Page 30 of Lhora
“Is that the…” he began.
“Yes,” she answered before he had the chance to finish.
Reaching out, he took her wrist and gently turned it to where he could see the wing-shaped design permanently etched into her skin. “You’re a shurr-lova? A shurr master?”
“Yes.”
He then noticed the raw, untreated scrapes running from her wrist to her elbow. “You’re injured.”
She started to tell him not to worry about it, but he’d left the bed to retrieve a small box from the same chest that had held the wine skin. When he returned, he opened the lid and extracted a brown glass bottle and a bit of sponge.
“Let me tend to those,” he ordered in that do-not-argue-with-me tone.
Snorting, she placed the mug in her lap and held out both arms. Duren soaked the sponge in whatever was in the bottle, then carefully dabbed the scrapes and cuts on her arms and palms. “They’re already scabbing over. This will prevent them from becoming infected. Do you want me to wrap them?”
“No, thank you. That won’t be necessary.”
When he finished, he placed the bottle and sponge back inside the box before setting the kit on the floor. “Would the wrapping prevent you from using your sword if you wanted to make it sing?”
“I think so. I know wearing gloves lessens my connection with it,” she admitted.
He continued to stare at her with those dark eyes. “I can’t get over the fact that you’re a shurr-lova.”
“If you think I’m lying—”
“No, no!” he quickly confessed. “I believe you.” A tiny grin creased his lips. “I hope in due time I can see you work its power. What astonishes me is how? I mean, you aren’t that old…are you?”
Lhora laughed. “Age has nothing to do with whether or not you can master the shurr sword. She tapped her temple. “It’s up here. It’s confidence. And suffering defeat after defeat until, one day, it all comes together.”
Duren bowed his head as he recalled the simple iron blade with its roped hilt. A sword most soldiers would dismiss as not being shiny or fancy enough to wield. “I’ve seen your sword. It doesn’t look any different than mine, or a thousand other swords I’ve seen. How is it possible it’s a shurr?”
“It’s the metal. I don’t know how our swordsmiths are able to tell shurr from regular metal, but they can, and those people are worth their weight in glimmer. Once it’s forged and crafted, only a few volunteers at a time are selected to exercise with it, to see if they’re capable of working with it. If the metal accepts them. Once those few are pared down to a bare handful, they undergo extensive training.” She brushed a hand over the insignia on her skin. An insignia that was normally covered when she was dressed, which explained why he hadn’t noticed it earlier. “The shurr put that on me once it accepted me. That’s how the masters know who to advance and who to cull.”
“When you use it, when you call upon the sword…” He pointed to his own forehead. “Do the lights appear in your skin?”
“The reebo lights. Yes. But they quickly fade once the blade is no longer singing.”
“That explains a lot.”
She looked up at him. “What?”
“Why someone like you was selected to be a part of the Esstika’s personal guard.”
She suppressed a smile, leaving him to wonder if the answer was a yes or a no.
“Lhora, would it be possible for me to try to become adept and accepted by a shurr?” he inquired.
“I don’t know. Maybe. Haven’t you tried one here in Coltross? Don’t you have shurr masters in your country?”
“Yes, but they keep to their cloisters and rarely mingle with the regular soldiers. My father only calls on them when he sees fit.”
She frowned at him. “They’re not a regular part of your regiments?”
“No.”
“Why not? It’s stupid not to use them to your advantage. It would be like outfitting your biggest and swiftest battlecruiser with only harpoon guns!”
She made sense. Unfortunately, he knew that if he tried to make his father change his mind about the shurr-lova, the Sarpi would only dig his heels in deeper because it hadn’t been his idea in the first place.
