Ōbhin twisted his body, letting it swing by him. His free hand lashed out, grabbing Fingers’s wrist. With a hook of his right leg, he swept out the older man’s foot and sent his bulk crashing to the grass. He landed with a loud, wheezing thump.
“That’s why we need training,” Ōbhin said. “First thing’s first: footwork. Yours was abysmal, Fingers. Almost tripped yourself trying to hit me. Smiles, yours was good. Help me whip them up.”
“Well, don’t got a whip, but I can give ‘em a few taps of the binder.” He smiled. “Give ‘em some motivation.”
Ōbhin nodded. “Okay, line up. We’ll . . .”
His words trailed off as a pale-faced Avena stepped up beside Bran, her skirts rustling. Dark bags drooped beneath her blood-shot eyes. His brow furrowed as Fingers grunted to his feet, his breath wheezing.
Ōbhin gave her a questioning look.
“You said I didn’t know how to use a knife,” she said, hands planted on her hips.
He opened his mouth to send her back to the house when he noticed the look in her eyes. It was fierce, almost reckless, determination mixed with something haunted. Something that had kept her from finding any rest. He remembered how she’d wielded the shaky dagger during the ambush in the woods.
Without training, that sort of passion would get her head bashed in. In Qoth, the men fought and mined and cut mountain timbers. They braved the snows to hunt and tilled the soils to farm. Women cared for home, to work their crafts indoors, and managed estates while raising children. Training Avena to fight set an itch between his shoulders, but . . .
Those eyes begged for it. She needed this for her own reasons. He’d promised to do all he could to protect these people, to make up for his crimes. He couldn’t let her reckless passion end her life early if he could do something to stop it.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll teach you to use a binder.”
“Really?” she demanded. Suspicion entered her eyes. “No objection? No telling me I’ll break a nail or bruise my face?”
“You’ll just do it anyway. Least this way, you won’t immediately get brained.”
She gave a fierce nod.
“Find some trousers. You can’t fight like that. Skirts will trip you up.”
Avena whirled around and hiked skirts to race back to the manor house.
Fingers spat. “Tethyrians are all backward.”
“I’m Qothian,” Ōbhin muttered. “Not a low-lander degenerate.”
*
As a maid, Avena knew the Dashvin household well. Over the years, things had piled up in various storerooms, clothes included. Her cheeks warmed as she doffed her skirts despite the chest she’d dragged before the door to prevent anyone from barging in upon her in only her slip.
She found a pair of leather pants that were probably Bran’s, ones he’d outgrown years back but would fit her shorter legs. She worked on the trousers swiftly, the pants tight in some places and loose in others. She had to wrap a man’s belt twice around her waist to get it to fit. She gathered up her skirt and petticoats, raced out of the room, and almost collided with Jilly.
“Avena?” Jilly gasped. The woman, a few years Avena’s senior, took a step back in surprise. “What are you wearing?”
“Father’s orders,” Avena said, cheeks warming at the little lie. A small fib wouldn’t add too much dark to her soul, not enough to weigh her down for eternity. She would work extra hard at doing something nice to polish it from her soul.
Fabrication was easier than explaining the truth.
“Oh,” Jilly said. She shook her head. “Nothing he does makes sense. Going to haunted woods. Coming back with bandits. My sweet Phelep was held out to all hours by that Tethyrian.” Jilly sniffed. “Trying to corrupt him. You know what a gentle soul he is.”
“Doesn’t Fingers take your husband to the pub most nights after supper?”
“For a quick nosh, not a drunken night of foreign debauchery.” Jilly leaned in. “I have my eye on that Ōbhin. If I find he’s got any of them illicit intoxicants, I’ll make sure Master Dashvin knows.”
“He’s not Tethyrian,” Avena said, her back stiffening. “I wouldn’t be worried about him.”
“He killed Ni’mod.”
“Did you even like Ni’mod?”
“Well . . .” Jilly shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. Me and the maids will keep our eye on him. I suggest you do the same.” The maid’s brow furrowed. “Did you sleep at all last night?”
“Bad dreams,” muttered Avena, trembling at the memory of the presence on the hill. Just night fears playing tricks on my mind. No darklings there. Or him! The memory of the dark sorcerer sent a shiver down her spine.
“You should rest. You were gone so long in that dangerous place.”
The words reminded Avena that they’d brought a danger back with them. Ōbhin worked for the head of the Brotherhood. Now he worked here after having that conversation with Grey. The “boss” had seemed genial, not the sort of ruffian who controlled half the illicit activities that festered in Kash. She couldn’t trust appearances.
What if they want someone to keep an eye on Dualayn?
It was another reason to learn to fight. “I have to go. Father wants me to receive lessons from Ōbhin. Fighting and stuff.”
Jilly shook her head. “Black’s stained his mind. I hear he’s locked in his lab again. The sign’s out. I had to clean it out the last time he spent a week locked in there. The stench . . . The room should have a window to air it out.”
“He found something. Something that could change everything. Even fix his wife.”
Jilly blinked. “Elohm’s Colours, truly? Well . . .” She shook her head. “Still, making you learn
