Free Sword by Amy Bai Page B

and acrid as a wind off the Cruxi desert, and lodged unpleasantly in the back of the throat.
    Much like Western demands did of late.
    The heir to House Marsadron thought longingly of the celebration ensuing among the pots below and briefly wished to be a plate-washer, whispering gossip to spit-boys and undercooks. She wished to be two years younger and wide-eyed at Kyali's boldness, Devin's appallingly bawdy lyrics. She wished to be anywhere but where she was now, stiffly uncomfortable and increasingly worried, waiting for her father to produce a solution to an obvious and growing threat to the peace. A frown slipped past her carefully guarded expression, and a volley of glances sailed across the room like arrows.
    * * *
    "Balance. Breathe in. The blade is your mirror. It only reflects you. Breathe out. This is the beginning of real—stop twitching, girl. Breathe in. Follow—no. Breathe. Follow my hand with the point. Be the reflection. Be—gods, straighten up, you look like a felled tree. Better. Now. This is about flow . Be a still pool. Your movements must be smooth. Again. Follow— no , Kyali."
    "I am not a still pool !"
    "It's a thing to think about. It's supposed to help you concentrate."
    "It's not bloody well working!"
    "I see that." Arlen shrugged, expressive as a tree, and folded the little quartz ball, latest and by far the worst of the trials he had inflicted on her, inside a fist. Kyali clenched her hands, too flustered even to scowl. "So. We've found something you're not good at."
    Her sullen slouch unbent itself in a hurry. Her teacher matched her stare for stare, an uncommon amusement crinkling his dark eyes, which sparked gold with reflected light. The realization that it was her own eyes his mirrored cooled her temper.
    I'm as transparent as Taireasa , she thought despairingly, and schooled her expression with fierce concentration, though she had to turn away to manage it.
    A pebble soared past her ear. Sword came free of sheath without thought. She glowered, her blade far too close to Arlen's throat, fighting to keep her face smooth.
    "Like that," Arlen remarked, as casually as if they were discussing last year's barley crops.
    A tic began under her right eye. "Like what?" Kyali said, careful not to let her voice get to the volume it wanted to.
    He might not have noticed. Except, of course, he had. Sometimes it seemed Arlen spent his days coming up with new ways to make her shout, or pitch something into the brush where she would be obliged to spend a prickly half hour trying to find it.
    "You should move like that ," he explained, infuriatingly calm. "The ball won't stay on the blade unless it's either moving flawlessly or held perfectly still, girl—a concept worth more than a few thoughts from you, I might add. You do well enough when you're surprised into it, at least. I was starting to think I might have found your limits after all."
    Words failed her. Again. Something like a growl crawled out of her throat. All she had was the sword in her hands, and that she could hardly throw.
    Arlen tilted an eyebrow. "Not giving up, were we?"
    Her anger cooled abruptly, as it always did when goaded long enough, into a composed and hostile precision of thought. Eyes narrowed, she twisted the sword up and arranged her limbs. Arlen lobbed the ball in a gentle arc, reading her intention better than she would have liked him to. It landed on the flat of her blade and her hands tilted the steel in tiny, frantic increments until it caught in the center groove and held... held—
    Stilled, sitting on her sword.
    All the breath left her body. Her eyes met Arlen's over the flash of trapped sunlight in the crystal. Kyali clung fiercely to a startling upwelling of confidence and began breathing in pattern. Without allowing herself to think about it, she brought the sword up and around in the first of the Forms, listening in distant amazement to the soft grind of stone on metal.
    The ball stayed, sliding smoothly in the