“More, I think. When we fight, that is. Mostly Delyth just wants me to practice forms. The same moves over and over again while she mutters corrections.” He dusted himself off and hefted the staff again. Despite the coolness of the morning, he was already sweating, his arms limp as river weed. “What was your training like?” he asked, stalling. “In the Mynydd Gwyllt clan?”
“Well, our clan demands all able-bodied people to train as warriors and serve to protect the clan for four years before they either continue as a warrior or take up another vocation. Most families have trades, and so once your duty is done, you return to your family's original craft. We all start training with weapons very young. I don’t recall when I entered, but my father was War Chief Awsten’s most trusted spear until he died in a raid. My mother is a baker. She hopes once my duty is up, I will take after her.” Meirin raised her spear, swiping the butt towards Etienne again, hoping he would block at the middle and deflect her attack.
“The routine is wake up, train in whichever group the warrior masters say you need work in, then go about your other chores and obligations. When you turn seventeen summers, you join the patrol rotation. After your time, you decide if it’s the right life for you.” He did manage to deflect, and Meirin automatically flipped her grip on the spear shaft and knocked at his shins instead.
“I have one year left of my patrol rotation, and then I will choose. I enjoy fighting and using weapons. It’s straightforward, easy work. Making bread and grinding the grains to make flour is tedious, hard work.”
✶
Despite their exercising, Meirin wasn’t even breathing hard as she attacked, as if they were just strolling up some easy path, chatting for old time’s sake. Etienne just barely stepped out of the way of Meirin’s strike, avoiding yet another set of bruises for his shins. It seemed like the only way to get better at fighting was to take beating after beating until you got the hang of it.
It wasn’t exactly his favorite way to learn. He much preferred the drills, for all that they were remarkably tedious.
The mage launched a clumsy attack at Meirin’s shoulder, which she easily avoided, and then jumped back, wiping at the sweat on his brow. “My family is in the cheesemaking trade,” he said, trying to match her conversational tone, “Only I never had any patience for it. Which do you think you’ll choose? The life of a warrior?”
“I suppose the real question is whether I survive this rescue attempt. Unmaimed. A warrior can’t be crippled—but a baker can.” She shrugged and spun her spear to jab him in the hip, almost playfully. “I think you’d be a good cheesemaker. You look like those soft cheeses you make out of goat’s milk.”
Etienne snorted and jabbed at her as well. “Oh yeah? Well, you’ve got a lot to work on if you’re going to be a baker. They tend to be a bit softer around the edges.”
She smacked aside his staff. “Good bread has a crunchy outer crust that is dark brown.” She gestured to her own copper skin. “Besides—Bread has to be kneaded and molded until it can stand up on its own. I am much like bread.” She quickly bumped the end of her spear against his belly, though without the force he was used to. “Cheese is gooey and soft.” Another one of her half compliments, half insults delivered in a blunt way.
Etienne laughed despite himself, shoving the butt of her spear away with the flat of his hand. Gods, when was the last time he had laughed? It felt like years ago.
He stopped, though, when Delyth joined them, returning from whatever it was that the warrior flew off to do each morning. She looked haggard from lack of sleep, and already blood was drying on her arm once more. Guilt smote him powerfully. Their situation was just as dire as it had been, just as hopeless.
And here he was, playing. He glanced at Meirin, straightening. Lowered his staff.
“They’re still south of us,” the warrior said, her voice low and gravelly. “We should get moving again.”
Meirin lowered her spear and looked at Etienne with raised brows. “Eating breakfast and washing in the stream won’t slow us down that much and might make you better prepared for the day. You look as if you were dragged through the mud.” Meirin turned towards her pack, rifling through it to find the dry ration bread baked with nuts and berries. A bit tough so many days from it’s baking, but still filling.
She held it up invitingly.
༄
For a long moment, Delyth looked down at the proffered bread, struggling with herself. She could find Enyo with the blood spell. She had a sword. Enough food in her bag for weeks. It was so, so tempting to just fling herself skyward, throw everything she had into speed and battle, and trust in her own skill to get Alphonse back. No more wasting time. No more walking.
But it wouldn’t work. She could not fight this battle alone, and neither would pushing themselves to get there sooner do them any good. A tired warrior was slow. She knew this, and still, the reckless path called to her. She needed to fight, needed to burn the sorrow in her veins with sword-sparks and bloody tinder.
She took a deep breath.
“Alright, we’ll eat first.” Delyth reached down to take the bread, breaking it in half and handing one piece to Etienne. “How’s training coming?”
“He only died three times today.
