Fast and whipcord strong, Nith had already completed his routine and beaten his post into submission. Now he bent his long frame over the well stones at the back of the washhouse and splashed his head. He came up blowing and shook back his hair, flinging water.

Nith always finished before him. That did not irk Berd as he panted at his work, thirst growing. The first armsmaster of a stronghold ought to be quicker, stronger, and more wily than any armsman. Berd’s growing grin cut short.

The thief irritated him no end. The thief who stole his first daughter’s blade from the heart of Cierheld. The thief who cast his oath as Lady Cieri’s personal armsman under the shadow of doubt.

Berd’s jaw knotted. He should be out hunting the missing weapon with the rest of the men, not caged, worse than useless. That blade of curious design was cousin to Kyrin’s old falcon dagger, which played so large a part in bringing Kyrin home from slavery, carrying the hidden means to save Cierheld. The blade now resided in a faraway land in honor, with Kyrin’s mentor, Tae Chisun.

The thunk of his hundred and seventieth strike did not comfort Berd. He had wielded all his skill against his wooden enemy from Prime bell to Terce. One would have thought the third hour of the morn would bring news if it did not bring rest. It had not. If any had seen ought of note without the walls, the retired armsmaster would learn of it. Over long years, old Cernalt had woven a ring of hearts within and without Cierheld loyal to Lord Dain Cieri.

Berd drew a deep breath through his nose, and quietly out. He was yet loyal, though the grizzled retired armsman was uncertain of it. Sweat ran down his face, and he continued his weapon’s drill against the enemy that stood between him and the cool well. He must fight with patience. His wood edge thudded into the pine a last time, and he whipped it back to readiness behind his shoulder. His speed belied his hot face and dark hair, as prickly with sweat about the ends as a hedgehog’s. “Ho, Nith, my arm tires. Are you fixing to swim?”

Nith turned, dripping, and smiled with a bare lift of lips. He studied his charge, as if he might discover somewhat of interest, cocking his head.

Berd gave him back nothing but a bland stare. Nith, who had trained him since he could walk, had bruised his pale skin on top of the marks Kyrin had dealt him earlier with her staff. They were not as sore as his thoughts.

Mildly, the armsmaster indicated Berd’s weathered post. “Use your wit to bring him down. Do not let your enemy recover. You must outlast him—if his wood heart has not ceased to beat for fear of the blow that dropped his hose about his ankles a moment past,” he added drily. Then his voice left all jest. “First armsman, you must become a blade. And every blade must be tempered, honed, tested. Like the weapon you seek.”

Berd looked at him straightly. Only one who knew him well would notice the pale tension about his mouth and realize his anger glowed at white heat. “What would you have me do?”

“What you have always done. Support Cierheld; protect it with all you are. If you are strong enough, seek the sword.”