Riding with Quint is a glorious event. His horse is also Hinnani, and the two wonderful animals simply soar over the grass together, bearing their riders effortlessly. They sail through the morning sunshine, and in the Bani way Quint often laughs aloud for the sheer joy of it all. They ride for perhaps a quarter of an hour, bearing more or less south toward the port town but eschewing the road and remaining on the open grassland.
Then Quint draws up his reins, and they walk for a bit: it is clear that the horses are not at all tired, for they champ and snort, wanting their riders to know that they would gallop on forever, if only they were permitted.
“Have you seen the memorial yet?” her companion asks.
So they ride to the great memorial, a basalt pillar which stands alone out on the great wide plain. From a distance it looks small, but as they approach Thorne becomes aware of how very large it is: the three-sided tower is perhaps forty feet to a side at the base and rises at least five stories into the air.
Quint leaps off his stallion and then gallantly hands Thorne down from Bramble. They ground-tie the horses and walk in silence to the base of the monolith. When they arrive they stand silent for a moment, looking up. Quint takes Thorne’s hand: his own hand is firm and warm and strong, and an unfamiliar although not unwelcome sensation whispers through her.
There are names inscribed on the great black pillar, thousands and thousands of names, each one etched into the basalt. Quint leads her around to the far side, reaches up and unhesitatingly points at one particular name. “Your father,” he says.
And there it is: ‘Yld’Enthorn pé En’Nesthion’.
“This monument was erected after the War,” Quint says. “After much discussion it was determined that the names of all in living memory who died because of the Dark One should properly be memorialized here, not just those who died in the War itself. There were too many, of course, so in the Applian way all the names were put into a lottery, and as many drawn as could be fit onto the monument. But on this face are the names of all the princes and nobles who fell. And not just the men only. For see, Yldenthorne, here beside your father’s name is the name of Banesthion’s mother and your own mother as well.” His pointing finger moves over from her father’s name, and there are the two women, ‘Wilngania nû Wilnia’ and ‘Anathiel nû Anonciel’.
Thorne stands silent then, looking up at the names, remembering her mother’s kind eyes, her fierce stance as she trained in the courtyard of the keep, her dark red hair cascading in glorious curls down one shoulder the day she married Hengst, her bright smile flashing at Thorne as she rode off that last morning.
Thorne is brought out of her reverie by the touch of the Banon’s hand on her face: he is wiping away the tears which flow unnoticed down her face. “Now I have made you sad, my lady Yldenthorne,” he says gently. Standing very close to her, he dries her tears carefully, taking rather longer than he needs. When he is done he leads her away from the monument and draws her down onto the grass beside him.
After a time, obviously seeking something else to talk about, Quint says, “You truly did not know that I am Qu’enest’s brother?”
She shakes her head and then laughs. Clearly his Banon ways are contagious, for her sorrow has passed. “Well, Quint does not exactly sound like a Banon prince’s name, my lord!”
He laughs, too. “I shall tell you a secret, my lady Yldenthorne, if you swear to tell no one else. My full name is Prince Qui’Ntesmnon dî Qu’Banellon, although I will challenge anyone to the death who dares to call me that.”
“You always call me Yldenthorne,” Thorne protests, still laughing. “No one else does so. The others call me Thorne. Why should I not take my revenge and call you Qui’Ntesmnon?”
He shakes his head, smiling, curious, wonder-filled. He reaches out one hand and tips her face upward: his hazel eyes are gentle and kind. With his other hand, he strokes her face: forehead, cheek, chin.
“Yldenthorne is a beautiful name: it makes me think of the rivers and streams and woodlands of the north. But Thorne –” He draws his hand back suddenly as if stung. “– Thorne? Now that is dangerous and prickly!” He laughs at her affronted expression and reaches out to stroke her cheek again. “So I shall continue to call you Yldenthorne, if it please my lady, for I prefer trees to brambles!”
“Then I shall call you Qui’Ntesmnon,” she retaliates, snatching his hand playfully from her face.
She had intended to drop his hand immediately but finds herself holding on, and some mysterious shuddering thrill runs through her. He feels it too, for his eyes widen suddenly, and he gasps slightly.
“Very well, my lady,” he replies in a low serious tone. “But I beg of you, as you love me, only when we are private.” Then, releasing her hand suddenly, Quint, Banon prince of the wonderfully unpronounceable name, springs to his feet and beckons her up as well. “May I show you one further thing, my lady Yldenthorne?”
Almost in a dream, Thorne follows him back to the monument where he points out two more names, high up, almost out of sight: ‘Prince Qui’Norn dî Qu’Banellon’ and ‘Princess Qu’enarn dî Qu’Banellon’.
“My older brother and sister,” Quint says. “Those terrible wonderful twins who gave our mother such grief, who never truly recovered from our father’s death, who teased Qu’enest and Banesthion beyond all endurance, who rode and fought and loved and sang like angels. Qui’Norn was killed in the same battle in which your mother fell: they fought side by side and with their two lives bought escape that day for all the others. And Qu’enarn died in my arms here on this field, even as your brother was facing the Dark One. For our two families are linked, Yldenthorne, and linked again, in ways that continue to be revealed.” He weeps then, openly, without shame, and Thorne thinks that her heart will break.
Thorne stands beside him for a long time wishing that she dared to wipe away his tears as he had hers. But the most she risks is that, when his tears are abated, uncertainly, she takes his hand and draws him away. They go back to the horses, mount and ride on in the morning sunshine without speaking.
After a silent half hour on the grasslands, they swing more directly south and rejoin the cobbled road which leads to the port town. Dolphynia was razed to the ground when Diaz’Duinn crossed the straits that last time, and now it bustles with the vigor of an entirely new town. Like the lowest level of the Sacred City itself, Dolphynia teems with people. Holies, Hinnani, Freeans, all are there. There is even a party of Bani, solemn and elegant, who pass them. They raise their hands in silent greeting to Quint: Thorne does not know if they are acquainted with him, or if it is merely the courtesy of their race. Fishers and sailors and shipwrights give evidence that this is a seaport, as do the cry of sea gulls and the salt tang in the air.
Thorne and Quint ride down the main thoroughfare to the Castle of the Dolphins. As they go in through the castle gates Thorne has a worrisome thought.
“You’re not going to introduce me again?” she asks the Banon as they dismount.
He smiles at her, his merriness entirely restored. “You do not wish to be presented to the Lord and Lady of Dolphynia?”
She shakes her head. “Please,” she begs. “You know that I do not. Please just leave me somewhere while you do your business.”
“I cannot ‘just leave you somewhere’,” he says quite seriously, taking her arm and escorting her across the courtyard. “But I shall entrust you to the care of the castellan if that is your wish, my lady.”
Quint leaves her with a homey matronly woman who plies her with sandwiches and cake and lemon tea, talks non-stop about her grand-children and evidences no curiosity whatsoever about who Thorne is. The Banon is gone for about an hour, and when he returns at mid-afternoon he simply crooks his finger to indicate that she should come. Without speaking of his mission to the sea-port castle, he guides her out of the town again.
Soon they leave the road and veer off to the northwest, heading through more grassy plains in a wide arc which will eventually take them back to the gates of the Sacred City. When they are almost in sight of the castle walls, their way is halted by a shallow river. Before they turn westward to follow its banks, they dismount to water the horses.
What happens next occurs so quickly that it is only later, upon reflection, that Thorne is able to piece the events into a coherent whole. Quint’s horse startles at something, pulls the reins out of the Banon’s grip and gallops back eastward, spraying water as he runs down the strand, eyes rolling white and alarmed. Quint sighs and begins to walk along the grassy bank after the horse, moving slowly and calmly. But when he is almost within reach of the dangling reins, the animal prances away again, whickering in alarm.
Thorne has wit enough to take a firmer hold on Bramble; she knows that when one horse spooks, others are likely to as well.
The two Mablingen assassins, hooded, cloaked, sword-wielding, rise out of the tall grass at the water’s edge, one in front of the horse and one, terrifyingly, behind Quint. The one in front strikes the horse with a short-sword; the stallion screams once like a tortured child and then drops with a gigantic splash into the water. At the same time, before Thorne can cry a warning, the other assassin strikes Quint from behind, slashing him across his left side. A very small amount of blood flows from the Banon’s side – it is clearly only a flesh wound – and Quint whirls around to face his attacker. His eyes meet Thorne’s for a moment.
“Yldenthorne, get out of here!” he shouts as he begins to draw his sword. Then an odd glassy look comes over his eyes, and he drops to his knees, hand on the sword only halfway out of the sheath. He kneels before his assailant as though in supplication.
The assassin’s sword comes up again, slower this time, to be certain of the killing blow. Without any conscious decision to reach for it, Thorne finds her hunting bow in her hands, fits an arrow and releases. The arrow buries itself between the assassin’s shoulder blades, and the Mablingen whirls to face her. A second arrow flies – from her bow? – and the assassin drops without a sound.
The second assassin flees then, into the tall grass and away.
It would be an easy matter for Thorne to leap on Bramble and to ride him down, but she does not.
|It’s poison| says a voice in her head, and Thorne runs forward to the Banon, still kneeling piteously on the ground.
“Yldenthorne,” he says, his hand clutched to his injured side. “I am not well.” And tumbles forward into her arms.
“Quint! No, my love!” she screams desperately, holding him. Then she knows what she needs to do. “Bramble! To me!”
Uncertainly, disliking the smell of the blood, but ultimately loyal to her girl, the mare comes hesitantly.
Thorne has an idea that she will just sling the Banon up onto the saddle, but, ethereal as all Bani look, he is dead-weight in her arms, and there is no possibility that she can raise him that high. Bramble must be made to kneel, and then the unconscious Banon dragged up onto the horse’s shoulder. She permits Bramble to rise then and begins to lead the horse away from the bloody stream bank.
Through it all Thorne refuses to look directly at the man she has killed, lying on his side in the grass as though asleep, for she knows that the arrows protruding from his chest and back will give the lie to the illusion.
She thinks that she will have to lead Bramble all the way back to the City, perhaps a half hour’s walk, but after only five minutes or so of walking, a party of ten guard comes galloping out from the gates. Whether someone witnessed the attack from the vantage-point of the walls, or whether they only observed that she was walking beside an injured man, she does not know.
“Is he dead?” shouts the sergeant.
“No, no, he’s not dead, at least I don’t think so,” babbles Thorne. “There were two men; they came out of nowhere and attacked us. I think they were Mablingen. I killed one; he was going to kill Quint. The other one ran away. I should have followed, but the lord Quint is poisoned. And the horse screamed, oh, it screamed! But the man I shot did not; he was quiet –”
“Alright,” the sergeant interrupts harshly, apparently recognizing that Thorne is about to become hysterical. “You two, get them to the Healers; that’s the King’s companion there, mind, and he may well be poisoned, for the wound itself does not look so grave. The rest of you, come with me; we’ll find the other devil.”
One of the guards scoops Thorne up to ride pillion before him, the other grabs Bramble’s reins, and they make a dash for the City. The remainder of the troop gallop off toward the river.
The Infirmers’ is close inside the City gates, and when they ride onto the property, four healers immediately come spilling out of the main building. Three of them descend upon Quint and bear him inside. Thorne cries out and attempts to remain with him, but the fourth healer takes her by the arm and will not let her follow.
“They will care for him,” the woman says firmly and then escorts Thorne into the building through a different door, down a hallway and into a small sitting room. “Are you injured?”
Thorne shakes her head, unable at first to speak. Eyes wide, breath coming in short gasps, she can think now only of the Mablingen stretched out on the grass on the bank of the idyllic little river, dead by her arrows.
“Drink this,” the woman says, pressing a silver goblet into Thorne’s hand.
It looks like wine, but it must laced with some physic, for it is as bitter as poison itself. Thorne drains the cup, uncharacteristically obedient. In a moment something within her loosens, and she begins to cry great wracking sobs which shake her whole being.
The healer sits in the other chair and simply witnesses this phenomenon, making no attempt to comfort her charge. After a long time she says, “What happened?”
“I shot him,” says Thorne very calmly, as if from a great distance. “He stabbed Quint, only a scratch really, and then I put an arrow in my bow, and I shot him. Because I did not want him to stab my friend again. He turned around to face me, and I fired again; at least I think I did. I shot a deer once, in the autumn hunt, but I have never killed a person before, not even an Izokeln. I could not permit him to kill Quint, you understand.”
“Yes,” the healer says in a very ordinary voice, as though it is common-place for her patients to report having made their first kill. “Yes. I believe that I would like you to sleep now, my lady, and to think no more on this for the present. Come.”
Dreamily, Thorne follows the woman out of the little chamber, farther down the hallway and into a small bed chamber. “But I want to see Quint,” Thorne argues, bewildered. “Banesthion would not like it if I left him alone.”
“Not now, my lady,” the woman replies implacably. “The King will not mind if you sleep for a bit first. We shall care for the Banon.”
The healer removes Thorne’s boots, the belt with the hunting dagger, the bow-sling and the quiver. Thorne permits herself to be tucked into the bed as if she were a little child and at the woman’s behest obediently consumes more of the bitter drink. Then she lays her head on the pillow and knows no more.
* * * * *
Imrahlen and Baneill walk together to the postings list, and Imrahlen finds his own name and then points out Baneill’s to him. The two boys return to where Thorne is standing, and Imrahlen has an odd expression on his face.
“You have no curiosity about your own assignment?” he asks Thorne politely.
In fact, Thorne doesn’t, since she already knows perfectly well where she’s going and why so many of the postings have been changed. However, as if she needs to find out, she walks over to the list. At first she cannot find her name. Then she realizes that the squires are listed in order by the rank of the person to whom they are assigned. Her name is at the very top of the list, and beside it are simply the words ‘High King’.
She turns away, attempting to look casual: it appears that every single squire in the refectory is staring at her. A knot of older boys has gathered by the back door, and one of them breaks away and walks towards her. It is Brennat, the boy whom Kennithan took aside earlier, the boy who was supposed to be assigned to the King, the boy whom Kennithan referred to as a ‘good lad’. The boy whom Thorne has displaced.
He walks right up to her, crowding her, too close for comfort. “Who are you?” he snarls in a low voice. “Who the diaz do you think you are?”
“I’m nobody you need to concern yourself with,” Thorne replies, attempting to keep her voice light.
“Clearly you are someone, or at any rate Sir Kennithan thinks you are. He gave you my position with the King. I’ll ask once more: who are you?”
Heart pounding, Thorne attempts to push past him, but he moves to block her.
“I want an answer, Null,” he says. “That posting was mine. Mine. I worked for it for two and a half years. I earned it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Thorne says. “I take orders, the same as you. So leave me alone.”
“I don’t take orders from Nulls,” he retorts and shoves her, hard, against the wall.
“Attention!” A voice snaps suddenly. “His Majesty, Yld’Banesthion, pé Yld’Enthorn nû Wilngania, King Izschad’en’Duinn, Lord of the Sacred City, High King of Applion, friend of the Hinnath, protector of the Free Coast and liberator of Mabblen.”
Everyone turns to face the entrance to the refectory: there is the King, standing with Vash and Kennithan. As usual Banesthion looks slightly discomfited that all this fuss is being made about him. He waves his hand, releasing them, and begins to move among the squires, smiling at all, greeting a few individually. Bryna receives a quick affectionate one-armed hug, and Tanist a pat on the back. Tanisha stands red-eyed but calm beside her brother, her hair rather raggedly shorn to regulation shoulder-length. With a courtly bow, Banesthion lifts both of her delicate well-manicured little hands to his lips. Imrahlen and the King exchange regal bows, after which Banesthion’s eyes light on Thorne and Brennat standing together.
“My greetings, Brennat,” Banesthion says, clouting the boy collegially on the shoulder, and then his eyes slide on, passing over Thorne without even a glimmer of recognition.
“Brennat,” says Kennithan, after Banesthion has worked his way through all the squires, offering most of them some form of greeting or acknowledgement. “Brennat, take the order out and begin the kada drills.”
Banesthion, Kennithan and Vash withdraw back down the hall, and the whole group follows Brennat out the back door.
Unlike the fore-court, the back yard of the House of the Squires is not at all typical of a prosperous family’s residence. Most of the huge yard is bare dirt, except for the far end where there is a large wooden shed. Up near the wide porch is a well, but otherwise, the yard looks remarkably like a Keep’s practice yard.
“Gather round,” Brennat barks, and all of the squires, Thorne included, give him their attention. “My name is Brennat pé Brennoth,” he says. “And I’m Senior Squire this term. That means that when Sir Kennithan’s not around, I’m in charge.” He glares at Thorne as he says this, and her heart sinks: she has made an enemy, it appears, and one with some power. “We’re going to do batik kada drills now. Any of you new recruits know what a batik is?”
“Wooden practice swords,” Imrahlen says, sounding a little bored.
“Right,” says Brennat. He seems disappointed that Imrahlen answered his question. Thorne also imagines that he would like to take Imrahlen to task for his insolent tone, but that he doesn’t quite dare. Brennat smiles a patently false smile at the crown prince of the Free Coast and then continues: “Wood sounds pretty harmless compared to steel, and while it’s true that a batik can’t cut you, don’t think that means you can’t get hurt. A good batik is weighted to have the feel of a steel blade, and the ones we use are very good. So the right blow can break a bone or put out an eye. Now … Thorne, do we know what a kada is?”
“It’s a set series of moves designed to develop sword skills,” answers Thorne. “The kada is repetitive so that, even in the heat of battle, one’s strategies and skills are almost instinctive. ‘Kada’ is an Old Tongue word that means ‘heart-beat’. In the north we learn seven basic kadas, each more complex and longer than the previous one. The Vendani warriors I know also practice a lot of advanced ones which are more specialized for particular types of opponents, such as someone taller than you are, or a wild animal, or an Izokeln. I don’t know all of the advanced ones, but if you wanted to have a go at me I could demonstrate the one for fighting a troll.”
There is a ripple of laughter through the order, as people take in Thorne’s not-very-subtle insult.
“Brenn,” says Bryna impatiently. “These Nulls obviously have some experience. Can we just cut the lecture and get on with the practice?”
“Alright, then, grunts,” Brennat says, swinging open one of the wall panels of the shed and revealing a rack of batiks. “Think you know what you’re doing? Get a batik, and practice sparring with a partner. Recruits will not pair up with one another. If there aren’t bruises involved, you’re not working hard enough. The Child, only, the first kada. You don’t move on to Green and Gold unless a Thirty says you can. And no breaks!”
Thorne has trained with batiks before, and she pushes among the other squires to pick one that suits her. She selects a practice sword made of dark wood which seems to be the right length for her and steps out of the group to open space. A few experimental swings reveal that it is also an optimal weight, more like a real sword that the ones she has previously used.
She goes through her own personal warm-up kada once and then looks around to choose a partner.
“You and me, Thorne,” says Brennat with a disagreeable smile. “You’ll pair with me.”
The insistent northern boy Kelathiel is suddenly there, standing between her and Brennat. “I don’t think so, Brenn,” he says. “I’m the ranking Vendan. I’ll train this northern.”
Brennat glares at Kelathiel and steps away. In doing so, he delivers a gratuitous shove which the northern boy shakes off.
“Well, that was pleasant,” Kelathiel observes as Brennat stalks away. “He’s just angry because he’s not assigned to the King this term. But then he’s an ass; he’s always angry about something. I’m Kelathiel. Kel. Of Gretanor’s Keep. And you are Thorne, sponsored by Ban of Hengst’s Keep. ‘Ban’? Please. These southern fops may not know what you said, but I do. Who really sponsored you, and where are you really from? And, while you’re disclosing all, what did you do to offend Brenn so quickly? I ask the last only from a sense of admiration, you understand.”
Thorne simply does not answer. She permits herself a moment of relief that the one person in the group who knows the identity of ‘Ban of Hengst’s Keep’ appears not to know that she has been posted to the King. Apparently Kel doesn’t consider it even remotely possible that Banesthion might actually have sponsored her, and she determines not to slip up again.
“Fine,” he says after a moment. “So don’t tell me anything. I’ll find out what I want to know on my own; I always do.” He flashes her a brilliant grin and brings his batik up into ready position.
They do The Child kada then; it is a very simple exercise – thrust, parry, feint, repeat, strike, feint, parry, thrust, strike, strike – which Thorne has known for so long that she does not even remember learning it.
When they have gone through it twice, Kel brings his blade straight up before his face to indicate that he wants to stop and then raises his left hand in the air. “Thirty!” he shouts.
Bryna comes immediately, and under her watchful eye Kel and Thorne perform that most simple of kadas one more time. “Good,” she says. “Perfect. And Kel, quit wasting time; don’t call ‘Thirty’ again till you’re ready to be checked on Three Holy Brothers, will you?”
Kel salutes Bryna with his sword and comes up to ready position again.
“Wait,” says Thorne. “What’s a Thirty?”
Kel brings his blade down to the at-rest position. “A Thirty is someone who’s been a squire for thirty months. They’re the senior group – Brenn, obviously, and Bryna, ’Seth, the Wolf and Krissyn. Me, I’m a Twenty-Four, not as high on the food-chain as the Thirties, but a whole lot higher than you are, Null.”
“Oh,” says Thorne. “Brennat called me a Null. I thought he was just being insulting.”
“Well, that, too,” acknowledges Kel. “Sir Kennie holds that it’s discourteous to call someone a Null. However, I simply find it too tempting to resist.”
“Hey! You bloody northerns! Get back to work!” Brennat is striding toward them, with a look that spells trouble.
Without further speech, Kel and Thorne both bring their batiks up into ready position and begin practising again. For the next hour or so, they spar intently, working together through The Child, Green and Gold and then Three Holy Brothers as if they have been sparring partners all their lives. When they are ready to be checked again, it is Thorne who swings her free arm in the air and yells, “Thirty!”
This brings Brenn, and he watches, scowling, as the two northerns dance through all three kadas. There is a joy in sparring with Kel which makes Thorne grin, as they weave and feint and strike exactly in rhythm.
When they are done, Brenn reluctantly concedes that their work was adequate (by Thorne’s reckoning, it was perfect). But he does not permit them to begin working on Blade Takes Flight. Rather, he steps in, too close to Thorne, as he did in the refectory. “Who the diaz are you, girl?” he hisses. “For you did not learn those sword skills brawling in some rustic northern keep.”
“I’m no one,” Thorne says and steadfastly refuses to back away from him, although she would dearly like to. “I’m a Vendani keep-rat. Just another Null.”
“No,” he replies, white-lipped, furious. “You are not just a Null. You have been assigned to the King, and I want to know why. Sir Kennithan tells me nothing, the King does not even know who you are, but something is going on, and I will know it.”
At a loss, Thorne remains silent: surely he will eventually tire of questioning her if she gives him nothing to respond to. The Senior Squire glowers at her for a long, livid moment and then does indeed stalk away.
Kel begins to laugh. “Assigned to the King? Ah, Thorne, my love, you just get more interesting,” he says. “I don’t know who you are, but I am enjoying your effect on our noble Brennat more than I can say.”
They work on Blade Takes Flight for few minutes, and then Brennat calls the troop together and tells them to put away their batiks. They will be permitted a brief break and then will have an hour of Protocol Class before the nooning.
“Not Protocol,” moans Kel. “Not Protocol on the first day. May the Three save me from Protocol.”
This is clearly meant only for Thorne’s ears, but Brennat hears and comes boiling back to where Kel and Thorne stand. “You could do with some further training in courtesy, northern,” he spits at Kelathiel. “For that discourteous remark, you may go and draw water for the entire order. And you will be civil.”
Kel hands his batik to Thorne and walks off toward the well, muttering to himself.
Thorne turns away from Brenn, intending to put the two batiks away, when a hand on her shoulder stops her.
“You did not ask my leave to go,” Brennat says, his anger now a tangible presence between them. “You red oaf! I don’t know why any of you are here. Your people made no contribution in the War. Now, you will answer my questions. Or do you require additional lessoning in courtesy? Perhaps at my hand?”
Thorne has had enough. “Apostate take you, Brennat,” she says and attempts to walk past him.
Brennat snarls with rage and lunges at Thorne. His fist connects with her nose, and for a moment she is blinded with pain. The two batiks in her hands clang against each other as they fall to the ground. Then she recovers and swings back. Perhaps as a benefit of having been raised by Hengst, Thorne is entirely unafraid of being struck. She simply wades in, regardless of the fact that his fists are connecting, and begins to give as good as she is getting. The two go down together into the dust in a flurry of flailing fists.
It is a short ugly little scuffle, largely silent except for the occasional grunt. Thorne swiftly brings it to an end by landing one final, decisive punch in Brennat’s gut: he curls up, gasping for air, and ceases hitting back.
Thorne rolls away from him and staggers to her feet. Hair fallen into her eyes, blood streaming profusely from her nose, she lurches a couple of steps away to lean against the wall of the weapon shed and tips her head back in an attempt to stem the flow.
And a moment later freezes: there is a sword at her throat, not a batik, but a wickedly sharp steel blade, pressing just hard enough on her jugular to make it clear that she is in immediate mortal danger. With a careful shaking hand she pushes her hair out of her eyes. Brennat, back on his feet, panting like an animal run to ground, has drawn his sword and is holding the blade-edge against her bare skin just below the jaw. His face is an ugly mask of hatred, and his own hand is less than steady.
“Brenn,” Thorne gasps, abruptly unable to catch her breath. “Brennat, don’t do this. I’m not your enemy.” She raises both hands, slowly, cautiously, holding them palm up in plain view to show him that she is done fighting
Content © Gale Macaulay-Newcombe. All rights reserved.