The crunch of pebbles and the whistle of wood alerted him in time to spin and lift his weapon. The blade rang against his opponent's blow, but his assailant was quick: The second stroke forced him back a step when he parried, the third another. Again and again the strokes came as he and the enemy circled in the lamplight, and though he blocked most, by the time his blade had been flung from his hand, his right shoulder, left thigh, and abdomen throbbed from his opponent's attack.

While his assailant went to retrieve his sword, he stumbled over to the stone, nearly knocking the lamp over when he leaned against the rock, hands upon his knees, trying to catch his breath between winces.

The girl who now carried his sword tilted it, and clicked her teeth as she fingered a chip in the steel. "Thou wilt ruin it with our practices," she said at last.

"Not if I learn how to care for it, Shaana" Blackthorn responded. "The blacksmith's apprentice, Chamfort, has already agreed to help me."

Shaana stepped back into the light, tall for her age, and thin, her raven hair so dark that he could almost see naught but her pretty, oval face. She handed the blade back to Blackthorn. "I still do not understand why thou dost treasure it so. 'Tis not the finest blade there is, not even in Yew."

"'Tis the only one I have," said Blackthorn.

Shaana uttered a peevish grunt. "And doth thy father know of the treasure that thou didst steal from his stores?"

"'Twas found!" Blackthorn insisted, and that was true, though his father would wonder how he and Shaana had infiltrated what constituted Yew's armory. Shaana had a way with undoing locks with hairpins and needles. 'Twas how they had invaded the cellar of the Slaughtered Lamb the year before, and both had paid dearly for it the next morning, first in the head from the ale, then in the hide from their fathers.

Shaana was laughing. "Do not worry. I am certain that no one has missed thy prize. 'Twas nearly rust when thou didst find it. But now thou must toss it aside. Defending against me is one thing, but I will not have thee attack me with steel."

"Afraid that I will smite thee?" Blackthorn teased, and picked up the second practice sword that had been lying next to the stone. He raised his weapon and took an offensive stance.

"I'm more afraid of thee skewering thyself," she said, and flipped back her hair. "Now come at me, and prepare to be bruised."

Bruised he was by the end of the hour, and he walked with a slight limp when he and his friend left the stream to return home. A year and more the two had practiced by the stream, and still Blackthorn could not best her.

"'Tis not hard to see why," Blackthorn muttered, when she had mentioned this for a second time. "Thy father is the Captain of Yew's Guard." He winced when he stumbled over a root. "I receive nothing from my father but lectures and books."

"And thou wouldst receive a thrashing if he caught thee with thy toy," Shaana giggled.

"More than likely," Blackthorn admitted. "The man has never lifted a sword in his life, or so he claims. He believes that law is what should rule the civilized man, not the threat of the blade."

Shaana peered at Blackthorn thoughtfully. "Yet he is willing to sentence a man to the blade, should need be."

"Yes, I suppose." Blackthorn murmured. He had not told his father that he disagreed with the decision to execute Windemere. Granted, the law gave his father lee to do so, but so many other factors needed to be considered—