Elenya shrugged. "It seems little enough to endure."
Alemar smoothed his long hair back. "That's where you're wrong."
They erected a tent at the far end of the valley, under the shade of two old oaks, in view of the rest of the encampment, but secluded by the distance. They stocked it with a three-day supply of water and food, and Alemar left strict orders that no one was to approach the site unless an emergency arose, such as the arrival of Omril and his army. By dusk, only Wynneth remained with them, until, giving her a hearty embrace, he asked her to leave as well.
"No matter what sounds you hear through the cloth, no one is to disturb us. If I need help, I'll step outside to call for it."
She nodded, kissed him, and left, though Elenya could tell she wanted to stay.
Alemar closed the flap, shutting out the sunset. In the light of the single lamp, his eyes seemed fathoms deep. Elenya involuntarily stepped back.
"What's next?" she asked a little faster than she meant to.
"Clothes off," he said, doffing his shoes.
Elenya undressed more slowly than usual, feeling inhibited, which was strange, because she and her brother had never been shy about being naked together. They had bathed together only an hour before, and she had given the nudity no notice whatsoever. Perhaps it was his gaze, which seemed to penetrate more deeply than ever before, even into regions not shared during their mindspeech.
"Lie down on the blanket," he said, his voice soft and soothing. "On your stomach."
She lowered herself, wrapping her hair, still damp from the bath, into a tail and placing it so that it would not be in her face. The blanket, and the mat beneath it, gave her just the right combination of firm support and cushioning.
Alemar began massaging her. He cupped her toes to warm them, wiggled and slid a finger between each digit. He pressed the side of his thumb firmly into the calluses on her soles, working out the kinks. He alternated with a light, finger-tip stroke. As he reached her ankles, she sighed with pleasure.
He continued up each leg, over tissue sore from the kicking exercises. She hovered at the delicate point between pain and relief. He kneaded her leg muscles until they turned to jelly. She had not realized until now how stiff she had been. He was finding layers of aches, drumming out the stress of the long flight northward, and the battle before that.
By the time he reached her torso, she was almost crying. He gathered small areas of her skin and released, he pressed gently on her lower vertebrae until they shifted, he pounded lightly until the broad muscles of her back let go of their tension. He used fingertips, palms, elbows, forearms, forehead-even his hair, with which he brushed her backside with broad, feathery strokes.
"Where did you learn this?" she murmured.
"No talk. Relax."
She eagerly obeyed. Presently she realized that his movements followed the rhythm of her breathing, first in obvious ways, then with increasing subtlety. Something else was happening, too. Something in the touch itself, the human to human contact. She had never been so aware of the healing nature of hands upon her. It ceased to matter if he were her brother, or a lover, or a stranger-the rightness flowing from his body to hers was palpable, deep-seated, and intense.
Alemar, she bespoke.
No questions. It is happening. Feel it. Where his hands pressed, she could feel an electrical tug; she could almost hear the crackle in the air. Her ears began to ring, a steady note from deep inside her skull.
She let him in.
They had bespoken many times, but those conversations, though intimate, had always been between distinct entities. This time they shared the same place. She could sense him delving deep, rooting out a source of wrongness that, until that moment, she had not realized existed. She felt him hesitate, evaluate, and decide. Then he took her there, to show her what he had discovered.
The lawns of Garthmorron Hold were stiff and itchy, and hot now that the sun had angled past the trees. Her bare feet danced back and forth across the sward, finding purchase, digging in, jumping, until the soles were completely green. The aroma of crushed grass filled her nose. Side-step. Thrust. Twist. The area sang with the rasp of steel on steel.
Her opponent was Alemar. She circled, keeping outside his range. She had the length advantage, thanks to the growth spurt of adolescence that had not yet occurred for him. Though still lean in the hips and completely flat-chested, she towered half a head above him. She strove to maintain control over her breathing, but it was difficult. The practice blade weighed heavily in her hand.
Alemar plunged forward, thrusting. She turned away, but not in time. The tip of his sword jabbed her sharply in the ribs, almost on top of the bruise from his previous thrust. He had taken her twice with the same technique.
They returned to their starting points. Alemar seemed sympathetic, but it was hard to see much of his expression behind the grid of his face mask. He dipped the blunt at the end of his weapon into the paint pot to restore the red coating. She frowned at the marks on her tunic. The garment looked like it had measles. Alemar's displayed only one stain, and that had been made by a different opponent.
She glanced at Troy, but she dared not meet his flinty gaze. She would not whimper or ask for a rest, no matter how tired she was.
"Begin," Troy ordered, though they had not paused any longer than normal.
Alemar moved in, confidently, aggressively. Elenya parried and retreated. She clenched her teeth in frustration. She was better than he. She won well over half their matches. But she was exhausted, and he was fresh.
He "wounded" her in the heart, ending the match.
She sighed and returned to the starting point. At Troy's command, they bowed to each other.
"Alemar may retire."
As her brother returned to the small knot of other young noblemen waiting at the side, Elenya suppressed her tears. Again. Troy was making her spar again. She had fenced all six of the boys twice without resting. She longed to be excused.
Troy stared at her impassively. "Enns, take your place," he commanded.
Enns strutted forward like a peacock, resplendent in his fine beige tunic, already tall and imposing despite being only a year older than Elenya. Her heart sank. Enns was the best of all of Troy's junior pupils, in part because of his age and size, but also because, since early childhood, his rich father had hired none but the best fencing instructors to train him. The best instructors, that is, until Lord Dran had enticed Troy from Calinin South to become the tutor at Garthmorron Hold.
Enns grinned. He had bested her twice that day. The first time she had scored two marks to his three. The second time, none at all. She licked her lips, chapped from panting. Her arms felt as if she wore lead bracelets.
"Begin," Troy said.
Enns rushed in, creating openings for his thrusts by the sheer intimidation of his charge, taking full advantage of her winded condition. She lasted for the space of ten quick heartbeats, until he landed his point in the center of her belly.
She gasped from the violence of the impact. Her tunic was well padded, and the blunts discouraged serious injury, but the precautions assumed a certain amount of consideration on the part of the attacker. As they walked back to their places, the pain next to her navel proved that Enns had been too harsh.
They faced each other once more. He smirked behind the mask. He, the nephew of a duke, had shown her, a mere gamekeeper's granddaughter, a noble only by adoption, her place.
"Stand up straight, girl." Troy's shout made her jump. How many times had she heard that tone in the months since he had arrived, always with the same bite placed on words that referred to her gender? Out went her small hope that Troy might reprimand Enns, as he had yesterday when Enns had been unnecessarily rough against another boy.