The outskirts of Tyre were lush and green, just as they had been on their first visit, after the liberation of Fiana. Back then, Thomas had thought the grass looked brighter. Today, it only felt quiet.

  The sea wind caught in his hair, thick and brown, pushing salt against his lips. In his hands, he held two wooden wasters he’d bought in the town square with the last of his coin.

  Just once.

  He wanted to test himself against her. Not in the chaos of battle. Not while arrows fell and men screamed.

  She was always the one dictating the flow of combat. At Ayyadieh. At Iss. He followed her lead. He survived because she saw what he didn’t.

  He was supposed to protect her.

  Instead, he chased after her shadow.

  What kind of knight did that make him?

  Beyond the low rise of grass, the sea stretched in a pale blue sheet, restless but distant. Fishing boats drifted near the harbour, their sails half-lowered, ropes creaking softly in the wind. His hair rustled in the wind as he stared at the waster, and then threw it to his Deputy.

  “Thomas,” Ava said quietly, “there are other ways to train.”

  She didn’t look at him when she spoke. Her gaze had drifted downward, to her hands.

  Her face contorted at the sight of them.

  “You could practice your shooting,” she went on. “Or strike a post. I am not certain I would make a suitable partner as I—"”

  He tightened his grip on the wasters.

  “You are too far above my current skill level?” Thomas raised his eyebrow. Ava could not meet his gaze.

  The wind shifted, harsher now.

  Ari sat cross-legged in the grass, tracing circles in the air around drifting clouds. She looked bored.

  Khalid did not. The boy watched the wooden blades with unblinking focus.

  Thomas swallowed.

  “Deputy Ava,” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice, “I have never seen your swordsmanship clearly. In battle, there is too much chaos. I would learn a great deal, and the knights in the Third Company would speak to how you perfected their craft.”

  Ava shifted her weight. Thomas stayed still.

  “Who taught you fencing, Deputy?”

  “I had the usual instructors at the Temple,” she said. A pause. “And later… the Marshal.”

  The word lingered.

  She stepped back and raised the waster.

  Her stance was precise. The hilt hovered near her lips for a fleeting second, as if she were kissing them, as if she was performing a ritual for her victim. Thomas could only thank God they were not using steel.

  “If you wish to spar,” she said, “then let us not waste the afternoon.”

  There it was again, that smile she always forced.

  Thomas set his feet. One back, one forward. Blade angled high.

  “Yes, Deputy.”

  They circled. No one spoke.

  Seagulls cried overhead, and the wind pressed at their cloaks. Wood hovered inches apart, neither committing.

  Khalid leaned forward. Thomas exhaled.

  “Expect no mercy,” he said, more to himself than her.

  Ava’s mouth trembled faintly.

  “In the Holy Land?” she paused, “No such thing.”

  He moved first, lunging, his blade rose overhead, with a swift swing.

  Wood collided, Thomas flew back on Ava’s blade, its foundation rigid and firm. Thomas had not noticed her waster move, or her foot shift until he had hit wood. He reeled from the impact.

  Thomas stumbled slightly, adjusting his footing, but Ava barely gave him time to recover, by the time he had recomposed, she was already back in range.

  “On guard, Thomas!” she shouted as she darted towards him, viciously striking with a horizontal swing.

  “Gyah!” he yelled.

  Thomas barely blocked, with the wood sliding down his waster, he barely managed to deflect as he lept back.

  His gaze turned wild, desperate, he needed to understand where she would attack next.

  Her strikes were fast. Too fast, when he blinked, her blade had changed direction in an instant. It took all he could to match her pace.

  Aggressive, ruthless.

  Instinctual.

  He understood now why she’d been promoted to Deputy Captain, why the Third Company started to call her the Hero of Fiana. What she lacked in raw power, she made up the difference in speed.

  Thomas stared at Ava’s stance, trying to find a weakness, an opening—anything that would help him win, just as he saw something, a sliver of hope.

  She shifted stance.

  Her sword hilt changed levels, from her lips to her pelvic region, her footing shifted too, less side on, more square.

  Ava’s defense was wide open.

  She was mocking him.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Rage stirred. Ayyadieh. Iss. The Ayyubid general she saved him from. The way she turned back into danger without hesitation. The name Philip on her lips in sleep.

  The way she treated him like a boy.

  “Argh!”

  Thomas stepped in with a direct thrust, committing fully, shoulder and hip driving through the line.

  He felt the contact before he understood it.

  His blade was knocked slightly off-line, not violently, just enough. At the same moment she had shifted her weight and side-stepped his center. The movement was small. He had seen the opening, but he had not seen her close it.

  A light strike tapped against his skull.

  …

  Ava wiped her brow as she sat underneath the sun of the Levant. It shined so radiantly overhead, with Thomas, and the children with her, it was so peaceful.

  Yet she knew it couldn’t last.

  Her dreams, the shadows of the dead, Philip’s name engraved on the tombstone, it must be a message from God. She wasn’t safe.

  None of them were.

  Ava turned as she wiped more sweat off of her to face Thomas, who stared at his waster, mulling over the grip, over every strike and slash, occasionally he would mutter.

  How did she dodge? How did she block that?

  Thomas’ movements, they made her heart twinge, she remembered that obsession, that hunger to improve her swordplay after a loss.

  After all, Louis had bested her so many times in the Temple, and unlike the small tap Ava had given Thomas, he would not stay his blade like she did.

  She clutched her stomach once again, there it was again, the pain did not come from Thomas’ swordmanship, he failed to land even a single blow—Ava was half a mind to apologise, maybe she kept the pace too fast, even more experienced knights, like Malcolm, could seldom keep up with her speed.

  “Damn it!” Thomas yelled.

  Ava noticed the children staring, Ava noticed Khalid’s glare, and her gaze dropped to his belt.

  He still had his dagger at his waist.

  She half contemplated taking it, but he looked so troubled, his eyes screamed, as if he was still alive purely by his refusal to give in. For all her prayers, all her consultations with Bishop Alexei, the look in his eyes refused to diminish.

  “Thomas?” Ava queried, “Are you okay? Did I strike you too hard…”

  “No!” he yelled, “Don’t go easy on me, Deputy… I can’t afford to be a burden anymore, if I can’t even hope to stand against you, why even bring me to the field?”

  Ava saw his eyes well, those deep brown eyes, filled with strife, she went in to pat his shoulder, yet he swatted it away.

  “Thomas—”

  “If I can’t fend off a few Saracens—”

  “Muslims.” Ava corrected him.

  “Deputy!” Thomas stood, hands trembling, tears in his eyes, “Why? Why do you call them that?”

  Her voice faltered, she looked down at the floor.

  “Is it…” Thomas began, “Is because of that man, the one that appears in your dreams?”

  Ava’s palms began to sweat, they always did when this topic was approached, in her dreams, in her thoughts, alone and with Grainne, her steed.

  She prayed he would not name him.

  “Is it, is it Philip, the one you call out to, at night…”

  She looked to Khalid. The shape of his face. The dark hair. The Levantine sun against olive skin. So much like his.

  “Yes,” she said at last, the word barely a breath.

  She lifted her gaze to the sky.

  “He taught me things I did not understand. That words matter. That what we call ordinary may wound another. He taught me that even an enemy deserves dignity.”

  Her eyes met Thomas’.

  “They are not saved,” she said quietly. “They are wrong about God… they call Him Allah. But they are human.”

  A beat.

  “And I will not deny that.”

  At the name Allah, Khalid perked his head, and began to walk towards Ava and Thomas, his hair swaying side to side, seemingly hiding his eyes.

  “Deputy,” Thomas pointed to Khalid, “I think the boy wants you.”

  Ava walked towards him, meeting him where he was, the wind blowing both their hairs, his olive skin distracted her greatly.

  He murmured words more or less indecipherable. Ava knew of the language they called it, they called it Arabic, yet the tongue eluded her, she tried to learn, and she could only pick up a few phrases, yet Khalid had learned fast.

  “Sword…” he muttered, “Sword… to me…”

  Thomas stared at Khalid, then Ava, then the boy again, and let out a roar of laughter.

  “Oh, Deputy, the boy thinks he can best you, isn’t that funny.”

  Ava sat in silence, she saw Khalid’s eyes, whatever went on in his head, did not call for laughter, she saw the same look in too many soldiers, in too many orphans.

  Sometimes, in herself.

  Thomas handed him his waster, and there it was again.

  That flash of wrath.

  Thomas stepped back, to give Ava and Khalid their space, he parked himself next to Ari, who was off picking flowers.

  “Try not to lose too badly, boy!” Thomas yelled, “She’s a real handful!”

  Khalid paid no attention to Thomas, his gaze laid solely on Ava as she sighed and slinged her waster on her shoulder.

  “Boy, are you sure we have to—”

  He cut her off as he pulled the knife Ava gave him, technique to the wayside as he lunged and thrashed, wood and steel flying everywhere, with wild abandon as he held the waster in one hand, knife in the other.

  No. This was not the intention Ava had when he gave him the knife.

  Ava side-stepped and evaded the blows, he was untrained, that was for sure. At least one comfort came from seeing the boy.

  The Holy Land had not yet taught him the brutalities of war firsthand.

  Ava lept back, creating space as she saw Khalid panting, his hair as wild as his eyes, like a beast.

  A small sigh escaped her lips, why did sparring always devolve into this.

  …

  Bayeux, Normandy — 1186 AD — The Temple of the Silver Sword

  Snow fell in dull, methodical sheets as Ava panted, her footing sloppy, her back hunched, as she faced him. The field empty except for them.

  Training dummies were scattered across the training grounds, some coated with sheets of snow, Ava herself felt like her fingers would freeze around the hilt of her sword. It’s weight extra apparent in the freezing cold.

  Louis stood opposite her, one hand on his hip, the other, a blade in his hand, its edge cold and precise. He stared at her, mocking her, baiting her into a swing.

  “You hate me, don’t you Aveline?” Louis smirked.

  She stayed quiet, she knew what he was trying to do, and she knew not to fall for it, she knew she could not be desperate in front of him, so she bided her time, waiting to strike.

  “What’s the matter, Aveline?” he tapped his sword on his shoulder, cloak fluttering in the snowy climate, “Do you not want to attack me, do you not want to hurt me?”

  He let out a slight smirk, “Did you forget the sight of Philip, naked, bloodied and bruised.”

  Her heart pounded, and her feet moved before she could even think.

  “Die! You monster!” she yelled, she flipped her blade in reverse grip, aiming for his throat.

  Ava did not reach, instead her wrists were bound by his, he had dropped his sword at the last moment, binding Ava in a hold she wreathed to get out of.

  “Ugh!” she yelled.

  She spat in his face, her stare unwavering. His grip tightened, she screamed.

  Louis tightened it more, her wrists turning blue from the lack of circulation…

  Until.

  Bone hit flesh, the world faded to black, the last Ava saw was Louis’ knee leaving her abdomen as fluid spat out of her mouth.

  …

  Ava saw those eyes, wild as hers was, those nights spent sparring with Louis. Yet she couldn’t possibly understand why, how could she possibly help the boy out of his hatred?

  Khalid lunged, this time with the knife, primed and ready to strike…

  Ava dropped her waster, her hands encircled his.

  He stared deep, into those eyes, and whispered.

  “What could you be looking at… Khalid…” Ava whispered, her brow warped with sorrow.

  She extended her legs outwards, and swept him off his feet, he fell shoulder first, and his weapons fell with a thud. Ava heard a sharp whistle from Thomas in the background.

  As she walked off, she saw it again, the relentless rise Khalid made, how he gripped the dry grass of the Levant, how his eyes screamed he would try again.

  Thomas’ gaze shifted, from Ava and Khalid, and when his eyes stopped shifting, his mouth moved.

  “Deputy…” he said, in a low tone, “That boy… I think he really meant to hurt you…”

  Ava shook her head, “Don’t be daft Thomas, he’s only a boy…”

  She looked at Khalid’s eyes again, deep and brown, deep with pain, deep with passion.

  Sea wind caught in her hair, the salt sat in her eyes, yet that was not why her eyes felt more damp than normal, and when she made adequate distance with the other three, she could not resist it.

  It was all she could, should not help but clasp her hands together in prayer.

  “O Father, who art in Heaven… please, guide this poor child, for I am failing…”