When her father announced he would take his wine to his solar and invited Sodrin to face him in a game of turni menet, she almost bellowed “Finally”!
“I’d challenge you, Radimar,” Uhlfrida said. “But it seems my daughter has decided you’re to play storyteller for her this evening.”
Radimar bowed. “It will be my pleasure, my lord. Good evening.”
They walked beside each other toward the small library that was Jahna’s favorite room in the house.
Radimar relieved her of the burden of initiating the conversation between them. “You did well today in practice. Don’t let your brother convince you you’re a distraction or in the way. If you were, I’d tell you.”
“I never listen to Sodrin anyway.”
“Much to his frustration, I’m sure.” Radimar smiled.
Jahna smiled back. “Just so.” She flexed her hand, still aching from earlier. “I think I need to practice more. My hand and arm grow tired faster than I’d like.”
“That isn’t unusual for beginners.” He lifted his arm, palm facing her. “It’s less about practice and more about strength.” He pointed to the underside of his wrist and traced an invisible line from where it met the bottom of his hand to the crook of his elbow. “You want to strengthen not only your hand but your arm here as well. I can show you exercises that will help.”
They reached the library, and Jahna nudged the door open, pleased to see someone had readied it for their visit.
The library was modest in size but lush in comfort. Tapestries carpeted the floors and warmed the walls, while tables and chairs were spaced around the room in settings that invited intimate conversation. At some point during the evening, a servant had entered to light the torches and hearth. A merry fire crackled over a small rack of logs and chased away much of the chill that had settled in the room.
Jahna hugged her shawl closer around her shoulders and made her way to a pair of chairs flanking a table. The scene mirrored the one in the training solar earlier, with her stack of blank parchment, bundle of quills and well of ink waiting for her. A pot of tea and two cups sat on a tray at another table adjacent to one of the chairs. Jahna claimed a chair and motioned for Radimar to take the other one.
He sat and surveyed the table crowded with writing material. “I see you brought your supplies to record more of my life and all its sins on parchment.”
Jahna had wondered more often than she cared to admit just how many sins the kind but enigmatic swordmaster had committed. “Do you have a lot of sins?”
His soft chuckle sent a pleasant shiver down her arms. “Not really, at least none I’ll admit to. I’m a simple man of simple means. Besides, I don’t like inviting trouble.” He gestured to the teapot. “Now, let’s pour the tea, and I’ll tell you what my master told me about the legendary Beotra.”
Radimar spoke and Jahna wrote until her ink ran out. She shook her quill and peered into the dregs of black morass coating the glass. “I’m out of ink.”
Radimar gestured to the guttering torches. “Pitch and wick as well, and the hour is late. We’ll need to seek our beds. Did what I tell you satisfy your curiosity?”
Not even close, but his beguiling voice had be a joy to listen to and lent depth to the tale of Beotra, swordswoman of legend. “I think it only whetted it more, but I thank you, Sir Radimar. Would you be willing to tell me more about Ilinfan and its teachers later?” Her father would likely peel off a strip of her hide if he knew she pestered the swordmaster as much as she did, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him (or her), and so far Radimar hadn’t shown any irritation regarding her constant questions.
“I’ll bargain with you,” he said “Train with your brother and me every morning instead of every other morning, and I’ll give up all of Ilinfan’s secrets to you after supper on those nights your father doesn’t require my company or I’m not teaching your brother additional swordplay.”
Mornings promised to be painful, sweaty and exhaustive. Jahna leapt at the offer. “Our bargain is made, Sir Radimar.” At his insistence, she and Sodrin had abandoned the more formal convention and addressed the swordmaster as simply “Sir Radimar.” As their teacher, he was even more informal with their names.
She held out her hand, and he clasped it in his, giving a light squeeze before letting go. She liked his hands with their callused palms and long, bony fingers. Tiny scars decorated their backs, memories of nicks and cuts he must have received when he trained as a student of an Ilinfan swordmaster.
The days bled into weeks, then months as the seasons waxed and waned at Hollowfell. Jahna spent the early hours of her days practicing with Sodrin, the afternoons working with the estate’s housekeeper in managing the large household and the evenings either reading to her father or recording Radimar’s tales of Ilinfan.
She had warned him that what she wrote down, she’d send to Dame Stalt to read. “So if there’s something you don’t want her to know about Ilinfan, don’t tell me.” She’d never lie to him. He was an honorable man and respected the trait in others. It hadn’t taken long for Jahna to realize she desperately wanted to earn his respect in many things, including this.
He had shrugged, unconcerned, an approving glint in his eyes that made her blood sing. “I doubt I’m telling you anything some earlier dame didn’t already record or that isn’t common knowledge, but I thank you for the warning, Jahna.”
Their comfortable routine was interrupted one late autumn day by visitors to Hollowfell. Jahna groaned under her breath at the sight of the house banner fluttering in the breeze as the point rider in the small entourage led the way to the Hollowfell gates. Lord Uzbec was once more gracing her father’s home with his presence and that of his latest wife.
She sighed and left the balcony on which she sat, working at an illumination she planned to present to Radimar right before they all traveled to the capital for Delyalda months from now. She closed her paint jars, rinsed her brushes and sanded the illumination to hurry along the drying time. Her maid arrived, a stack of folded garments in her arm. She opened her mouth to speak.
Jahna forestalled her with a raised hand. “Are the housekeeper and cook panicking?”
The maid carefully laid her burden on the bed with a smile. “If they aren’t yet, they will be. Your father has asked that you wear one of your finest gowns to greet Lord Uzbec and his family. I brought this one for you, and I’ll take care of your hair when you’re ready.”