Remembering her resolve that he and Monso should leave her before they risked being recaptured, Eydryth gave her companion a sidelong glance. “If there is a nearby pass that is only accessible to those traveling on foot, perhaps it would be best if you directed me to it. Then you could go on to the other pass with Monso.”
A muscle in his jaw tightened, and he did not look at her. “Why?”
She took a deep breath. “Because from this point on, Monso will only slow us down. I know you will not abandon him, but I have no wish to be caught because I have held back to stay with you two.”
The wan light of early dawn made Alon’s unshaven face appear even more drawn and haggard as he gave her a long, measuring glance. “Do not concern yourself unduly,” he said finally, in a tone that held the barest touch of sarcasm. “When we begin to hold you back, then it will be time enough for you to go on alone, Lady.”
Fighting back an urge to apologize, to blurt out that she was only doing this for his own good, Eydryth nodded, no longer meeting his eyes. “Very well,” she said, keeping her voice cold and hard with an effort. “But I shall be the judge.”
“And jury-of-peers, and no doubt executioner, too,” he said, giving her a crooked, mocking smile. “But for now, we must go.”
They went on, afoot much of the time, stumbling upward over rocky slopes dotted with scrubby firs and prickly gorse. The songsmith walked blindly, barely noticing her surroundings enough to pick her path. Alon’s last remark had disturbed her greatly. She had heard beneath the mockery a note of bitter pain; her words had hurt him more than he would ever reveal.
He is lonely, she thought, remembering how pleased he had been to have someone to talk with about Monso and Steel Talon. At the thought of the falcon, she glanced around, but saw no black speck outlined against the sky.
“Where is Steel Talon?” she asked, struggling not to gasp out the words. “I have not seen him since he and Monso made the thrice-circle.”
“When I awoke this morning, I saw him perched in a grove of these scrub firs,” Alon replied. “He seldom flies when it is wet, preferring to catch me up later. He will find us, never fear.”
Eydryth nodded, wishing that she had such a choice available to her. A trickle of chill water found its way down the back of her neck, through the soaked hood of her cloak, making her shiver.
Finally, about an hour before sunset, the rain slackened, then stopped, and the sun came out. Alon promptly halted in his tracks, beside one of the stunted scrub oaks. Pulling off his cloak, he hastily shook the water off a limb and spread the garment to dry.
The bard considered urging him to continue on, but her feet and her muscles hurt so from all the climbing that she said nothing, only sought out another tree to hang her cloak.
“Dare we build a fire?” she wondered aloud. “All the wood is so wet it will surely smoke.”
Alon shrugged. “The witch will know our whereabouts whether we have a fire or not. And I for one”—he pulled off his sodden leather jerkin—“would rather have the warmth.” He rubbed his jaw, then grimaced. “Not to mention hot water for shaving.”
Once the fire was kindled, reluctant and smoky even as Eydryth had predicted, the songsmith pulled off her own jerkin so her tunic could dry; then she drew her sword from its place of concealment. “Time for your first lesson,” she announced solemnly.
At the look of astonishment on Alon’s now smooth-skinned features, she smiled thinly, pointing with the tip of her blade to the one he wore. “Go on, draw it. Learning the basic stance and one or two moves will warm you up and loosen muscles stiff from walking in the rain.”
“But…” He hesitated, then shrugged and obeyed.
Eydryth surveyed his drawn weapon with a practiced eye. “A general-issue sword, but the Estcarpian smiths know their craft. Double-edged and pointed… you will learn to use either point or edge. First of all, hold it out in front of you… so.”
When he obeyed, she inspected his hand, touching the back of his wrist lightly, running her fingers up the length of his bared arm. “Good strength,” she said. “I am not surprised, seeing that you can rein in Monso. Now place your feet like this…” She moved into position, right foot ahead of left, crouching slightly. “Yes, that’s correct, now bend your knees a little, thus…”
Brow furrowed with concentration, he obeyed. “Good,” she said. “Shoulders a bit forward, right more than left, eyes front, good…” She faced him, her own blade out. “You must learn to let your body think for you, while keeping your mind calm and detached so it can plan your next move.
“Look not at any one area, but rather let your eyes take in the entire form of your opponent. Not only his blade, but also the movement of head, shoulders—the entire torso. Eventually you will learn to note the placing of his body without having to think about it, and then you can begin to anticipate an opponent’s moves from small shifts in his carriage, or from the way his eyes move. The eyes often reveal the next tactic even before the wrist or body knows what it will be.”
“What do I do with my left hand?” Alon asked, concentrating grimly on holding the sword in the correct position.
“For now, just hold it so,” she demonstrated. “It will help you balance. In time I will teach you to use your left hand, with a cloak wrapped around it, or with a dagger, to parry strokes.”
“Is that how you fight? With a sword and dagger?”
“That is my preferred style, yes,” she said. “Now put your blade back in its sheath.”
Her student looked rather relieved to have gotten off so easily. “Are we done?”
“Hardly. But I have no desire to have you cut me should I miss a parry. The scabbard will make a good protector.” When he’d obeyed, she said, “Good. Now… back into position.”
Alon did so, grunting a little. “My legs will be stiff from this.”
“No doubt,” she agreed. “Now let me demonstrate a basic lunge and a basic parry for you to practice tonight…”
Quickly she shifted her weight forward, her sword driving before her like a steel wind. The point halted just touching the fabric of the tunic covering Alon’s midsection. With a startled gasp, he leaped back, wide-eyed. “Have a little caution, I beg you!” he sputtered. “You… you could have spitted me!”
“Certainly,” Eydryth agreed calmly. “But I did not. Watch me again.” She demonstrated the lunge while he looked on. “You must learn to feel the force and direction of the blade as though it were a part of your body, controlling it precisely. Your blade moves first, propelled by your wrist and arm. Your body follows, and then, last of all, let yourself step forward. Now, you try it…”
His first attempt made her shake her head reprovingly. “Concentrate, Alon. The steel is an extra length of arm for you now, and you must treat it so. Again.”
Again.
And yet again.
Finally, on the young man’s dozenth try, his teacher nodded, satisfied. “Better! Now try to touch point to this.” She suspended Monso’s feed bag over a branch. “Aim for the center buckle.”
It took him nine attempts to touch blade to the target.
“Good! Much better!”
Alon’s tight-jawed concentration broke into a wide grin. “The next time we are accosted by soldiers, my lady, you will not stand alone!”
Eydryth smiled tolerantly at his enthusiasm. “Now for the first of the parries. Cross swords with me, so.”
Once in position, the songsmith made a small twisting motion with her wrist, and Alon’s hand was suddenly empty. He stared from it to his sword, lying on the ground, and sighed. “I see that I have much yet to learn.”