by Jenna Glass
Kailee laughed lightly, helping herself to a seat across from Mairah. She leaned conspiratorially across the table, dropping her voice. “If anyone asks, I’ve kindly offered to tutor you in Continental so you don’t have to feel so isolated here. I’ve always had an ear for languages. I can speak Mountain Tongue as well, although I’m told my accent is amusing. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard Mountain Tongue in Khalpar, but it’s full of sounds my throat has trouble making.”
Mairah shared a mystified look with Norah, having no idea what to make of all this.
“Er, that’s very kind of you, Lady Kailee,” Mairah stammered.
“Miss Kailee still,” she corrected. “I’m to be married in two weeks’ time, but I’m not a Lady yet. I suppose they really are keeping you cut off or you’d probably have heard of me by now. I’m the granddaughter of the late King Linolm of Rhozinolm, and I’m here to marry Lord Tynthanal, who is Princess Alysoon’s brother.”
“I see.”
“And if you could speak Continental, you’d probably have heard already that I am blind.” She pointed at her milky eyes. “I’m not being intentionally rude by keeping my Mindseye open while speaking with you.”
It was only then that Mairah noticed the unusual flap of peach silk fabric attached to the underside of Kailee’s fashionable hat.
As if she could see the direction of Mairah’s gaze, Kailee reached up and pulled the little veil down, covering her eyes. “My stepmother would be furious if she knew I was walking around without this, but everyone has assured me that here in Women’s Well, the sight of my eyes will not offend. So I’ve been enjoying the little freedoms that offers me.” She tucked the veil back up under the hat again, then cocked her head and seemed to be studying whatever she could see of Mairah through her Mindseye. “The only person I’ve ever met from Khalpar until now was the tutor who taught me Parian, and he was so extremely tiresome that I felt I must meet another, lest I assume everyone from Khalpar was just like him.”
Mairah was surprised to find herself smiling. The girl’s good cheer was infectious, though a disapproving cough from Norah suggested the old woman was not so easily charmed—which only made Mairah like Kailee more. Mairah imagined Norah found Kailee too forward for her stodgy tastes.
“Then I shall endeavor not to be tiresome,” Mairah replied, shooting a droll look in Norah’s direction, “though there are those who would consider ‘tiresome’ too complimentary a term for me.”
Kailee laughed, and Norah scowled. “In which case you and I are destined to become fast friends,” Kailee said. “My stepmother calls my loquaciousness tiresome at least once a day, and has a selection of sharper terms to use for variety.”
“It is very kind of you to offer to teach us,” Norah said, making only a token attempt at courtesy, “but we have a great deal of important work to do and cannot afford to waste our time with frivolity. We will have no need to speak Continental when we return to our abbey, and we can make do with what we know while we are here.”
“Nonsense!” Kailee said cheerfully, drawing a gasp of outrage from the old woman. “The best way to learn a new language is to immerse yourself in it.” She said something in Continental that Mairah did not catch, then switched back to Parian. “I just said that I need not interrupt your work to tutor you. I need merely speak to you and allow you to ask me questions in return.”
Mairah would have loved nothing more than to accept the offer—especially in light of Norah’s opposition—but despite the girl’s infectious charm, Mairah knew better than to take her overture at face value. There was no reason a well-brought-up young woman—the granddaughter of a king, no less—would volunteer to give language lessons to a pair of visiting Unwanted Women merely out of the goodness of her heart. She had almost certainly been recruited by Lady Chanlix to act as an additional spy in the room—and a convenient one, with her Mindseye perpetually open.
“I’m afraid Sister Norah is right,” Mairah said regretfully, hating to express agreement with Norah on anything. “We must concentrate on our work, and it is difficult to concentrate while talking.”
If Kailee was insulted to be so rebuffed, not a hint of it showed in her face or voice. “I have no wish to interfere with your important work,” she said, only the tiny hint of a half-smile adding a flavor of irony to her words. She did not believe Mairah and Norah were trying to cure a plum blight any more than Mairah believed she had introduced herself merely to be friendly. “I have no intention of forcing myself on you. However, I will be spending some time here learning magic anyway, so if you have any spare time or just need me to translate something for you, you have but to ask.”
“Learning magic?” Mairah found herself saying wonderingly. She had never heard of a respectable young lady learning magic, and even knowing how different the values of Women’s Well were compared to those of Khalpar—and everywhere else in Seven Wells—the thought came as a shock.
Kailee laughed lightly, the sound and the smile somehow bringing light to those sightless white eyes. “It is positively shocking, I know. But if I’m going to have my Mindseye open all the time, then it seems I might as well make use of it, don’t you think?” The smile faded ever so slightly. “Though it might be more challenging for me than for other students, as I can’t read or see pictures of the elements.” She bit her lip, losing some of her easy composure and suddenly looking vulnerable. “Perhaps every once in a while I might ask you a question, to help develop my skills?” She glanced over her shoulder at the class of novices, all of whom were poring over primers filled with pictures and descriptions of elements. “I cannot fit well into a regular class.”
Mairah had spent too much of her life exploiting her own talent for manipulation not to recognize it when she saw it. Kailee was brazenly attempting to inspire just enough pity to soften the edges of Mairah’s resistance. The attempt should have irritated her, but instead it inspired a strange feeling of kinship.
“I will help whenever I can,” she found herself saying, earning another brilliant smile from Kailee and another lowering scowl from Norah.
* * *
—
Shelvon felt the impact all the way down to her toes when Falcor’s sword crashed against hers, and she almost staggered under the weight of the blow. She’d imagined his sword would just barely tap her own in this, her first attempt at a two-person drill, but no. He hadn’t put his full strength into the swing, but he hadn’t held back near as much as she’d expected, either.
Falcor grinned at her. “Very good. First time I tried this drill at the Citadel, I dropped my sword. I didn’t hear the end of it from the other cadets for weeks.” The grin broadened. “And my trainer reminded me of it until the day he retired.”
Shelvon shook her head, not entirely certain he wasn’t saying that just to make her feel better. “How old were you?” she asked.
“Fourteen,” he replied. “I’d learned the drill from my tutor when I was maybe ten, so I thought I knew exactly what I was doing. Turns out, Citadel trainers hit a lot harder than young gentlemen’s tutors. Now move on to the next position.”
He was beginning his own swing almost before she comprehended his instruction, his motion such a blur she couldn’t follow it. His sword tapped gently against her shoulder before she finally recovered enough to take the second position.
“What, no praise this time?” she teased. She’d have been embarrassed at her lack of skill if she weren’t certain he’d never expected her to parry in time.
“No stopping,” he said tersely, his sword swinging downward.
She was slow again, and this time his sword tapped her side. She opened her mouth to complain, but he was moving again, back to second position. She scrambled to parry—too late—but she’d been practicing this drill solo for the last two weeks, back and forth between first position and second position, over, and over, and over again, and
her body remembered the rhythm of it.
By the third repetition, she was still late, but she was at least getting close. By the fourth, his blade scraped by hers before making contact yet again. But by the fifth, she was fully in the rhythm, and her blade rose to block the overhead swing just in time. The force of the blow was no longer quite so shocking, and she moved swiftly to the second position, blade clanging against Falcor’s once again. He grinned his approval, but continued smoothly on.
Sweat beaded on Shelvon’s brow and trickled down her back. She was wearing a dress so simple she might have been mistaken for a peasant, and she’d spent enough time in the sun lately that her pale Nandel complexion had turned a golden light brown and her hair had gone from blond to nearly white. There were a handful of other people in Women’s Well who had almost-blond hair that said they had Nandel blood in their veins, but no one who looked quite as strikingly different as she.
Breathing hard, she shuffled her feet to take up her next position, feeling almost as if she were following the steps of a dance—although in truth, she’d never had much skill at dancing. Dancing was considered a frivolous activity in the court of Nandel, and so she had not been taught even the simplest steps until she’d married into the court of Aaltah. But this dance with Falcor she seemed to be learning more easily, her body proving that she was not entirely deaf to rhythm after all.
At last, Falcor called a halt, and she groaned as she lowered her sword and bent down, trying to fill her lungs. Her hair had come loose from the simple snood she’d confined it in, and the long strands stuck to the sweat on her face and neck. She laughed a little to herself to remember that she had only last week asked Princess Alysoon to find a husband for her. Just as well she’d been refused; what man would want to marry her if he saw her right now, sweaty and unkempt and muscular from sword fighting, of all things?
“You’ve progressed quite nicely,” Falcor told her when she stood up straight once more. He, of course, was barely breathing hard, and he didn’t even seem to be perspiring very much. “I apologize for thinking you would not practice as often as I suggested.”
Shelvon shrugged as she picked up the scabbard, which she’d propped against a wooden bench. In truth, she had surprised herself by how much time she’d spent practicing the drills he’d taught her. There was something incredibly soothing about the repetitive motion, about the concentration it required, which made it so much easier for her to forget her worries.
Sliding the sword back into its sheath, she collapsed bonelessly onto the bench, her knees suddenly wobbly with exertion. She honestly couldn’t have said how many times they’d just repeated that two-position drill, but it had certainly lasted longer than any of her practice sessions. She wasn’t sure how she would find the strength to rise from the bench when the time came.
“And I apologize for any unflattering names I might have called you when you first suggested teaching me to swing the sword,” she replied.
He sat beside her on the bench—though he kept a respectful distance—and stretched out his long legs, raising his face to the sun. He was not an especially handsome man. His nose was too large for his face, and his years of military service had left him with some scars, including one across his eyebrow and forehead. Shelvon knew that to warriors, scars were a source of manly pride, but she herself had never found them especially attractive. And yet even as she catalogued his faults, she concluded that there was something quite appealing about the man. He did not make her heart flutter or any such feminine nonsense as that, but she did feel easy in his presence, which was more than she could say for any other man of her acquaintance. Princess Alysoon had declined to arrange a marriage for her, but perhaps she needn’t abandon the thought of marriage altogether.
Falcor would certainly be prime husband material. He’d have been considered beneath her in the days when he’d been nothing more than Alysoon’s master of the guard, but he was the Lord Chamberlain of Women’s Well now. Had Shelvon been unmarried, her father might have at least considered Falcor as a suitable candidate for her hand.
Of course Shelvon had no idea how to go about courting a man. Falcor had never shown any overt signs of having noticed her as a woman—although surely his repeated visits to her house and all the hours they’d spent together suggested she held some appeal for him. Perhaps his first couple of visits could be written off to courtesy, or even pity, but it had been months since their escape from Aaltah, and here he still was.
“Would you be open to having a couple of other ladies join us for your lessons?” Falcor asked, interrupting Shelvon’s flight of fancy.
She hoped her stab of dismay didn’t show on her face. How silly of her to think that his time spent teaching her swordplay meant he felt any particular connection to her. He’d begun the lessons merely because he felt sorry for her, for her isolation and her obvious discomfort with her place here in Women’s Well. And he continued because he felt at least somewhat responsible for her, having helped persuade her to leave Delnamal and upend her life.
“Lord Jailom has offered to teach ladies some basic self-defense techniques,” Falcor continued, “but he says no one shows up for more than one or two lessons. He believes they are intimidated by all the men at the Citadel.”
Shelvon took a subtle deep breath, hoping to smooth all emotion out of her expression. She could only imagine what it would feel like to attempt to learn something so foreign—and so manifestly unladylike—in the presence of dozens of staring soldiers. Even the thought of it made her want to hunch her shoulders and hide.
“How many ladies are we talking about?” she asked, taking a quick survey of her back garden. There wasn’t a great deal of room.
“Just two or three,” Falcor replied. “We have drawn a little attention with our lessons, despite the relative privacy. I’ve been approached by two ladies, and one of them has a sister who might be persuaded to join. I haven’t time to give them each private lessons.”
Shelvon knew that even teaching just one pupil was something of a challenge; more than once, he’d had to cancel on account of his duties to the royal council. She was not overjoyed at the idea of sharing the most enjoyable time of her day—and her time with Falcor—with other ladies. She had, in fact, made little effort to befriend any of her neighbors or other townsfolk, for she had never been terribly social by nature, and she was well aware that the folk of Seven Wells considered Nandelites uncouth barbarians.
Falcor smiled at her with conspicuous gentleness. “These women admire you, Shelvon. They’ve seen you practicing and they are inspired by it. They aren’t the sort who would make fun of your accent or pepper you with backhanded compliments.”
Shelvon was sure her face had gone an unappealing shade of red, for though she had never discussed her social graces—or lack thereof—with Falcor, it was obvious he knew exactly how uncomfortable she was with her place in society. She chewed on her lip thoughtfully.
As far as she could tell, ladies of Aaltah—and very likely of any other court outside of Nandel—spent an inordinate amount of time discussing such trivialities as fashion. Shelvon had learned to smile and nod when necessary, but she couldn’t help reading into those conversations a criticism of her own lack of fashion sense—just one more way to make her feel inadequate. At least ladies who came to her house to learn sword fighting were unlikely to spend much time speaking of such things. Actually, considering how rigorous Falcor’s lessons were, how much time Shelvon spent panting too hard to talk, the addition of a couple more students might not be much of a hardship, after all.
Shelvon forced a smile she very much didn’t feel. “Of course they can join,” she said as cheerfully as she could. “It will be nice not to be the only woman here who engages in such shockingly unladylike behavior.”
The look in Falcor’s eyes suggested he heard every bit of the reluctance she’d tried to hide. “We can try it and see ho
w it works out. Just remember that this is your home, and if anyone who comes here makes you feel bad, you are under no obligation to invite them back.”
She nodded her agreement, for there was no point in explaining to him how little this house or even this town felt like her home. She had no home, no place where she felt she belonged or could claim as her own. But unless she wanted to crawl back to her father—and find herself shut within the walls of the Abbey of Nandel—she was going to have to find a way to make this place her home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Delnamal stormed into the council chamber. His entrance always put an end to the chatter that preceded the start of the council meeting, but the cessation was rarely this abrupt, with several mouths snapping shut mid-sentence. Delnamal could only imagine how dark his scowl must have been to have silenced so many men who so loved the sound of their own voices. His mother had counseled him to calm, but then of course she would. She was always making excuses for her cursed brother and his refusal to honor the spirit of the alliance that had formed when she had married his father. Bad enough that Khalvin had refused to provide naval support so that Delnamal could march on Women’s Well without leaving Aalwell poorly defended. Now he was sending gifts to Alysoon!
His councilors were still halfway into their bows when he ordered them to their seats. The lord chancellor usually began the proceedings with a summary of the agenda, but Delnamal had no patience for the normal routine.
“Khalpar has not only sent its abbess to Women’s Well,” he said, his heart giving an angry thump at the idea, “but they also sent a chest of jewels! As if they were sending tribute to that damned pretender and her paltry excuse for a principality.” No doubt the rest of the council had already heard—there had been several witnesses when he’d received the message, and he’d been too angry to bother with discretion.