6

Kaoran took down the sword on the first day of harvest.

It had stayed wrapped in cloth since Isolde arrived at the house. She saw it every morning above the fireplace and stopped asking after receiving seven different answers. The last claimed it contained a very long flute. Kaoran’s lies tended to get worse when he was enjoying himself.

That morning, he laid the bundle on the table and removed the leather ties.

The sheath was cracked. The pommel bore a bird’s mark almost erased by the years. When Kaoran drew it, a straight blade appeared, longer than frontier swords and narrower than Caleryon’s weapons.

Isolde left the barley half tied. She wiped her palms on her pants and drew the pale-handled knife from her belt. She laid it beside the sheaf.

“Why today?”

“You’ve carried twenty sheaves without your knee failing. We can see how it holds another load.”

Isolde reached out.

“Short trials,” Kaoran added. “You stop when your arm starts compensating for your leg.”

She nodded, though she had heard only part of the condition. The sheath, pommel, and that length of metal returned a familiar space to her. With her body, she could trace a form from before the winter.

Kaoran offered her the grip.

Isolde took it in her right hand. The weight pulled the point down. She adjusted her thumb, raised the guard, and felt her body recognize a stance learned years ago. Left foot forward. Right shoulder back. Her weak hand needed to close around the pommel to guide changes of direction.

Her middle and ring fingers couldn’t reach around it.

“The strap,” she said.

Kaoran laid a leather strip on the table.

Isolde secured her left hand. The weapon sat firmly between both. She advanced in a short thrust. The blade followed the right line, but her front leg gave way under her weight. She had to turn her foot outward to keep her balance.

“Again,” she said.

She repeated it. The edge cut the air with a familiar whistle. The second movement called for a turn from the hip. The scar stopped the rotation. Her shoulder tried to compensate, and the point veered away.

Kaoran leaned a staff against the wall.

“What are you doing?”

“The fourth form of the Royal Guard.”

“Where should the point finish?”

“Under the edge of a shield. Here.”

Isolde indicated a mark on the table. The blade had passed above it.

“Your shoulder tried to finish the turn,” Kaoran said.

She set herself again. Before, she could have corrected that distance with her heel. Her left foot took her weight and began to turn outward.

“I feel it,” she said, lowering the weapon before he intervened.

Kaoran pointed to the yard. He had planted seven willow switches at different heights. Some moved in the wind. Others were sheltered behind posts and stones.

“Cut them,” he said.

Isolde went out with the sword.

The first switch stood at chest height. She made a diagonal cut. The blade passed a finger’s width above it. She adjusted the distance and hit it on her second try, though the willow bent without breaking.

“The edge is bad,” she said.

Kaoran took the sword, cut the same switch with a minimal turn, and handed the weapon back.

Isolde attacked the second. This time, the blade cut through the wood. The impact pulled at her left hand, and her fingers opened inside the strap. The pommel turned. The point dropped toward the ground.

The third switch required a lower stance. Isolde bent both knees. The left held on the way down and failed as she rose. She ended with a hand on the ground.

“I can do it with my right,” she said.

She released the strap and wielded the sword one-handed. It was too long. Its weight delayed every recovery. She cut the third switch with force, grazed the fourth, and missed the fifth.

Kaoran still stood beside the door.

“Say something.”

“You’re tiring your shoulder.”

“I know that.”

“So does the sword.”

Isolde attacked the sixth switch. It stood behind a low stone. She had to change direction halfway through her advance. Her left foot dragged for a fraction of a second. The blade struck the post and took a nick.

She stared at the metal. She remembered how easy it had been to look for Darian among those watching her train and find his attention already on her.

Sometimes that memory still held the pleasure of feeling desired; at other times, it showed her a man learning which foot she withdrew first. She struggled to hold both things without one devouring every moment of the other.

She straightened despite the pull in her side. Kaoran remained beside the door, and the switches waited where he had planted them. Isolde searched his face for a judgment she could fight.

“The sword works,” Kaoran said.

Isolde clenched her jaw.

“Take the staff.”

“The switches are still there.”

“I want to try against someone who moves.”

“Your shoulder has started to drop.”

“Take the staff.”

Kaoran took it. He walked to the center of the yard and settled into a relaxed stance, the wood at hip height.

“One clean touch,” Isolde said.

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

“That makes the ground rather broad.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Of breaking the lunch pot.”

Kaoran moved the pot off the bench and returned to the yard.

Isolde attacked first.

The sword descended toward his shoulder. Kaoran took half a step. The staff brushed the guard and altered the cut enough for it to pass beside him. Isolde turned with the blade. The scar stopped her body. Kaoran touched her wrist before she completed the movement.

“One,” he said.

“That doesn’t count.”

“Your wrist disagrees.”

Isolde changed her stance. She put her right foot forward to protect the weak leg and attacked with a thrust. Kaoran drew his hip back, deflected the blade with the staff, and pushed against the guard.

Her left hand slipped free of the strap.

The sword fell.

“Again,” Isolde said.

“You’ve lost the weapon.”

“I’ll pick it up.”

“In a fight, someone else would pick it up first.”

Isolde took the sword.

“Again.”

The second bout lasted longer. She shortened her cuts, protected her wrist, and forced Kaoran back two steps. When he went for her left leg, Isolde shifted her weight right and attacked his open side.

The staff came down.

Kaoran blocked near the guard. Isolde pushed both weapons down and tried to move in on his exposed side. Her left foot slipped. The wood, which Kaoran was withdrawing, caught her scar.

Pain closed her chest.

“We stop,” he said.

Isolde saw his hand reach forward. She had asked to be watched holding a sword, and she was falling again before the same man who had pulled her from the river. She gripped the hilt to keep that from escaping her too.

The core opened.

A line of fire ran along the sword from hilt to point. Kaoran dropped the staff and caught Isolde’s wrist.

“Close your hand.”

“Let me go.”

“The blade is carrying the fire into the ground.”

Isolde saw the red glow inside the nick. The old metal responded like a confluence root. Flame descended to the dry grass at the yard’s edge.

“I can control it.”

She drew the energy back toward herself.

The fire returned along the blade with too much force. Isolde opened her hand. The sword fell onto a sheaf of barley.

The ears caught fire.

Kaoran pushed them aside with the staff. The wind took the flames toward the planted field. An orange strip crossed the first furrow before Isolde could stand.

“The ditch!” Kaoran shouted.

He ran for the sluice gate.

Isolde extended both hands. She searched for the edge of the fire, the part she could draw away without feeding it. She had contained small flames for months. This one moved over hundreds of dry stalks, and every ear opened another mouth.

“Three,” she told herself.

The air came in with smoke.

She coughed.

The fire reached the second furrow.

Isolde called to the heat. The flames leaned toward her. For an instant, she thought they obeyed. Then the barley between the two points caught all at once. The flare forced her to cover her face.

Kaoran opened the sluice gate. Water ran down the side ditch and reached a trench blocked by roots. The channel overflowed far from the fire.

“The shovel!” he shouted.

Isolde grabbed the tool beside the barn. Her knee failed as she ran. She rolled over her shoulder, protected her head, and got up again. The training kept her from losing more time.

Kaoran cut roots inside the trench. Isolde drove the shovel into the earth and opened an outlet. Water advanced two steps. The mud absorbed some, so they widened the channel with their hands.

Bruma battered the stable door.

Smoke had entered.

Isolde ran to the mare. She opened the latch, covered Bruma’s eyes with a blanket, and led her to the well. The small animals shrieked in the coop. She released the hens and opened the goats’ enclosure.

A spark fell on the barn roof.

Isolde smothered it with her palm. The fire bit her skin before recognizing her. Another spark landed higher up.

“Kaoran!”

“Hold the roof. I’ll open the trench.”

The field burned from the yard to halfway down the slope. The flames advanced toward the pines. If they reached the woods, Nydel would see a column of smoke, and the house would lose all cover.

Isolde climbed onto the barn roof. Her leg found every rung. She spread a wet blanket over the shingles and crushed the embers. Heat came through her boots.

From above, she saw the fire’s path. The main line followed the wind. A second sought the fallen stalks beside the wall. The opened ditch could stop the first if the water reached it. The second would circle the house.

“The west wall!” she shouted.

Kaoran looked. He understood.

He hitched the plow to Bruma and opened the enclosure. The mare resisted the smoke. Isolde climbed down from the roof, took the bridle, and rested her forehead against Bruma’s.

“We’ll cross once,” she said. “Then I’ll take you to the water.”

Bruma snorted. Her eyes were still covered. Isolde pulled the bridle while Kaoran guided the plow. They crossed the stalks ahead of the second line. Black earth opened beneath the plowshare. The flames reached the furrow and lost their fuel.

A burst of burning seeds fell around them.