantly at her grandfather. “May I?”
“By all means.”
She gave a squeal of delight and snatched the sword from the table, then waved it about in such a clumsy fashion Aric was glad he wasn’t standing too near.
“With all the fuss over in Tyr, and even Raam,” Tunsall said. “I want her to be able to protect herself.”
“Of course,” Aric said.
“But there’s more to it than just owning a sharp sword, isn’t there?”
“It’s perfect!” Rieve cried. “Like it was made just for me! I mean, I know it was, but—”
“There is,” Aric affirmed.
Rieve stopped slashing at the air and approached Aric. She held the sword in her right hand, and with her left she took his right. Her hand felt impossibly soft in his hard, callused one. “Thank you, Aric,” she said. He felt like he could fall into her cinnamon eyes. “I love it.”
“It was a pleasure. I am proud of that one, I must say. It’s balanced just right, and that blade will hold its edge.”
“You are a true craftsman,” she said. She held his gaze with her own. Much as he wanted to watch the way her plump pink lips moved as she spoke, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from hers. A smell like fresh apricots surrounded her.
“I thank you.”
Finally, she released his hand. Aric hadn’t even had that much physical contact with her when he had measured her—hand, arm, and leg—to be sure the sword would be just right. His hand felt as if he had leaned it against the forge at white heat.
“It didn’t even take you terribly long,” she said. “Did you do nothing else but this?”
“Slept now and again,” Aric said. “Ate some meals. But I did no other work, not while I was engaged with that one.”
She carved the air a little more, and Aric took an involuntary step back.
“As I was saying,” Tunsall said. “Now that she has a fine blade, she needs instruction in its use, wouldn’t you say?”
“She … seems to have a natural affinity,” Aric said, hoping the patriarch wouldn’t notice his lie. “But instruction is always a good idea.”
“I’ve heard tales of your prowess with a sword, Aric.” Tunsall touched his own eyebrow, right where Aric’s scar was on his. “Impressive.”
“A fluke,” Aric said.
“Not at all. I wonder if you would mind giving her some lessons. I would pay you, of course, for your time.”
Aric could hardly believe his senses. “I … I am no combat instructor,” he said.
“Oh, that would be wonderful, Aric!” Rieve said. She bounced enthusiastically. Her skirt flounced almost to her smooth thighs. “To learn from you …”
“I suppose I do know a bit about the practice of swordsmanship,” Aric admitted. “Just from having worked with them for so long, you understand.”
“Then it’s settled,” Tunsall said.
“I’m sorry,” another voice said. Aric turned to see a tall woman, with thick auburn hair tightly coiled almost to her waist, enter the courtyard. “I am Solyara,” she told Aric. “Rieve’s mother.”
“Enchanted,” Aric said.
“I’m afraid that Rieve’s father has already engaged the services of an instructor for her.” Her voice was steady, with the even, confident tone of someone who rarely expected argument.
“Oh,” Aric said. “Well …”
“Who?” Rieve asked.
“Who else but your betrothed, Corlan?”
“Corlan?”
“Why not? He’s of our class, he’s had martial training, unlike young Aric here. And he’s known to be quite skilled with a sword. Anyway, your father has made the decision, so it’s settled.” She turned her flat gaze on Aric. “I’ve nothing against you, Aric, and neither does Myklan, Rieve’s father, who after all advised my father to hire you in the first place. We’re quite tolerant of all sorts of people, you’ll find. But he has made Corlan an offer, and we can’t go back on it now.”
“I understand,” Aric said. He couldn’t deny his disappointment, although he tried to disguise it. And in spite of Solyara’s self-proclaimed tolerance, he wondered how much it had to do not with his commoner class but with his half—quarter—elf nature. Elves, everybody knew, weren’t to be trusted, especially with the daughter of a noble human family.
“Did I hear my name?” Another unfamiliar voice, this one booming, but with a friendly sound to it. A burly young man about Aric’s age swept into the courtyard, square-jawed and clean-shaven, wearing a light tan sarami. His expression was fixed in what looked like a perpetual grin, blue eyes dancing in the torchlight.
“Corlan!” Rieve cried. She put down the sword and ran to him, throwing her arms around him. He squeezed her tightly, then released her.
“Who’s the stranger?” he asked. “I’m Corlan, of House Tien’sha.”
“I’m Aric. I crafted Rieve’s new sword.”
Corlan crossed to the table and examined it. “It’s a beauty,” he said. “You do good work.” He lifted it, took a fighting stance, and whisked it a couple of times through the air. Unlike Rieve, he knew what he was doing. “I stand corrected, Aric. You do excellent work. Perhaps you can make me one sometime.”
“Just say when.”
“I will, don’t worry.” He turned back to his fiancée. “And you, love? How do you like it?”
“I like it very much,” Rieve said. “I’ll like it even more after you teach me how to use it.”
“That will be my great pleasure,” Corlan said. “I only hope your lessons will be worthy of the instrument itself.”
Aric hated how completely Corlan had drawn Rieve’s attention away from him. But he had to admit that they made an attractive couple, and he couldn’t bring himself to dislike Corlan. He had been nothing but friendly, seeming not to even notice Aric’s racial background.
“Oh, I’m sure you can teach me wonderful things, Corlan,” Rieve said. “And I’ll have a wonderful tool to learn with, thanks to you, Aric.”
Aric was about to take his leave when the group was enlarged again. A young man, perhaps a year or two older than Rieve, stormed into the courtyard. His mood was dark, brow furrowed, hands tightly clenched into fists, and he walked with his muscles tightly coiled, as if at any moment he would strike out at whoever was nearest. He was dressed, if that was the word, much like Tunsall, with a loincloth his only covering. His footsteps were tentative, as if he had burned the soles of his feet here on a previous occasion and was afraid of doing it again.
“That wasn’t it!” he complained, loudly. “Not it at all! It never is, never was, never never!”
Rieve shot Aric a quick look of apology, then turned to the newcomer, her face instantly softening. “Pietrus, dear, now isn’t the time. We have guests.”