Tassa returns and looks down her nose at me. “Why are you not yet mounted?”
I flush. I don’t care for her to see the way Diira must kneel in order for me to get into the saddle. I can manage a horse well enough with a mounting block, but though Diira is small for a licorneir, she’s still much too tall for my human frame.
Tassa says nothing, however, until Diira rises gracefully from her knees. Then shortly: “Well?”
“Well what?” I ask.
“Come at me!”
I set my teeth. Singing to Diira, I urge her around and trot some yards away to line up our attack. The song of her experience moves through my bones, lending me more confidence, perhaps, than I fully merit. It would be better if she took over the matter entirely, but she continues to submit to me and my will. I have to wonder at that. Why should these ancient beings of starlight and spirit allow themselves to be in any way subjugated to riders who are so vastly their inferiors? Yet I feel nothing but eagerness and love radiating from Diira’s soul, no frustration at my ignorance or frailty.
I know enough to charge at Tassa’s left side so that I may strike a blow on my right rather than reaching over Diira’s head. My licorneir puts on a burst of speed, her body elegantly collected—neck arched, chin tucked, power evenly distributed both fore and hind. Tassa and her gelding look suddenly small, and a surge of eager viciousness rises in my heart. How dearly I should love to teach her a lesson! Catching my spirit, Diira throws back her head and trumpets a war cry. I feel suddenly and with a dart of terror how very unmatched the two of us—I with my single afternoon’s worth of lessons, and my licorneir, who has possibly bonded with many generations of Licornyn warriors over the years.
There’s no time to dwell on this thought, however. Already we bear down on Tassa and her mount. The gelding shifts nervously where it stands, but his rider sits like stone. She doesn’t even raise that stick of hers in defense. Suddenly conscious of the sharp blade I wield, I pull my stroke at the last moment, missing Tassa by a foot. We streak on by, slow, turn, and face her once more. She looks positively bored.
“Are you afraid?” she asks coldly.
“Of hurting you, yes.”
“You won’t hurt me, bride of my brother.”
The confidence in her tone incenses me more than any taunts or jibes. I urge Diira into another charge, brandishing my weapon. This time when I swing, I go for it. And miss entirely. My timing was all wrong. I curse soundly as Diira carries me on.
“Keep swinging!” Tassa shouts after me. “Assume you’re charging through a host, not dueling.”
Though frustration burns in my gut, I do as I’m told, performing the strokes at invisible enemies. I try to imagine the reverberation in my arm, but it’s impossible. I need to make solid contact with something if I’m going to learn.
Sweat pours down my face and neck when Diira and I turn back to look at Tassa. She, of course, is fresh and utterly cool. Gods-damn her.
Trust me, Vellara,Diira sings into my mind.Move with me. Let the song flow through you, don’t try to control it.
I’m not entirely certain whatsonghas to do with combat. It seems to me to be all about timing and muscle and control. But I sing back a wordless affirmative, and we go again. This time when we make a pass, I try to feel Diira’s song. I feel the rhythm of her hooves and begin to sense other rhythms as well—air and breath, blades of grass, clouds passing overhead. The turn and tilt of Tassa’s head as she watches me come, the heave of her gelding’s sides. All these subtle harmonies, intricately connected in a complex symphony of life and being.
I aim my blow. And this time . . . Gods above,thistime, Tassa brings her stick up to deflect it! It’s just a slight movement, but it’s something. I actually made her work.
A triumphant whoop rips from my lips, even as Diira carries me by. Tassa’s voice barks behind me, ordering me to performthe second and third strokes. I comply with enthusiasm, and when Diira turns about once more, I point my blade at my new instructor, eyes sparkling with delight.
Tassa’s lip curls. Then she says: “Again.”
We drill for another few hours before Tassa finally gives me leave to tumble off my licorneir’s saddle and collapse in the grass. I lay where I fall, panting, staring up at the distant sky.
After some while a shadow falls across me. I squint up at Tassa, who drops a waterskin beside my head. “Drink up,” she says.
I gratefully pour water into my mouth. It isn’t ilsevel-purified, but I’m so parched I don’t really care. I drink until the skin is drained, then lie there, droplets on my face. Every bone in my body aches.
Tassa takes a seat close beside me. She is silent for some while. Is she winded at all? Not even a little bit.
“They will slaughter you at Evisar,” she says at last.
“Probably,” I acknowledge. “But just think . . . I might make them flinch first.”
She shoots me a severe look. “Do you care so little for your life, human? Have you no one back in your own world whom you love?”
An image of a burnt prayer veil tangled in ashen limbs flashes across my mind’s eye. I shake it away and prop up on myelbows, gazing out across the grassy sweep of country. Almost unconsciously I draw Diira’s song around me, that song of healing which we share together at all times. There’s still so much guilt in both our hearts—my loss of Aurae, hers of Ashika. But in each other we have found harbors of forgiveness. And renewal.
At last I admit: “Not anymore.”
“So,” Tassa muses, “you throw your lot in with the desperate Licornyn.” She is silent again for a little while before adding, “And my brother? Is he a distraction from your own emptiness?”
