Mael had been the Cantii equivalent of a dimachaerus, an absolute genius with two blades. Growing up, he had developed a series of drills for himself. For two years he’d tried to get me to fight two-handed with him, but I’d been happy with my sword and shield and spear. And the other young Cantii warriors soon tired of getting themselves beaten black and blue fighting against him. So, mostly, he fought the weathered stump of an ancient, lightning-blasted oak. Mael used it as a practice post, and the old forest guardian bore the scars of its encounters with his blades graciously. I thought about all the times I’d sat in the grass watching him practice, and wondered if I could reproduce those patterns from memory.
There was only one way to find out.
I walked over to the stable post and took up a ready stance in front of it. I closed my eyes for a moment and remembered the rhythms, the sounds of the patterns of Mael’s drills. Then slowly, tentatively, I began to emulate them. At first, I was clumsy. Awkward. And then, gradually less so.
I could feel the heat of the sun moving across my back, shifting from one shoulder to the other before the clack-clack-clack of my swords against the stable post began to sound like something other than a demented woodpecker. I don’t know how much longer it was before I fell so deeply into the patterns that I closed my eyes and the rhythm didn’t break, or even slow down.
Left high-left side, right low-right side, left low-right side, right high-right side, sweep and switch . . .
The patterns changed and became more complex as I practiced. I felt, for the first time since the morning of the Lughnasa feast, as if Mael were right there, close enough for me to reach out and touch. I almost felt as if his spirit guided my blades for real. But when the heat of the sun on my left shoulder went cold—blotted out by a shadow—my eyes snapped open. I saw the silhouette of a crested helmet on the barn wall in front of me. Without thinking, I spun around, both wooden blades slashing horizontally through the air.
“Aiy!” Decurion Caius Varro yelped, leaping back to avoid the blows.
My momentum carried me forward, and suddenly, as if released from a spell that had kept me mesmerized as I’d practiced, I felt the full weight of exhaustion hit me. I staggered a few steps toward the Decurion, who put out a hand to stop me from falling on my face.
“Tell me,” he said after a moment, “are you going to get tired of attacking me anytime soon?”
I glared at him, silent except for the breath heaving in and out of my lungs.
“Working on that wrist strength, I see.”
“What are you doing here?” I panted.
His lip twitched with amusement. “I was watching you,” he said. “It was quite entertaining. And enlightening. I’m not sure what grudge you bear that poor stable post, but it’s obvious you have some real talent and some training.”
“Some,” I agreed dryly.
He nodded. “But you’re clutching your weapons too tightly. You’re sacrificing accuracy and fluidity for brute force.”
I rolled my eyes and brushed past him so I could return the wooden blanks I’d been using to the pile for finishing. But when I looked down at them, I saw that they were ruined, with the unpolished edges dented and hewed to splinters. I threw them into the basket of scrap wood beneath the table. It was possible the Decurion had a point, but I certainly wasn’t going to tell him that.
I sat down on the bench beside the table and kneaded at the burning in my neck muscles with tingling fingers. After a moment, I realized that the Decurion was still standing there watching me. There was a look of curiosity—or maybe it was uncertainty—on his face.
“What are you really doing here, Decurion?” I asked.
He sat down on the other end of the bench and clawed at the chinstrap of his helmet, lifting it off his head. His hair was damp with sweat from the day’s hot sun and plastered to his scalp until he scrubbed his palm briskly over his head to make it bristle.
“Officially?” He shrugged. “I’m running errands on behalf of Caesar to his Lanista.”
“And unofficially?”
“Satisfying my curiosity. Or trying to . . .” He glanced over at me and paused for a moment, as if trying to decide whether or not to continue. Then he asked, “What does a mark in the shape of a knotted triple raven mean to you?”
My breath stopped in my throat, and everything around me seemed to get very quiet. Even the singing of the birds in the trees died to silence. And in that stillness, I could hear the Morrigan’s throaty dream-voice whisper my name. Was she telling me to trust him? Or was she trying to warn me?
“Why do you ask?”
“Why don’t you tell me?” he countered. “If your expression is any indication, it clearly means something.”
Of course it meant something. It was the symbol of my goddess and the brand that had marked my blade. I had no idea why he was asking, but even the way he posed the question made me cautious. I didn’t know how to answer, and so instead, I just stared at the donkey, which stared back, no help at all.
“All right.” The Decurion sighed. “Let me tell you a little story.”
I eyed him warily and stayed silent, listening.