The 12th Day of Lumord, 1251

Polished steel glinted through the market, and Alea followed it through the crowd. She recognized Wes in the rear of the stall, watching, amused as Arman juggled three daggers in a silver blur. After a few turns, he laid them aside with a flushed grin. His eyes caught Alea's and he waved. “I am glad you didn’t change your mind.”

“You expected me to?”

He grinned at her barb and nodded in the direction of the Outer Edge. “Shall we?”

Keeping up with Arman stretched her muscles, and by the time they arrived, she was almost warm. The barns that served as training halls lay behind the market, bordered by the stone-walled fields to the north and east. She followed him through the door, nervous.

Sawdust piled on the floor and a shed in the back held worn weapons. Targets hung in a row on one wall, opposite a line of straw dummies. Arman beckoned her to a bench where he handed her a bow and wrist guard. “I thought we could start with the bow. You don’t need to be close to do damage.” He showed her how to fasten the wrist guard. “This protects your skin from the string.” He handed her the bow and sat beside her to explain how to string the weapon. “Loop it over in a fluid motion. Slowly, though.”

After several attempts, she succeeded, and she grinned back at him. The motion was awkward and far from fluid, but it was a start.

“Now again.” Arman instructed her several more times before finally pointing to a target. “Are you ready?”

Alea's heart pounded in her throat. She took a steadying breath and rose. Arman stood next to her, another bow at his belt. “Which is your strong hand?” When she held up her right, he gestured to her legs. “Stand with your left leg forward, right back. They should be the same distance as your shoulders. Toes farther forward.”

She felt foolish. “Arman, my body’s not made for this.” Her face flushed at his amused look.

“Having a slight build is better for archery.” He paused, concern and uncertainty filling his gaze. “Do you wish to stop?”

Alea looked at her hand. Warm wood weighed in her palm. The world you adhere to is gone, she reminded herself, This is your new one. Facing the target, she resumed her stance.

“Good. Hold the bow in your left hand—it’s more precise and your right has the strength to draw the string.”

She pulled back the string a few times, letting Arman adjust her grip to her first two fingers. Her shoulder and back ached. After an hour her arm shook, but she drew the bow smoothly.

Arman stopped her as she raised the weapon again. “You're shaking. Starting slow is best, and you're doing well. Do you want to try again tomorrow?”

A tiny smile flitted across her face. “I think I would. Are you coming back to the inn?”

Arman helped her unstring the bow and put it away properly. “I'm meeting Kam and Wes. I can meet you here at the same time tomorrow, though.”

Sureness strengthened her steps back to the inn. Burning muscles lit inspiration in her mind and neglected pride uncurled in her chest.

She smiled, lifting her face to smell winter on the wind.

Φ

The 26th Day of Valemord, 1251

Black, naked branches replaced gold and crimson leaves in the two weeks since Alea began training. Even the sunlight lacked warmth, and Alea arrived at the training hall early to warm up after the cold walk. Doffing her cloak, she noticed a circle of men at the opposite end of the hall. Two in the center grappled with bare hands. She watched from just inside the door, curious. After a moment she recognized one fighter's blonde curls. Hand-to-hand combat was something she never saw, though she heard brawls from her rooms.

Arman's forearm swept up into his opponent's neck. How don’t they kill each other? The heavier, older man ducked under the swing and drove a fist between Arman's shoulder blades. Arman rolled with the blow and came up spinning, hands already guarding. He allowed the next strike to pass then swung an arm across to unbalance the man, a punch going to the lower ribs. When they stepped apart, Arman saw her watching. He shook arms with the man and stepped from the circle, another taking his place.

Arman grabbed a rag from a bench, wiping sweat from his face and neck before going to her. “Afternoon.”

She greeted him, looking pointedly at the floor. Sunamen were never seen out of day clothes by any but their spouses.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded, her gaze not moving from the sawdust. “I dislike so much...” she waved her hand in his direction, “skin.”

He choked back a laugh and pulled on his shirt, rolling the sleeves up. “Forgive me. Our women often see us in various stages of undress. Most swim nude.” He nodded in the direction of the men still wrestling. “There are a few holds and hold-breaks you could learn, you know.” He grinned wickedly. “Clothed, of course.”

She glared. “I'm sorry if my people's choice to protect themselves from the desert sun offends you.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Of course, milady. Jesting aside, though, not all attackers are considerate enough to stay in bow range. Every woman I know uses hold-breaks to dissuade persistent advances.”

Memories of many of the household women's last minutes flashed through her mind and she winced. “Teach me, please.” She followed him to a cleared section of floor.

“They’ll likely grip you by the arms or hair.” He moved slowly, showing her where an assailant might grab. He made her act as the attacker first, show how he could loosen her grip long enough to pull free.

When she mimicked him, her movements were indecisive, and she winced each time she twisted his arms.

“Be firm.” He showed her how to form a good fist. “Use their weight and balance to your advantage. Move forward, as if your block was a blow itself.”

She felt foolish when he moved her fingers into a better position, but her blow sent him back a pace. She laughed and returned to a ready stance.

“Confidence is everything in a fight. Now try again.” Arman's hands flashed forward, grabbing both her wrists and tugging slightly.

Sickly sweet blood soured the desert air. The oasis was dark, and the screams pierced the night. A soldier yanked her arms. Merahn lay a few paces away, eyes wide and blank, pregnant belly drenched in blood. Alea's head spun and a voice shouted at her, though the words were incoherent.

She was aware of gentle arms around her shoulders and a low voice. “You’re safe. You’re here with me. It's Arman. You're in Vielrona.” His murmured litany wormed through her frenzied thoughts.

She opened her eyes. She crumpled to the training hall floor and Arman crouched before her. After a moment she pulled away. Panic still hitched her breath and spurred her pulse. “I was in Cehn. There was a soldier, and Merahn—” Her voice broke and Arman shushed her gently.

“Can you stand?” When she nodded, he helped her up.

“Wardyn, you set?” one of the men called.

“Set. Just a rough move,” he called back.

She heard mutters about noble women, but Arman's excuse helped her ignore the worst. She let him keep his arm over her shoulder until they were out of the hall, then stepped away. Contact made her skin crawl in the wake of violent memories. Silence reigned as they returned to the inn. The crowd in the common room was growing, but Arman settled her at a table in the corner.

“If you can't eat that's fine, but I think Ma's tea would settle you a bit.”

“Tea would be good. And maybe one of those meat, bread things I helped her bake this morning. A small one though. My stomach is flipping.” She closed her eyes and willed a calm mask onto her features. Her walls were not as sturdy as she hoped.

Arman returned a minute later with a tray of meat pastries and two mugs of tea. He sat across from her and set the tray between them. After she took several deep sips of her tea he peered at her. “I’ve fought since I could run, practically. Kam’s damn near the only man in the city smaller than me. So, I picked fights with any lad—the bigger and wider the better.”

A small smile curled Alea's mouth and she began to pick at her pastry. Conjuring an image of a young Arman scrapping in the street was easy.

Arman grinned. “At any rate, I picked the wrong man one night. Kam was working, so I was alone, and this man had friends. I thought they’d never stop. My ribs cracked, my nose broke so badly I couldn't breathe through it. One forearm bent the wrong way and my leg was fractured. I don't remember most of the blows. Lying in a gutter, with the rain and scummer from the Upper privies, though? I remember that. I knew I'd die there.”

Alea forgot her food. The irregular line of Arman's nose showed where it healed crooked. Surprise arched her brows. Men usually told of their bravery, not being beaten into sewer run-off.

“My Pa found me, finally, and brought me home. It took a long time before I stopped having dreams of dying in the streets. I still dislike the dark.” He pushed his hand across the table to rest beside hers. “What you experienced was a thousand-fold worse. It’ll haunt you, even when you're awake.” He looked down. “I just wanted you to know you're not the only one.”

She looked down. “Thank you.” Nervous determination creased her brow. “I want to learn, Arman. I need to. I can’t stay weak.”

“Cehn's attack doesn’t make you weak.” He interjected. “But I’d like to continue teaching you. Tomorrow we’ll go slower.” After a moment he smiled. “I'll never speak to you again if you tell anyone that story.”

She laughed. “You have my word. I am sure you’ve never been bested since then.”

He stuck out his chest dramatically. “Not even by giants!” The conversation lifted. Arman asked careful questions about her life in Cehn. Familiar words rolled from her tongue, bringing pain, but also peace.

In the following days, Arman added half an hour of hand defense to her lessons. Instead of grabbing her, he showed her how to align the bones and muscles of her body to move him farther. He explained how most defenses could become attacks. Even gruff advice from the other patrons helped.

Exhilaration joined strength and clarity. Deep within, an unnamed shadow grew stronger too.

Φ

The 28th Day of Valemord, 1251

Alea glanced around at the myriad lanterns. “What exactly is this a festival for?”

Arman frowned. “You know, I honestly can't remember.” Wes already waited at their stall, Kam and a young woman perched beside him. Arman grinned and ushered her over to the others. “You know Kam and Wes. This is Veredy Cordyn.”

Alea's smile was nervous and wide as she hurried over. She offered her hand to the blond. “Well met, Miss Cordyn.”

The other woman laughed. “Please, Veredy is fine. Now that we're all here shall we find some supper?”

They stepped into the street, leaving Wes to mind the stall. Veredy fell into step beside Alea. Wood smoke and cooking meat thickened the air and spilled ale and sauces made the cobbles sticky. Alea pointed out a vendor selling roasted shell peas, but Arman made a face.

“You dislike peas?”

Arman waved her comment away. “It's a bad tale.”

Kam pounced on the opportunity. “Who are we to deny a lady entertainment?” He grinned and sidled up to Alea. “We were celebrating my twelfth birthday—”

“Fourteenth, you could barely hold a pint when you were twelve,” Arman interrupted. “If you must tell her, make it the truth.”

“Like you could hold any more.” Kam sighed. “We were celebrating a birthday and decided to visit as many taverns as was possible and still be able to walk home.”

“They carried Kam,” Veredy pointed out.

Alea hid her smile. “I'm sure he made a valiant effort.”

“Anyways, the roads were wobbly, and we chose to nap in the root cellar of Master Megurdy's tavern.”

“Since Kam was enamored with Megurdy's eldest daughter,” Arman pointed out, steering them past the offending pea stand and toward alternate supper options.

“Wes bet Arman, here, that he couldn't eat a whole basket of shell peas sitting on the cellar shelves. He did just that and won the two silver.”

Arman tried to interject, but Kam swatted him with his hat. “We were too tossed to notice the peas sported great lengths of this marvelously pink fuzz-mold. Needless to say, Arman was ill for three days and has been unable to eat the things since.”

Alea's stomach ached from laughing. “Truly?”

Arman shook his head at his own foolery. “Sadly, while Kam may exaggerate, it’s true.” They turned the corner onto the broad market street lined with food vendors. Alea gestured to a stall selling desert hare and cacti—one of her favorites from Cehn. “What of this?”

Kam shrugged. “I've never tried it, but I'm willing.” He shouldered Alea playfully and she realized he was shorter than she. “You promise not to poison me?”

“Ver and I’ll get Wes's and our supper from Ferrin's smoke pit,” Arman called over his shoulder. “Meet you at the stall!”

Alea helped Kam pick what to try. Wooden trays piled with dripping food balanced in their hands as they made their way back to the corner. She glanced back to the stall where the others stopped. Arman watched their food cook. Veredy leaned against his shoulder.

“You must have a thousand stories from when you were younger,” Alea said wistfully as they made their way back to Wes.

Kam laughed. “I often wonder how we've not had our thumbs taken for stealing.”

Alea stabbed a bit of hare with her wooden pick. “You seem to be less rowdy now. Perhaps not you.” She trailed off.

Kam glanced at her and realized she was jesting. He grinned. “It was Arman's doing. He was careless and rough—never held to one girl, always wanting to be free of the city. When his father died something changed. Overnight he became devoted to the work left behind and to making a future with Veredy. He's rarely even drunk now.”

Alea looked over at Arman. He was engrossed in whatever Veredy described, a bite of food poised, forgotten, on his knife. So, she's promised to him. Memories ached in her chest. “They’re lucky.”