“Friend Niel, I will not tellDoanPaolo you have said this,” the man told him. “He would find it a great insult to his reputation. This is the finest school of swordsmen in Cirancia, perhaps the world. That is payment for today’s class only. But youwillneed better clothes, before you return. There is a tailor in the market who might help you. Ask for Mastro Faldine.”
Niel stared at him, heart thumping, and slowly closed his fingers around the coins.
“I’ll get clothes,” Niel promised.
“And tomorrow, we will arrange that the wood-worker comes, so you can speak to him of swords after your classes.”
“Alright,” Niel said hoarsely. His fist was so tight the coins were cutting into his skin. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Odilon,” the swordsman said. “Perhaps one day you will honor me to spar?”
“Yes. Any day,” Niel said. “I would… I cannot thank you enough.” His eyes felt like they were burning. Drat it all, if he started tearing they’d probably take the job back.
“Go,” Odilon said softly, his forehead furrowed. “Come back tomorrow, no later than the first bell. And someday, friend Niel, perhaps you will tell me how a grand master came to be here, like this.”
Niel nodded sharply and turned to leave. He hadn’t made it two steps out of the school before he broke into a run, grinning, overflowing with the news, and desperate to tell her their troubles were over.
The Welcome
Ayla leaned precariously over the empty cradle, a nail pinched between her lips and a hammer in her right hand. Bracing herself upright against the wall—she was liable to topple forwards otherwise, with only a month left in her pregnancy—she tapped the nail into the mortar between two bricks. Dust and small crumbs of debris fell with each hit.
“Drat,” Ayla muttered. She’d need to clean that. Well, at least the nail was in. She braced both hands against the wall, the hammer still curled in her right fist, and tried to push herself upright.
“Here,” Niel said, appearing behind her and quickly striding over. “What are you doing?”
“I could’ve managed,” Ayla said, as he helped her off the wall and took the hammer from her.
“Doubtlessly,” he agreed. “But why didn’t you ask me to help?”
“Can you hang that?” she asked, and pointed at the small, cloth-wrapped object she’d set on the side table. “Carefully,” Ayla added, as he reached to pick it up.
He unwrapped it, and stared down at the small glass evergreen tree in his hand, no bigger than his palm. She’d threaded string through a loop in the top so they could hang it beside the cradle, with just enough gap between the wall and the railing that it wouldn’t fall inside if the nail gave out.
She couldn’t read his expression.
“It’s not for a Blackfell fir,” she said quickly. “But I wanted something northern, and I didn’t want stilder berries, and I didn’t think you’d want a dragon. And it would be hard, anyways, trying to make a dragon.” Their child would technically be of Mount Eyron, an heir to the Arevon dynasty. But none of that would matter here in Cirancia.
“You made this?” Niel’s eyes finally left the tree and found hers. Ayla nearly laughed at the awed look on his face. She braced her back with one hand and shrugged.
“It wasn’t too hard.”
“It’s beautiful.” He carefully threaded his finger into the loop of string and went to hang the tree on the wall. “And he finally let you work with the glass. Why didn’t you say so?”
“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Ayla said. “Anyways, Mastro Gante made me pay for the time, and the materials. He surely thought I’d make a mess of things.”
Niel stepped back to admire the way the tree looked. Ayla glanced around, taking in the whole room. It had been transformed, from the cool clay and brick chamber into a cozy nursery. There was a rug on the floor, and a plush chair beside a short bookshelf that so far only held one book in their own language; even with Niel’s teaching, books were expensive, and those from Enar were rare here.
“Well, he must have been impressed,” he said.
Ayla shrugged. The tree was quite simple, really, though she did think she’d done a good job on the points of the boughs, and she’d etched in a few lines of needles to give it texture.
“He said I could come back and work the glass, if I’d like.”
“That’s wonderful,” Niel said. He looked at her, and seemed to read her uncertainty. Niel’s brow furrowed. “That’s what you wanted, right?”
“Yes,” she said, without hesitating. And then: “it was. I don’t know.”
Niel watched her patiently, brow still furrowed. Ayla sighed, and lowered herself into the chair, sinking into the plush gratefully.
