Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

He repeated the movements slowly, explaining as he went. Then he dismissed Kosenmark to one side and told Ilse to take his place.

Kosenmark sat by the wall, while Ilse took his place. Ault studied her stance a moment. “Almost, Mistress Ilse. More like this.” His hands pushed and pulled her arms, shoulders, and feet until he was satisfied. “Now, hold out your left hand and make a fist.”

She did so. He grasped her wrist.

“Think of someone you hate,” Ault said under his breath. “Imagine they have just captured you.”

Her father. Alarik Brandt. Theodr Galt.

“Which one?” she whispered.

“The one you wish most to break free of.”

Ilse looked into his face and tried to picture Theodr Galt. No, she had escaped him thoroughly. Brandt, then. For a moment, she panicked. She fought down the panic. Concentrating on doing exactly what Ault showed her, she stepped left and pulled hard. Ault gripped tighter. Ilse jerked her hand back. When she felt him loosen his grip, she twisted free. What came next? A strike. And another. She tried copying Ault’s fluid movements, but she could guess how clumsy she looked.

“Make the fist before I grab you,” he said as she rubbed her sore wrists. “Then relax your hand and move fast. We’ll do it slowly until you learn the motions, however.”

They practiced that move a dozen times. Ault showed her two more techniques, both starting from the same position. Once she had them memorized, he made her repeat each one slowly at first, while he critiqued her every move. The next round he exhorted her to move as quickly as she could. By the time he announced the lesson was over, her arms and wrists ached.

“Good enough for one day,” he said, nodding. “We’ll repeat these techniques tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. Now sit over there and watch. You might learn something from Lord Kosenmark’s lesson.” He turned toward Kosenmark, who was already standing. “Shall we show her steel, my lord? Or do you prefer the wooden practice blades?”

Kosenmark’s teeth flashed in the bright sunlight. “Steel, Benedikt. It fits my mood today.”

Ault and Kosenmark selected their swords from the rack. “First position,” said Ault, raising his sword.

“Ready.”

Ault’s blade swung toward Kosenmark’s. A quick series of strikes and blocks followed, the swords moving so fast they changed into bright blurs as metal caught sunlight. Ilse held her breath. There was a pattern, she could almost see it from how one blade turned and twisted and met the other in a crash, and then the same happened but in reverse as Kosenmark and Ault each took turns advancing or retreating across the yard. Ault, of course, was the master, and every movement showed it, but Kosenmark was far faster and more agile than she had expected. He was strong, too; more than once he caught Ault’s sword and nearly wrenched it from his grip.

It made Ilse think how strength and skill were not enough. So many other factors could change a man’s life within a heartbeat.

I believed I was safe, too, she thought. Safe from Brandt. Safe from her father.

She began to see why Kosenmark had offered her the gift of these lessons. There were no guarantees, but with the right instruction, she could learn how to keep away from dangerous choices such as those that led her into servitude with men like Alarik Brandt.

Or if she could not avoid them entirely, how to break a hold, turn a weapon, run toward freedom.

Kosenmark sent her a glancing smile as he dodged a thrust from Ault. He was still smiling, grinning as he parried the next stroke.

That is what I want, Ilse thought. I want to be fast. Strong. Like him.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

ILSE REPORTED TO the practice courtyard early the next morning, expecting to find Kosenmark and Ault at their drills. To her surprise, the place was empty except for one long lean cat, which had stretched itself along the crown of the wall in the sunniest spot. It opened one eye lazily, yawned, then shifted to an infinitesimally more comfortable position.

“I wish I were still sleeping,” Ilse said.

The cat’s only response was to twitch one ear.

Benedikt Ault came through the gate. He glanced to where the cat had just moments before lain. He gave a wry smile, as though amused. “I see you are prompt,” he said to Ilse. “Good. Are you also ready?”

“As ready as I can be. Where is Lord Kosenmark?”

Ault opened up the weapons rack, shook his head, closed it. “He went on an errand in the city. We are to start without him.”

He had her work through the same techniques from the day before. More than once, Ilse allowed herself to be distracted by birds flitting past, or the cat, which eventually returned to its post on the wall. Her distraction earned her more than a few bruises and some sharp words from Ault. Trying to concentrate on his instructions, Ilse wondered briefly why she had agreed to these lessons. Because Lord Kosenmark suggested them. Because she wanted to please him. She frowned. No. Because she wanted that same grace and strength she saw in Kosenmark when he fought with Benedikt Ault.

“Better,” Ault said after the twelfth repetition. “Especially considering that you are a beginner. Remember what I told you about imagining your enemy. If you were to face a genuine attacker, you would not need that spur, but then you would also need to know the movements without thinking. Think. Memorize. Think again. Act. Ah, my lord, I’m glad to see you.”