Page 58 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire
I adjust my grip on the hilt. “Avoid the pointy bit.”
“True enough,” he says. “And you have an advantage. That sharp thing at your side is always lethal to us. A single slash is enough to burn a fairy. The trick for you will be ensuring you don’t let it go to your head and get yourself killed.”
I give him a sidelong look. “Are you calling me arrogant, Neirin?”
He returns it in kind. “I’m calling you cocky, Habren.”
We face each other, and the air between us crackles like the edges of a fire. I twitch, and this time Neirin frowns. Something like concern tracks over his features.
“What?”
Neirin nods as I compose myself. “That could be a problem.”
I don’t understand for a moment, until it becomes obvious. Anill-timed twitch could get me maimed, or killed. In a close contest, it could tip the balance away from me.
“It’s never got in the way of me winning a fight before,” I assure him—and myself.
His lips press together in thought. “There’s always a first time.” He gives me a sweeping glance, taking in every inch of me. “I find it hard to believe that you’ve won many fights.”
“Why?”
“You’re…” He searches for the right word. I’m not particularly small, and I’m not thin. He can easily see all the things I’m not, but what Iamevades him. “Soft.”
I snort. “No one’s ever accused me of being soft before.”
“Untrained, then. Unprotected. You’re just… human.”
“I win because I refuse to lose,” I tell him.
Neirin nods and, miraculously, seems to believe me. Believes that I can do this. It’s strange, but something blooms in my chest at that. Something hot and quick, shooting through my whole body. If Neirin trusts my anger and stubbornness, I can trust them, too.
“You grip here”—he holds his practice blade aloft—“protecting your fingers with the knuckle bow, and you place your forefinger higher up the hilt to control the tip of the sword.”
I match him. My knuckles are white on the hilt, but the wooden blade feels secure in my hand.
“Yes, I thought that would be your issue. You’re holding it too tight.”
I glance up, annoyed that I’ve already become predictable to him. Somehow, Neirin has fastened himself to my side without my noticing. His chest brushes my arm, and he’s staring down at my grasp on the blade with a tailor’s keen eye. He wraps his hand around my straining wrist, and the breath in my throat catches.
He tugs my arm, but I refuse to give in. I hold my rigid posture, shooting him an irate look.
“I’m not going to drop it,” I snap.
Neirin laughs. “You will drop it, but not for a lack of trying. You’re holding it like it’s an ax and you’re going after a particularly big tree.”
“It’s a fight,” I say, trying to sound confident. “I’ve got to be sturdy.”
He shakes his head. “Not with a rapier. You need to be light and flexible, and your grip needs to be loose.” His eyes drift up from my hand on the hilt to find my own. “May I?”
I think this is the first time he’s asked permission for anything. I swallow the lump in my throat and nod.
With feather-light touch, Neirin’s fingers curl around my own, coaxing them to loosen, and his thumb slips between my palm and the hilt. I try to hide the shuddering breath I take. He moves behind me, adjusting my grip, moving my arm to the correct position.
“Swing the blade like you’re fishing,” he says. “This isn’t some great sword—you aren’t aiming to chop off any limbs, just to slice and maim,” His chest is warm at my back, and his chin brushes the top of my head, resting there for a moment. He flicks his hand, taking mine and the rapier with it, and grips the top of my other arm, holding me in place against him. “That will be enough, as it’s made of iron. There’s an old adage that says you should hold a sword like it’s a bird: tight enough so it can’t escape, but light enough that you don’t hurt it.”
My reply hitches in my mouth. I can think of nothing except his hand covering mine, and how he’s so gentle with me even as I crash around him like a bull. Gentler than anyone’s been in my whole life. As if I’m something he could break—as if I’m something he’safraidto break. A bird in his hand. Or a sword.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Maybe someone should’ve told your brother that.”
