Dark Moon Defender by Sharon Shinn
They were all nodding. “Though Hayden, here, he’s almost as good,” Torrin’s uncle said.
“I’ve never beaten Torrin,” Hayden said—half ashamed of himself, half proud of his brother. “But almost no one else can defeat me!”
“When Torrin took on the Bramlis boy. That was a fight worth seeing,” the uncle said.
It didn’t take much prompting for Torrin to begin recounting, in tedious detail, the duel he had fought with the unfortunate Bramlis fellow. Senneth listened, deliberately allowing a smile to come to her face, but she didn’t say anything until Torrin began to dislike her expression.
“Why do you look that way?” he demanded with a scowl. He was hotheaded and sure of himself, and probably with reason. He was slim and small-boned as most of the Lirrenfolk were, but he was also quick and well muscled. She imagined he was an exceptionally dangerous man in a fight. Not one to hold back. Not one to allow any fear for his own safety to slow him down.
“I was thinking, you are probably one of the most skillful swordsmen across the Lireth Mountains,” she said. “But there are fighters here in Gillengaria you would not be able to defeat.”
“I would,” he said instantly. “Show me any man here that you think can wield a blade! I’ll take him on.”
“I think I could defeat you,” she said deliberately.
There was, for a moment, absolute silence among her listeners.
“You?” Torrin exclaimed, while Hayden and the other young man laughed. The older men, however, looked more thoughtful. Senneth saw Wynlo give her a second, more careful inspection, noting her height, her reach, the breadth of her shoulders. The sleeves of her dark blue gown concealed the muscles in her arms, but his gaze lingered on her wrists, her long-fingered hands.
She smiled and her voice became soft, almost dreamy. Back to that storytelling singsong. “Do you hear, even across the Lireth Mountains, tales of the King’s Riders?” she inquired. “Fifty men and women whose lives are dedicated to protecting the crown. They train all day—on foot, on horseback—they practice with swords, with crossbows, with daggers, with bare hands. It is said that it takes two men to hold a Rider at bay, three men to kill him, four men to find the courage to drag his body to a grave. And a whole battalion to run in fear from his fellow Riders who come to avenge his death.”
“I’ve heard of King’s Riders,” Wynlo said quietly. “They are respected for their bravery and their skill, but they are legendary for their loyalty.”
She nodded. “No Rider has ever betrayed his king.”
“But they are still men,” Torrin argued. “They can still be defeated.”
She looked at him. “Men and women,” she said.
He looked her over, something like a sneer on his face. “And you are one of these Riders? You?”
She shook her head. She was smiling again, mostly because she could tell it annoyed him. Somewhat against her will, she rather liked this arrogant and abrasive young man. This must have been what Justin was like when he first joined the Riders. Was still like, except somewhat less extreme. “I have not had the honor of being named a King’s Rider,” she said. “But I have friends among them. I train with them. I have lifted my sword against a Rider’s sword many times in practice—and I have given a good accounting of myself, too, though I have never yet defeated a Rider.”
Hayden was frowning. “In the Lirrenlands, women do not fight battles,” he said.
“We are in Gillengaria now,” she said serenely.
“But if you are Lahja,” he persisted, “you should behave as a Lirren woman would.”
And surely that had been coming since the conversation opened. “I am bahta-lo,” she said very gravely, and they all looked surprised and then nodded. Then they inspected her again.
She had explained this carefully to Tayse and Cammon one night as they camped on the road. Tayse had wanted to know why she thought the Lirren men would listen to anything she had to say if they held women in such low esteem. “They don’t despise their women, you’ve got that wrong,” she had said. “They love their women—too much so, maybe—they protect their women almost single-mindedly. They think women must be kept safe at all costs.”
“You don’t exactly behave like a woman who allows herself to be taken care of,” Tayse had pointed out. “Aren’t they going to think you need to be cowering on a farm somewhere, following the orders of a father or brother?”
“I am bahta-lo,” she had told him. And when both he and Cammon demanded to know what that meant, she had said, “That means ‘above the clan.’ A woman apart. Every once in a while—it’s very rare—a woman chooses to leave the protection of her family and become a wanderer. Often these women are skilled healers who feel compelled to go wherever there is great sickness, no matter what clan has been affected. Sometimes they are older women who have demonstrated uncanny wisdom over the years, and they become mediators, particularly between warring clans. Sometimes, to tell the truth, they’re completely mad, and they roam from one corner of the Lirrens to the other, and no one harms them, and everyone shows them respect. The Persals accepted my claim of bahta-lo when it became clear I wasn’t going to turn into a docile woman and marry some domineering Lahja boy. They loved me anyway, but this allowed them to set me free.”
It was clear that Wynlo and the rest did not entirely approve of kinsmen who had been weak-willed enough to let an adopted daughter slip out of their hands. “We do not have any bahta-lo among the Alowa,” Wynlo’s brother said.
“A family does not choose to name a woman bahta-lo. A family accepts that that is what a woman has become,” Senneth said. “And a woman does not choose such a path lightly. She chooses it because that is the will of the goddess. The Black Mother has set this restlessness in her heart, and she must give in to that urge to wander, or die.”
Wynlo nodded reluctantly. His brother looked thoughtful. Torrin’s mind was quickly back on other matters. “Bahto-lo or not, you still cannot defeat me in a duel,” he said.
She smiled at him. “I’m sure I can.”
He tilted his chin up at her. Oh, so like Justin. “If you have a weapon with you, I would like to prove you wrong,” he said. “Is it permitted here at Coravann Keep that we match swords?”
“There is a training yard on the grounds. Heffel will be happy to allow us to use it. And indeed, I have a weapon with me. I never travel without it.”
Torrin’s eyebrows rose. He looked excited and scornful all at the same time. Nothing like the prospect of a little bloodshed to improve a young man’s mood. “Then let us meet tomorrow to test our skill against each other.”
“Let us do so. May we invite anyone we choose to be our witnesses? Or do you prefer to limit the audience?”
“Anyone may attend,” Torrin said.
“And should we set rules? Decide beforehand what constitutes a win? I am not looking to strike a death blow, you understand—as I hope you are not, either!”
He nodded with some semblance of graciousness. “You are kin. We are merely determining who wields the best sword. Shall we say the fight ends at first blood or at the killing thrust—that is not driven home, of course?”
Tayse was not going to be happy to learn that she had essentially goaded this intemperate young man into challenging her to a duel, and he would be even less happy when she told him she would not be able to explain why. But he wouldn’t be afraid for her. He would stand on the sidelines and watch her, silent, unalarmed, knowing full well that she could defend herself. Afterward, win or lose, he would calmly tell her what she had done wrong, where she needed to improve her technique, what moves she might try next time she found herself facing a similar opponent.
She was not entirely certain she would be able to defeat Torrin, but she absolutely had to discover if she could.
“Oh, let us fight to the pretend death,” she said to him now, smiling. “I think neither of us will be satisfied with anything less.”
CHAPTER 18
O
Partly because, after the open streets of Neft, the high, walled compound seemed too small, too closed in, too inescapable. The forest pressed in too hungrily, and even though most of the trees had lost their leaves by now, their thick, tangled branches were too dense to allow enough air to sift through to the convent.
Partly because there was not enough room in her chest for breath. Everything else was crowded out by fear.
How could she have done it? How could she have kissed Justin there in the streets of Neft—not just once, an accident, a momentary spell of lunacy—but a second night? For hours? Her body pressed against his, delighting in his shape and bulk, her bones already memorizing the specific size and weight of his hands against her back. Her mind a dizzy, incoherent whirl. Her heart a skipping child, overcome with laughter.
Great Mother, she had allowed him to think he could love her, and now he could die.
She had not been able to keep away, that second night. Had not been able to make herself lie motionless in bed, listening to Astira and Lia quietly breathing, knowing that Justin waited for her outside by the gate. Don’t go don’t go don’t go don’t go, she had told herself, over and over again, and yet there she was. Rising to her feet. Slipping on her shoes. Creeping from the room, down the stairs, past the guard.
Out into the chill, enchanted night.
She could never see him again. She had to cut the connection now, avoid him for the rest of her life. He could not fall in love with her, not now, not truly. He could not believe he had a chance to win her. He would not understand when she tried to explain— he would laugh—he would claim he was good enough, fast enough, cruel enough, to best her brother in a duel. But no one had ever beaten Torrin. And instead of kissing her in the dark, Justin would be lying dead at Ellynor’s feet.
Or standing over Torrin’s lifeless body, a bloody sword in his hand. Ellynor could not bring herself to decide which was worse. She only knew that both outcomes were unendurable.
How could she have let things go so far? How could she have been so stupid, so selfish, so reckless, so abandoned? How could it matter what she wanted? Weighed against the possibility of Justin’s death, her desire for him was a light thing, paltry, unimportant.
But, oh, sweet Mother, if he was standing before her now, she would want to kiss him again.
This was why women were not allowed to roam the world without supervision. Because when they did, they made terrible mistakes. Because they had no judgment. Because they were incapable of choosing wisely when it came to love.
Well. She was back in the convent now. Safe behind those white walls, that let in no air and very little light. Justin could not come to her here. She just had to make sure she never left again.
THE first week back passed in something of a blur. The other novices were whispering, half excited and half afraid, because the Lestra’s fierce brother had returned to the convent, his wife and about twenty soldiers in tow, but Ellynor couldn’t bring herself to care. It was not like she ever saw them, anyway. The Gisseltess soldiers kept mostly to the barracks, while the marlord and his wife rarely strayed from the suite of rooms reserved for the Lestra’s most exalted guests. And Ellynor had plenty of other more important things to think about. Whether she was working in the kitchen, singing in the nightly rituals as the moon swelled back to full, or simply walking the grounds, trying to breathe, she spent her time thinking. About what she should do next.
She and Rosurie had been here more than a year now. How long did their families intend them to stay? Even though it was clear that the Lestra expected them to reside here for the rest of their lives, she was sure her father had a different idea. When would he come for her? Was there any way to get a message to him?
Would Rosurie be willing to go?
Despite her own preoccupations, it had not escaped Ellynor’s attention that Rosurie had been very quiet lately. When Ellynor had returned to the room they shared, Rosurie had greeted her listlessly and failed to supply any gossip about events that had transpired during her absence. Over the next few days, her normally vivacious cousin had been almost taciturn, clearly lost in thought. Rosurie had never been one to keep her own counsel for long, so Ellynor bided her time, certain that the other girl would confide in her soon. But as the week slipped by, her cousin became even quieter.
“Is Rosurie sick?” Astira whispered to Ellynor at dinner one night. “She’s hardly said a word all day.”
“I’ve been wondering that myself,” Ellynor whispered back. “I’ll see if I can get her to talk to me tonight.”
But first there was the meal to get through, and then the singing. With the moon about three-quarters full, most of them were needed to stand in the courtyard, gathered in the shape of a not-quite-circle, their white robes shimmering with starlight, their voices ethereally high.
Almost, in the dark, in the cold, her chilled heart warmed by the Black Mother’s presence, Ellynor could breathe.
Then she remembered everything, and her throat closed up, and for a moment she could not sing.
For once, she was happy to go inside and up to her room. Rosurie was already in bed, sitting with her back against the wall. She had lit the candle in the window, but the rest of the room was in darkness.
Moving quietly, Ellynor readied herself for bed and then slipped under her own covers. The single candle was just bright enough to see by; it was like trying to view a landscape by the light of a high full moon. Rosurie was still upright, apparently staring at the opposite wall. Her hands were two small fists laid in her lap.
Ellynor lay on the mattress, facing the other bed. “Rosurie,” she said in a soft voice. “You’ve been so quiet the past few days. I’m worried about you. Is something wrong?”
For a moment Rosurie didn’t answer. “I’m just—I’m thinking,” she said tightly.
“About what?” No answer. “Are you worried about family back home? I got a letter today. You can read it.”
“No. I mean, yes, of course I’ll read it. But no, I’m not worried.”
“I’ve been a little homesick lately. Have you?” Ellynor continued, still in that soft voice, inviting confidences. As she talked to sick children in the infirmary, or old women on their deathbeds. “Getting a letter from my mother made me miss them all even more.”
“I don’t miss them,” Rosurie said in a jerky voice.
Ellynor shifted on her bed. “Really? The harvest feast is already past, and the midwinter feast isn’t that far away. I was thinking about the salt bread and the sweet fried cake—I was thinking about winter ale made with the first snow—”
“We have plenty to eat here at the convent.”
“Well, of course we do,” Ellynor said a little blankly. “It’s just that it’s been so long since we had holiday fare—we were gone last winter, too. I miss the customs. I think I took them for granted all those years, and now I wish I was back with the sebahta for midwinter.”
“That’s the problem,” Rosurie said, and her voice held a low note of intensity. “With you—with Astira and Lia—with so many of the girls. We miss our old lives. We want to be back with our families. We don’t know—we don’t realize—we don’t give enough to our new life.” She took a deep breath. “We don’t offer enough to the goddess.”
Sweet Mother of the midnight skies. “We sing her praises under the moon,” Ellynor said calmly. “We light a candle in every window. We pray six times a day. We wear her moonstones everywhere we go, and pass them out to strangers who want to learn to love her.”
Rosurie made a sudden sharp gesture. “Those are—those are acts we perform. Duties we observe. Ways to carry out her will. They are important, yes, but they have no deep meaning. They are not sacrifices.”