smacking fist into open palm. “You go Ymoth, you die. Understand?” Daryd stared at him. Tears spilled down his cheeks. Jurellyn put a firm hand on his shoulder. “You go Baen-Tar. You see Prince Damon. You see King Torvaal. You scout. You…you tell him, what you see. Then, you save father, you save mother, you save brother. Understand?”
The king would send an army, he meant. Daryd's eyes widened in hope. He recalled what the adults had always said—that the Hadryn would never dare attack so long as the king forbade it. Ever since King Chayden, the Lenay kings had forbidden it. Daryd did not understand what had changed that the Hadryn now dared the present king's wrath. But if he could meet with the king…if he could tell him what was happening here today…
“I'll go!” he said firmly. “I'll meet with the king! But I don't know the way…will you take me there?”
Jurellyn smiled a hard smile. “My friend. My friend…take?” Daryd nodded. “My friend take you, see King Torvaal. Good man. Brave Udalyn.”
Daryd felt his chest swell at that. The foreign warrior thought him brave…and thought the Udalyn brave. The foreigners still told stories about the bravery of the Udalyn, as he'd heard some in Ymoth say. Surely the king would listen. Surely no one could just stand by and let the Udalyn be slaughtered once more.
“Ow!” Sasha exclaimed, somewhat after the fact, as she prodded the new bruise on her bicep. Andreyis backed off, stanch twirling, looking very pleased with himself. Sasha gave him this morning's customary dark stare and he sobered a little. She windmilled her arm, fast, to keep it loose. “Don't get too pleased with yourself,” she told him. “I hate fighting with this stupid style.”
“But I'm getting better, right?” Andreyis insisted. “That was a good strike!”
Sasha wondered if he truly appreciated how difficult it was for her to fight in a traditional Lenay style. But the Wakening would be barely a moon from now—the end of summer, the traditional time for the ceremony of manhood—and Andreyis needed the practice. Even with the handicap of her gender, there were things she could teach him in this style that the Baerlyn menfolk could not show him in the training hall.
They stood on the bare ground beneath the old vertyn tree, near the top fence of Kessligh's vegetable garden. The horses grazed across the vast upper slope enclosure, their coats gleaming in the sun. Kessligh had gone to town, taking Aiden with him. Sasha had not been unhappy to see them go.
“You're planting the front foot too soon on the second transition,” she told Andreyis, trying her best to ignore both the bruises and her bad mood, for Andreyis's sake. All young Goeren-yai males eagerly anticipated the Wakening. Andreyis's technique was good, but his recent growth spurt had impeded his footwork, and thus his timing. She refused to let him fail. “See here…the arms follow the feet, Andrey.” She took the stance, holding her arms clear, and danced the several fast steps of the racha-dan, without moving her arms. “It's like drums in a folk tune—your footing gives you the rhythm that everything else should follow. This lead foot is too fast,” and she stamped that foot to demonstrate, “the swing and plant should be simultaneous.”
“I got you, didn't I?”
“I can't defend in this style, Andrey,” she told him, with barely restrained temper. “I'm not strong enough.” One thing Andreyis did have going for him lately was his reach. She could barely believe how tall he'd become, still recalling the awkward, nervous boy she'd wrestled with, climbed trees with and defended imaginary castles with against equally imaginary hordes of bloodthirsty Cherrovan warriors. Now, the top of her head came barely to his shoulder, and the swing of his arms, though lacking the power of a grown man, generated considerable speed with stanch or sword. “Now, are you going to listen to me, or am I just wasting my time?”
Andreyis must have seen the dark look in her eyes for he held up both hands, defensively. “I'm listening. Show me again?”
She took him through all of the fundamental taka-dans, which were not so different in basic strokes to svaalverd taka-dans, truly. And she acquired several more bruises along the way, for Andreyis knew better than to pull his strokes—if he acquired that bad habit before the headmen at the ceremony, he'd remain a boy for one more, humiliating year, and have his hair cut short once more. Mostly,