The elderly man walked with grace unbefitting his age. Each step was measured, every movement of his muscles without thought or care, but precise. The white saya slung across his back held what appeared to be a masterfully crafted sword. Shinta trailed behind him, the rusty shortsword that had brought him back to his senses still clutched in his calloused hand. He did not know this man, but there seemed something of the familiar about him.

  "Why did you purchase me?" Shinta inquired. "I will not kill for you. If I can help it, I will never shed another drop of human blood."

  "Don't be na?ve, nephew, sometimes blood must be paid. The glory in a Knight is in paying the cost himself or exacting the price from the enemy and leaving the innocent wealthy with life." The man's tone was stern, but not harsh. He spoke as one with a clear understanding and assurance of the state of the world.

  "Nephew?" Shinta exclaimed, a puzzled look distorting his plain features. "What do you mean by calling me that?"

  The elderly man walked on in measured silence, the road before him stretched through the Furrato Plains headed southwest toward the Buthani lands on the corner of the Great Loch. He did not seem to be attentive to Shinta, so the young man allowed himself to slow, letting the distance between the two lengthen. He was not wearing any restraints, and though his robes were tattered, his sandals were good enough to run. Six paces. The young man counted off as was the habit of his training. Seven paces. In a fight, whether by sword or fist or any other, the distance between a man and his opponent is everything. Eight paces. Acting too hastily can lead to death, too late, and you will be unable to react as is necessary to parry, block, dodge, or counter as appropriate. Nine paces.

  Shinta's mind was calm as he cradled the rusty sword and watch the distance between him and the old man swell like a puddle in heavy rain. Ten paces. Soon. The elder man stepped still farther away. Now! Shinta turned three-quarters of the way back towards the direction from which they had come and engaged all his strength in a mad dash away from his new master off the road and across the open plain. He felt brief exultation in his escape, not daring to look back, hoping that his departure had gone unnoticed.

  Shinta ran until his legs turned to water beneath him, and the fire in his chest bent down to meet with the liquid. He breathed hard, then inhaled sharply and forced himself to hold it. The man who can't control his breath defeats himself. In a short while, he had regained himself and allowed the luxury of looking back.

  "A mere ten paces, nephew. Do you think so little of me?" The elderly man was there, his lips curled in a pitying smile.

  Shinta gaped, dumbstruck by the apparition now in front of him. How...

  "It was a nice little jaunt, nephew, but now we are quite out of our way. Nevertheless, I am glad your training seems to have been solidly done, albeit incomplete. Your speed and endurance are unequaled to most men, but they are not yet a thing of legend." A smile crossed his face, and his plain features shone with a composed benevolence that brought something regal to his mien. "No, not yet."

  #

  "My great uncle was magnificent, Sire. His compassion was a miracle I had not experienced in my lifetime of brutality, but that did not diminish his capacities as my teacher. He was relentless in his pursuit of my perfection."

  "Indeed, as the greatest teachers are." The king thought of Mareth, his conscience condemning his poor treatment of the old Sage.

  The door to the council room swung wide as the two thought of their training, and Ariadne strode in wearing high leather boots, tight riding pants, and a dueling doublet. Her long crimson hair was fashioned into a warrior's braid like those worn by the Buthani Hamia, Tribal Protectors of fierce capability. On her hip she wore an elegantly crafted rapier, and in her hand was a simple wooden version almost alike to the blade at her side.

  She looked up stunned for a moment, as if caught in an act of greatest vileness. "Father..." She sputtered, "And Sir Knight" she gave a slight nod, to which the Swordsman replied with a too-deep bow. "I, was just coming to find a place to... oh what am I saying? I came here hoping to use the open space of the room to practice my forms away from prying eyes."

  Theon's eyebrow rose, and he shot a glance at the still-bowing Swordsman, "So, Shinta was once your name? A soft name for a swordsman I would say... I shall have to think more on this, and the remainder of your tale will have to wait."

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The swordsman looked up, composing himself, but not perfectly as the faint red of his cheeks betrayed something to the King. "As you wish, Sire. I will take my leave."

  "Nonsense! Young Swordsman. Lord Kerras has been teaching my daughter the blade" he looked at Ariadne and winked, "Did you think he would not tell me? I approve wholeheartedly your desire to have a means by which to defend yourself, though I know not what situation you may be involved in which might necessitate such a means..." He trailed off as he stood and then looked back at the Swordsman, "I think perhaps, as the finest blademaster in the City, that you should test my daughter's progress."

  The effect this produced on the Swordsman was not insignificant, but he was able to stifle most of his emotions and return to his typical repose shortly enough. "As you wish, Sir." He turned with juttering movements, much of his fluidity gone for the moment, and faced Ariadne, and bowed again.

  "Princess," he began, "we can commence whenever you like. I wish for you to strike me in the heart."

  Ariadne nodded and raised her wooden sword with one hand and sunk into a duelist stance.

  The Swordsman raised his hand, his composure returning to him now more fully, resting in the known world of combat, "No, Princess. This you must do with a real blade."

  The King nodded his approval, and took his leave.

  Ariadne gawked. Her mind raced, but she would not shrink from a challenge. She threw down her practice sword and drew her rapier with not a little too much gusto, almost letting it slip from her fingers as she did so.

  "Good." The swordsman said, his voice now returned to its calculating calm, any shred of emotion removed. He stood still, his hands behind his back in a position of perfect composure. "Now, My Lady, strike me through the heart!" A fire seemed to burn in his eyes as he said this, and Ariadne was shaken. The tip of her sword wobbled as her hands shook. Her heart began to gallop in her chest like a mighty throng of wild horses. Her vision blurred, the edges fading into mists while the swordsman, and the point on his chest, was of perfect clarity.

  She took a step, feeling out the distance between them while the swordsman's keen gaze set upon her with awful weight. "Seven paces, Princess."

  Confused she staggered in her next step, the voice of the Swordsman ringing out again, "Six paces." He had not drawn his sword, had not moved from his spot, had hardly breathed. What in the Void is he? He is nothing like Lord Kerras... She took more steps towards him, each one followed by the percussion of his counting.

  "Why do you hesitate, Princess?" The swordsman's voice was iron. "Strike me. You saw with your own eyes my strength. You saw the ease with which I could have dispatched your Father, My King. I am dangerous. Here is your chance to destroy that danger. Pierce my heart!"

  Her legs shook on her next step, the whole of her body resisting the commands she felt were wrong beyond imagining.

  The Swordsman got louder, his voice echoing through the council chamber, "Strike me down, Princess. END ME!" His cry had the flavor of madness, and it filled Ariadne's mouth with gall.

  Her shaking became worse and worse until she could no longer hold her feet. The fear he instilled in her was as a thing deranged, a rabid beast tearing through her body. She sank to her knees, holding the rapier hilt with both hands and began to weep. Instantly the Swordsman was there, slowing her descent and holding her as she sank down.

  "I am sorry, my Princess. I knew no other way." The steel of his eyes softened and his sad, kindly demeanor returned. "The will to kill is not an easy thing, but you will need it if you are to master the sword – though it is no great loss to desire never to kill."

  Ariadne dropped the blade and hugged the Swordsman, the impropriety of which shocked him into total silence. She wept on his shoulder.

  After a brief time, she caged the emotions that had consumed her and regained her royal composure. She laughed a self-pitying laugh, "I guess I did not quite realize what I was doing when asking to train in the sword." Her voice was clear though her face still shone with glistening trails where tears once ran riot. Ariadne raised herself up, the Swordsman supporting her slightly as she did so, and then she stepped back and wiped her face.

  "Alright then. I shall have to redouble my efforts with this new knowledge. Though I do not think your cruelty was merited." Her eyes flashed in passing anger.

  The swordsman was forced to take a step back, his will unequal to her momentary wrath. "Perhaps not, my Lady. I only know the manner in which I was taught. Perhaps I am not the best teacher for you. I apologize for your pains, though not, if you may forgive me, for the lesson which I believe was still taught."

  "Taught indeed, Swordsman. Lord Kerras will not be pleased."

  "You may reprimand me as you will, Princess"

  "No, Sir Knight, you misunderstand me," she said with feigned gravitas, "he will not be pleased to lose another student to your tutelage."

  The swordsman tilted his head in the manner of dogs when they are confused and merely replied, "As you wish, Princess."

  "I will make the arrangements with my father so you will have time to teach me between your other duties. Farewell, Master." Her voice was cheery, but her heart seemed torn. I must become a warrior in truth. My father thinks me ignorant of his plans to depart, but when he does, it is I who must be able to rule, and strength will be required.

  She turned and walked away without another word. He is the strongest of them all. Who better to learn from?