Miceral smiled, putting his hand out. When Farrell placed his over Miceral’s, the warrior visibly relaxed. “That’s how I feel but was afraid to scare you off. Sometimes I can be a bit much, and you seemed a bit unsure. I didn’t want my thinking to sway your actions.”
“So . . .” Farrell paused, then decided to just say what he wanted.
“Should I cancel your quarters?”
“That’s what prompted my question. I was going to suggest it but needed to be sure you’re comfortable charging headlong into whatever it is we’re doing. It’s the first time Lenore picked someone for me.”
Farrell squeezed Miceral’s hands, hoping it would calm his racing heart. “First time Honorus acknowledged I have a personal life.”
Laughing together, he noted the sparkle in Miceral’s eyes. There’d been attraction before, but this felt different. This made his heart lurch. Standing, he drew Miceral with him. “Well, that’s settled. Check to see if all your things are here. I’m going to wash up before we set out into the depths of Haven.”
Moving with a bounce in his step, Farrell walked to the bath chamber and hummed as the washbasin filled.
“Don’t you mess it up in there. I just finished cleaning, you silly child,” Lisle called from another room.
Shaking his head, he smiled at her way of showing affection. If only she didn’t . . .. He stopped himself. She didn’t need to change at all.
He dried off, brushed his teeth, and went to tell Miceral he could have the bathing chamber. Not finding him in their room—he smiled at the idea that he already thought of it as “their” room—he moved toward the main entrance. He heard voices before he reached the doorway.
“But listen here,” he heard Lisle say. “I’ve been with Farrell for a great many years. I’ve watched with a heavy heart at all the pain he’s shouldered without one word of complaint. I was there when they died: Zenora, Heminaltose, and Sanduval. I saw all the heartache of failed relationships, the few he’s attempted. He’s had more sadness in his young life than anyone ought to have.”
Standing to the side, he couldn’t see them, but he knew they stood near the door. He felt a little guilty hiding but didn’t reveal himself.
“Don’t let his pain be an impediment. It might take a bit of work, but I can tell you, he’s worth it.”
“Lisle, I’ve known him all of a few days, and already I’m prepared to spend the rest of our considerably long lives together. I only hope he feels the same.”
“I do.” Farrell spoke louder than he meant to. They both turned, making him blush furiously. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to listen in, but I was coming to see what happened to you.”
The awkward silence made him more embarrassed, so he reached for one of Miceral’s bags. “Let’s find a place for your things. Then I can show you around Haven.”
He grabbed the first bag he came to, and every muscle in his torso strained with the effort. “Um, how many swords do you need? This feels like a dozen or more.”
“If they packed everything, there are ten in that bag, along with a few other things. Isn’t there a better place than the bedroom?”
“Yes indeed, boy, that stuff has no place in your bedroom.” Shaking her head in mock disbelief, Lisle pointed to the floor. “Leave them right where they are.”
Farrell considered putting them in his workroom but decided against exposing Miceral to the dangers inside. Setting the bag down, he asked, “Won’t it be in your way here until we find a permanent home?”
“No, I already cleaned in here. It’ll be fine for the time being. Speaking of swords, don’t you have practice about now?”
“Drat. I’d hoped to skip that.” Farrell never felt in the mood for Master Thomas, let alone today.
“No!” Lisle and Miceral said together. Farrell turned from one to the other, trying to figure out their motives. Lisle just shook her head. He knew why she wanted him to go—he’d be out of her way—but Miceral’s insistence stymied him. Farrell had thought they’d spend the day together.
“I want to go with you,” Miceral said in response to Farrell’s questioning stare. “I didn’t know you trained with regular weapons.”
Farrell picked up a different bag and moved toward the bedroom. “My mother and Master Heminaltose insisted I learn. Magic might be a devastating weapon, but it has its drawbacks. Other wizards can sense when you use it, and it is draining, as you’ve seen.”
“True, but you can’t take down a shield with just a sword.”
Smirking, he gave Miceral a wink. “Depends on the sword and who created the shield.”
“I’ll defer to your wisdom, oh mighty wizard.” Bowing playfully, Miceral darted back just before Farrell could swat him. “So, can I come with you?”
“You had to ask?” Anywhere not dangerous, Miceral could go with him. “Just don’t make fun of me, please. I’m so far below your level.”
“I might give you some pointers, but otherwise I’ll be good.” He opened the long, heavy bag and removed three swords. “Ready when you are.”
Miceral coming to practice almost made Farrell eager to go. He started changing into suitable clothing when Lisle walked into the room. Her proclivity for going anywhere, anytime without asking or knocking might be an issue now that Miceral lived here, too. He’d have to speak to her about it.
“Maybe you should skip this room until I can add another to store Miceral’s things.” He looked pointedly at her, hoping she’d take a hint and leave. “I’ll speak to Erstad after class about creating more space.”
“Gracious me, boy, you’re always trying to live in a pigsty.” Clearly, the subtle approach failed. “There’s no way I’m going to let it go, so don’t think that having a guest lets you go back to being messy. Humph.”
As Lisle cleared the breakfast dishes, Farrell noticed she smiled more than usual today. Half-dressed when she returned, he started to blush.
“Child, you act like I haven’t seen you all undressed any number of times. Just do what you always do. Pretend I’m not here.” She plucked his leather jerkin from the bed and held it out. “This does not go on the bed. Ever!”
Taking the well-used vest, he acknowledged his mistake with a nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
“It was bad enough when it was just you, but do you really think your guest wants that smelly thing where he needs to sleep?”
“No,” he said, keeping his eyes down. “It won’t happen again.”
He quickly left and put the leather shirt by the front door. Slipping into his study, he dashed off a note for Erstad, explaining he wanted to expand his rooms—again. As he exited his study, Lisle left the bedroom and walked toward him.
“While I’m gone, would you see that someone takes this to Erstad? I doubt he’ll need me, but if he does, he knows where I am.”
“He’ll not need you, but you best hurry along or Master Thomas really will beat you for being late.” She mussed up his hair slightly.
Holding his swords, Miceral waited in the foyer. Farrell grabbed his vest and ran his hand through his still-damp hair. “He’ll need to go through Miceral if wants to beat me now.” He stuck his tongue out at her before opening the door.
“Children.” Lisle turned and headed back toward the bedroom.
Farrell pulled the door shut and nodded to the left. “This way.”
“If Master Thomas wants to give you a thrashing because you’re late, don’t look to me for help. I’m not to interfere, remember?” Miceral snickered when Farrell scowled at him. “Where’s your sword?”
Farrell pulled a three-foot sword from his right pocket. When he saw the look on Miceral’s face, he said, “Endless pocket. Wesfazial put them on most of my pants. I can carry around as much stuff as I need, and it doesn’t weigh an ounce.”
“Bet that’s useful.”
“Very.” He realized Miceral watched him more than their route. “Are you paying attention? Because if you let Master Thomas abuse me, I’m going to make you walk back
to our rooms alone.”
Farrell hastened their pace, hoping to be on time. Several levels down, they entered a large open space. An older man in a worn but well-kept leather jerkin stood slashing back and forth with a plain sword. He wore his steel-gray hair pulled back in a short ponytail, banded with several small cords. Metal greaves on his forearms did nothing to hide the scars that spoke of a lifetime of swordplay.
Master Thomas stared at Miceral before bowing his head an inch.
“Master Thomas,” Farrell said, stopping an arm’s length from his teacher. “This is Miceral, son of Horgon, Chief of the Muchari. He’ll be joining us from now on, as he’s staying with me.”
As Farrell put on his jerkin, the older man gave no indication he cared about Miceral or whom he slept with. Extending his arm, he said, “Pleased to meet you, sir. Kindly stay out of our way while I work with the prince.”
Miceral nodded and unwrapped his own swords. Farrell watched him select two similar blades and swing both in a twirling motion. A firm slap on his ass from the flat of a sword elicited a short yelp.
“Stop watching your friend over there and concentrate on your own practice.” Master Thomas’s voice held nothing except the business at hand. Rubbing his “wound,” Farrell limbered up, performing the stretching routine he’d been taught as a boy. When ready, he picked up his sword and bowed to his teacher.
After a perfunctory bow, Thomas attacked. Farrell used a lighter sword that played to his wiry build and natural quickness. After a few passes, Thomas stopped and lowered his sword.
“Your arm is too low.” Thomas moved Farrell’s sword arm approximately three inches.
Feeling foolish at the almost negligible adjustment, Farrell barely paid attention to the additional instructions.
Master Thomas moved in front of Farrell, and they resumed practice. Without warning, Thomas changed his attack, stopped, and repeated the drill of showing Farrell what he’d done wrong this time. Farrell chafed as the lesson continued. He wanted to show Miceral his skill with a sword, but his trainer consistently focused on his weaker points.
“Boy!” Thomas slammed the point of his practice sword into the ground, signaling a stop. “What in the Eight Gates of Neblor are you doing? Trying to show off for the pretty lad sitting over there?” Farrell turned beet-red, glaring at his instructor.
Undeterred, Thomas scowled back. “We’re here to work on where you’re most vulnerable, not to do fancy moves to impress someone you hope to get in your bed tonight. Trust me. I saw what he can do. You’re not going to impress him. You aren’t that good.”
Humiliated, Farrell ground his teeth, eyes barely open. If this fool thought to insult him in front of Miceral without consequences, he—
Master Thomas.” Miceral’s voice broke into Farrell’s thoughts. “If you wouldn’t mind, may I talk to Farrell a moment, please?”
The two locked eyes for an instant before Farrell saw his teacher nod.
Putting a hand on Farrell’s shoulder, Miceral drew them aside. “He’s correct. I am a distraction. I shouldn’t have come. I’ll go back to the rooms to wait for you.”
“No.” Farrell grabbed Miceral’s arm. “It’s not you, it’s him. I’m a much better wizard than he is a swordsman, and this is his way of humiliating me.”
Shaking his head, Miceral gripped Farrell by the biceps. “That’s not true. He’s trying to teach you how to work around your weaknesses. It makes no sense to work on what you’re good at and ignore where you need help. You were in the wrong. Master Thomas is a fine teacher. If you want me to stay, you need to apologize to him.”
Farrell’s head snapped back. “Are you joking? He’s a surly, grumpy old man—”
“Who’s trying to save your life by making you a better swordsman. He was right to call you out just then. He might have been a bit mean, but he got your attention.” Miceral suddenly smiled at him. “It was sweet of you to try to show off for me. I’m impressed. You’re a much better swordsman than I thought. But if you really want to impress me, then learn what he’s trying to teach you.” He kissed Farrell’s forehead. “Go on, apologize and get on with the lesson.”
Farrell turned toward Master Thomas, then looked back over his shoulder. Miceral mouthed the words go on and flicked his fingers twice.
The older man stood apart, his focus on Farrell as he walked over.
“Master Thomas, I’m sorry I’m wasting your time today.” He maintained eye contact, waiting for some further insult from his teacher. “You were right. I was trying to impress Miceral when I should’ve paid attention to the lesson. If you’ll accept my apology, I’d like to continue.”
Thomas stared at him for a moment longer, then glanced at Miceral. The ends of his lips curled up ever so slightly. “Accepted, lad. Now shall we begin again?”
Surprised, Farrell nodded and assumed a combat position. This time he ignored Miceral and focused on his instructions. The rest of the lesson went considerably better. Though a sweaty mess at the end, he felt pleased with the results.
Stabbing his sword into the dirt, he bowed to his teacher. “Master Thomas, thank you for the second chance today.”
The older man assumed a slightly deferential posture. “Prince Farrell, all I want is to make you a better swordsman, as your grandfather asked. I know your true skills lie elsewhere. Your willingness to learn was all the apology I wanted.”
He walked over to Miceral. “Whatever you said, you did him a great service, sir. He’s lucky to have you. I’d be honored to practice with you if you’ll give an old man the privilege.”
Miceral grinned, picked up his sword, and moved to the center of the field. The two bowed before Thomas launched a furious attack. Farrell raised his eyebrows and wondered how he’d never gotten hurt training with the man. Miceral however, parried the assault easily and quickly countered.
After a time, Thomas paused. “Well met, sir, but you hold back.”
“Master Thomas.” Miceral bowed to the older man. “You’re an expert swordsman, but my race is faster and stronger. I don’t want to injure you.”
“Prince Farrell,” Thomas called, “bring your sword and the mate to the one your friend holds and come join us. Perhaps two of us will present more of a challenge than one.”
Farrell handed Miceral his other sword.
“We’ll attack him together.” Thomas gave him a conspiratorial wink. “Let’s see how good he really is.”
A quick bow and Thomas lunged. Farrell circled around, trying to stay opposite his teacher. Spurred by the day’s events to try harder, Farrell did his best to keep up, but even he recognized his limited skills. He took consolation that his mere presence assisted Master Thomas. Still, Miceral easily met their attacks.
Farrell’s training had been longer and more strenuous than usual so he quickly tired. Pushing himself when he should have called a halt, he stumbled, falling into the path of Miceral’s sword. As the steel pierced his leather jerkin, he screamed in pain, clutched his shoulder, and dropped to the ground.
Chapter Ten
MICERAL DROPPED his sword and rushed to Farrell’s side. “I’m so sorry. Let me see.”
“Add one more scar to an otherwise scarred body.” The small laugh made Farrell wince in pain.
The slick wetness under his vest warned him of the blood loss. Light-headed, he couldn’t focus enough to staunch the flow from the wound. At the edge of consciousness, he heard Master Thomas summon the healer always on duty.
“Come away, lad.” Thomas gently pulled Miceral back. “Let Healer Geanette tend to this.”
Farrell felt Geanette’s hands over the wound. Soothing energy created a numbing sensation in the injured shoulder. Pain receptors, so recently overloaded, returned to normal, leaving a dull ache through his body.
“The wound was deep and bled much in a short time. Had I not been here, you would have died.” She glanced at Miceral and Thomas in disapproval. “It is healed, and you’re no longer in danger. Most of the bloo
d found its way under the leather shirt, so your undergarment will appear worse than the wound was. I cleaned off some, but you need to rest for the remainder of the day. No magic. Let me repeat that, my lord—no magic.”
Shaking her head, Geanette walked over to Thomas. “Make sure he eats and rests. Don’t let him use the shoulder for a couple of days.”
Shirtless, Farrell examined the clean gash in the left shoulder of his vest. It had absorbed some of the blow, but Miceral’s stab had cut deep. Even healed, the shoulder remained tender and would be for a few days.
“My prince, this is my fault.” In all the time he had known Master Thomas, Farrell had never heard him apologize. “I should never have put you at risk. Worse, I paid no attention—”
“Door opening,” Farrell said, interrupting Thomas.
Miceral opened his mouth, but before he spoke, a Door opened just outside the practice field.
“Word of my injury must have spread fast.”
Erstad and Wesfazial quickly stepped through the Door, followed by Glendora and, to his surprise, the wizard Cylinda. Master Thomas and Miceral moved to intercept the angry entourage. All began yelling at once, most of it directed at Master Thomas. When Miceral attempted to defend the weapons master, they turned their venom on him. Farrell heard words like irresponsible and idiotic. Then the rhetorical questions started. “Don’t you know who he is?” “Do you realize how important he is?” Finally, there came the threats. “There will be consequences for such stupidity.” “If anything happens to him, you’ll both be sorry.”
“I’m fine, thanks for asking.” Farrell’s voice went unheard amid the shouting.
“It hurts a bit, now that you ask, but I’ll be fine.” He spoke louder, but they still ignored him.
“I should be okay in the morning with some rest and food.” Frustrated by his sarcastic imaginary conversation, he spoke a couple of words of magic and whistled loudly enough that the sound reverberated off the walls.
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