Something hot stirs low in my gut. I swallow hard. “Ilsevel—”
“I’m sorry!” She laughs again and takes the weapon from me. “I promise I’ll be good. Go on, warlord. Teach me.”
There is much to be understood about Licornyn swordship while one’s feet are planted firmly on the ground, before one can safely wield it from the back of a licorneir. Ilsevel, dismounted and appearing that much smaller and frailer as a result, looks strange to my eye as she tests the balance of my sister’s blade.
“It is called thevaritar,” I explain, demonstrating to her how it is to be held. “That would translate to ‘hand and ahalf’ in your tongue. It is meant to be borne one-handed, but with length enough in the hilt for a double grip should need arise.”
She tests her own hands on the leather-wrapped hilt, making an awkward, experimental swing. “Something tells me your big paws wouldn’t both fit.”
“No,” I acknowledge, “but that sword was made for my sister and should suit you well enough.”
“This is your sister’s sword?”
“Yes.”
“Gods spare me, Taar, don’t you think she hates me enough as it is?”
“I will see to it that you’re outfitted with your own weapon before we ride from the Hidden City,” I assure her, and go on to show her the correct stance. We find the percussion point of her blade, and I demonstrate how best to angle her stroke with that point in mind so as to cause the least reverberation through her arm. Then we begin a series of attacks.
“Tomorrow, I’ll provide a dummy,” I tell her as she goes through the rhythm, her muscles unaccustomed to the motion and strain. “You’ll need to get used to the feeling of contact.”
She flashes me a quick glance. I can see the unspoken question in her eye: will she be expected to hack at an enemy as she even now hacks at thin air? I hope the answer is no—but she needs to be prepared, nonetheless.
Diira and Elydark wander off together while Ilsevel continuesthe forms. The sun is high, and though the air is cool enough, the exertion causes sweat to break out across her forehead. Soon her Licornyn garments begin to cling in interesting places, and I find myself more and more distracted, thevelraglowing brighter, and that warm lump in the pit of my gut churning hotter.
She finishes a series of strokes, turns, and catches me staring. Her eyes brighten. She points thevaritarat me, staring along the length of the blade. “How now, warlord?” she asks, panting slightly. “Am I going to have to fend you off at sword-point?”
A dark laugh rumbles in my throat. “You could never.”
She waggles the blade slightly. “Want to find out?”
I don’t even draw my own sword. I step swiftly toward her, and her eyes widen. She backs away awkwardly. “Use what you’ve learned,” I growl.
She adjusts her two-handed grip and widens her stance. When I take another step, she moves into first form, swinging her blade at my neck. The bracer on my forearm is more than adequate to deflect the sharp edge. My eyes don’t shift from hers. She firms her jaw, takes another swing, which I deflect with equal ease.
“This is hardly encouraging,” she mutters, backing away once more.
“Do it again,” I say.
We go through every form she’s learned, one after the other in quick succession. I catch each blow with my bracer, but she is getting faster already, more sure of her strokes. What might shehave been if she’d begun training early, like a Licornyn child? Might a formidable warrior have been carved from that petite frame of hers? As it is, when I consider what it will mean to bring her with me into the hell that must take place around the citadel, my blood runs cold.
She goes for a lunge—not a Licornyn move and not in keeping with the angle and rhythm I have taught her, but quick enough she manages to tap the flat of her blade against my hip. I look down in some surprise then slowly drag my gaze along the length of her blade back to her face. I raise my eyebrows.
She grins. “I was given some rudimentary training alongside my brother when I was small,” she says. “Until Mother put a stop to it.”
I grunt in acknowledgement. Then, quicker than thought, I knock her sword to one side, step forward, and grab her by the back of her head, drawing her roughly toward me. I look down into her eyes, breathing hard. “Will you ever cease to surprise me?” I ask, my voice a low rumble.
“I should hope not.” She smiles, and her gaze drops to my lips. “I surprise myself often enough.”
I can taste her—the sweetness of her, right there on my lips, on the tip of my tongue. A great, gnawing hunger opens inside me, and for a moment, I am so ravenous, I could forget even the burning cut on my palm from that blood-oath I swore with Halaema. I want to forget. So badly.
“Go on, warlord,” Ilsevel whispers. “My defenses are down.You’ve earned your prize, haven’t you? Take it.”
The blood in my loins surges deliciously. I need her, right here, right now, beneath the watching eye of the sun. But some small, desperate voice of reason claws at the back of my brain. “If the elders find out . . .”
“How would they?” She rises on her toes, closing the distance between our mouths. “Who’s going to tell them? Not Elydark. Not Diira. There’s no one else to see us, not for miles.”
Even as she says it, however, I become painfully aware of another pair of eyes. Eyes I myself put on watch, lurking in the trees.
