Movement I: Etude

    Malron looked at his lord’s willful daughter and sighed. He should have known that Haleth being Haleth, she would have returned to his armory eventually for true lessons, rather than being content with the sporadic instruction he had given her. She was also not wearing skirts for the first time in ten years, when she had become a woman and her father had ordered her to dress like one.
    “Haleth—” he began, but she swept over his voice and ignored his unspoken protest.
    “Teach me, Malron,” she said. “Teach me more swordscraft. You’ve continued the lessons even after my father forbade you to, but they were irregular. If you are going to defy my father’s will, then you might as well teach me more. I know the basics; I could be one of those boys fighting out there. I may even be better by now, for I practice every day. And yet they are allowed to fight and to shed their blood for their people, while I, daughter of Haldad, must cower behind walls.” Her tone dripped with scorn, but he did not rebuke her, for he understood her and did not understand why Haldad refused to let his daughter train in swordscraft when it might one day save her life. Still, he made at least a token effort against her to test the strength of will in her words. Was she willing to openly defy her father?
    “Your father—”
    “Do you truly think that my father’s words will aid against the orcs when they sweep upon this place? If this is to our people’s end, then I will die fighting beside them, a warrior’s daughter to the last. Do not lie to me, Malron. It is exceedingly unlikely that the Eldar will come to aid us—or if they do come, they will not come in time. And the orcs will breach these walls eventually. They have numbers and time on their side.”
    He sighed; he should have also known that he could not keep the truth from Haleth’s keen wit and cool reasoning. Truly told, he thought that Haleth should have been—and should be—her father’s heir, not Haldar. Oh, Haldar was an honorable man and a fine warrior, but he did not have the charisma his father did. But in Haleth—in his lord’s daughter there raged a fire of willfulness and strength, the courage of leadership. He once would have gladly died for his lords Haldad and Haldar, but in these latter years his heart had been given to Haleth, and he would swear himself as her liegeman and have her as his liege lord.
    “Haleth, perhaps if I speak with your father—”
    It was her turn to sigh with mingled affection and exasperation. “Don’t expect me to believe the lies you mouth, Malron, when you yourself do not.”
    He closed his eyes and then opened them again, saying, “May the Valar judge me by my intentions rather than my actions, and may Tulkas aid you should you ever need the teaching I give you.” Haleth smiled with triumph, but he said warningly, “This is no victory for you, Haleth, or at least you may believe so in the years to come. I will not go easy on you as I did before, for then it was play. Now—you will need it should the orcs break through. Nay,” he corrected himself, “when the orcs break through.”
    She nodded, impassive and unshakable, already planning for what was to come. “How long?”
    He drew in a deep breath. “If your lord father does not make any mistakes, three moons at least. A year at most.”
    “And if he does?”
    He met her cool gaze, and wondered that her people called her fire-woman, for that she was but in her also lay ice. She deserved to know the truth, and he realized with a start that the wayward girl he had known and had trained half in jest many years ago was gone. In that girl’s place stood a woman, her back unbowed and steel in her face, though she was but twenty years of age. “Then, my lady Haleth, we will not last past the day he does not.”
    She looked stricken at that, and she swallowed a lump in her throat. Father cannot die! But she quickly rallied and presented her icy mask to him once more, and he approved. If she wished to become a warrior—and perhaps she dared hope, a leader—she needed to learn how to control herself, especially her emotions. Haldad might have denied the truth, and Haldar brashly proclaimed that the Eldar would save them, but not Haleth. Drawing herself up tall, she met his eyes, for Haleth was a tall woman, and said levelly, “We had better hope that he does not, then. Come now, train me, Malron.”
    Already she had learned to draw the aura of command about her, something her brother did not have. If her brother was a hound, an amiable and friendly creature that bayed his news for all to hear, she was a mixture of wolf and lynx, intimidating, deadly, silent, steadfast, and clever.
    She would need to be all five if she intended to survive the final battle—and after that, if she wished to lead her father’s people. For lead them she would if her brother did not survive, for Haldar would go down fighting, trying to guard his people to the last.
    He tossed a wooden mock-sword at her, and she tried to catch it but missed. She hefted it experimentally, and then her eyes widened, for the stick was weighted with lead.
    “That is your first lesson, and one of the rules of battle, Haleth—always take whatever weapon is handed you, whatever the manner of its giving. You will learn to be prepared for anything, and today you will begin to learn that.”
    He saw Haleth that swallowed her pride at being reduced to what seemed like an insignificant lesson and nodded. To be taught was good enough; she needed to learn to repress her pride.
    Malron watched her internal war across her face, and nodded in satisfaction when she mastered herself and looked him straight in the eye, as self-possessed as he could have wished.
    “You will find me a quick learner, master Malron,” she said as she held the sword in guard position.
    I hope so, my lady Haleth, for your own sake. I have no wish to see you die, your bright spirit snuffed out because you were not prepared. And so I will teach you what I have never taught anyone, not even your brother—the final rules of the Master of Battles that only Haldad knows but does not understand, for it is the prerogative of rulers to know the rules of the Master. But eventually, not now. You are not yet prepared. You are raw metal still, but can be forged into a true steel weapon of a master’s, flawless and unbreakable. But wait, my lady, and you will be a Master of Battles, truly understanding the spirit of the warrior.
    Betraying none of his thoughts, he inclined his head to her, not as inferior to superior, for the armsmaster was Lord in his ground and second to none, but rather as teacher to pupil.
    “Another rule of battle, Haleth, is not to boast; pride has no place in battle. One day your boast may be turned against you, as everything may be. Whether you are silent or whether you speak, it always has the potential to turn against you.”
    “Then what should I do?” There remained none of the terror and panic that had been in her voice when she had spoken with Haldar, but he could not know that, only marvel at her calm. But there was the slightest tremor in her voice; her brash courage was now tempered by fear. She had met her fear, and then forged it upon the iron anvil of her will and formed it into a weapon. Now she would not snap like cast iron, and Malron saw that as well. She seemed to breathing a little more shallowly, but her eyes were lit with her father’s spirit and the fires of battle. Only her eyes gave away any of her emotions, a window into her soul.
    Again he met her eyes, burning sapphire against steady, inscrutable gray-blue. Though others might have flinched at the blazing determination of her will, he did not for he understood her. “The first rule of battle is to always be prepared for whatever fate throws at you. And the second is to always see everything as a potential threat—and a potential weapon. You will learn them all the rules, Haleth,” he said, raising a hand to forestall her questions, “and one day understand them with your warrior’s blood. For now, believe, accept, and learn.
    “But for now, you need also to learn the third rule of battle: be prepared to lose, and accept that you are not infallible.
    “Fourth rule: battle, even training for battle, hurts.” He paused as he circled closer about her with his wooden sword, then said, “Remember all this, my lady. For if you do not learn the rules of battle above all else, even if you are the greatest warrior who ever lived, you will not survive in battle. This is the lore of wisdom, and will save you when all else fails.” He sliced at her and she blocked him easily, her stick whistling through the air.
    They struggled for long moments, deadlocked, Malron given strength by his years of training, Haleth by her swords-practice and determination not to fail and thus shame herself. Then she was lying on her back, sprawled upon the floor as Malron hooked one foot behind her ankle. The blow must have hurt her even though she had fallen well through the training he had given her, relaxed and not tense. But the floor was wooden, and though he could see her wince, she hid her pain well both because of her own pride and her determination to become a warrior.
    “ ‘Fourth rule: battle, even training for battle, hurts,’ ” she quoted back to him as she took up her stick once more.
    Malron nodded once in acknowledgement but did not praise her. Soft words and actions would only kill her now. But she seemed to understand, for she nodded in return and gave him a fierce grin.
    She did this every time he defeated her in some new way, although he occasionally used the same tricks randomly to teach her to guard against everything. And each time she got up, and repeated the fourth rule of battle.
    She was bruised all over when she left Malron’s hall, almost limping back to her bower with pain. Huge, hand-sized purple marks covered her everywhere and she was panting as she dragged herself to her rooms, one hand clutched to her shoulder where a particularly nasty bruise mottled her fair skin.And yet she was more content and gladdened that she had ever been in her life.

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