Although the last magician on the continent of Agoling was burned by the Inquisition eight hundred years ago, its inhabitants still encounter manifestations of supernatural powers from time to time.
For Deirdre Drien, the daughter of Baron Drien, th...
The 41 day of the year 879 from the Fall of the Triumvirate
Deirdre arrived at the fencing training room late and in a bad mood. From the very beginning of the day, she had been bothered by the stares and gossip thrown at her by the excited maids. It seemed that her patience had almost run out.
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Will the Limp was already waiting inside. He stood by the weaponry rack with his back to the door, pretending to be busy unconvincingly. It was a cloudy day, and in the light semi-darkness of the hall, he looked even older than his years.
Deirdre froze at the threshold.
Will's unnaturally straight back, his deliberate ignoring of her presence, and his abrupt movements made it clear at a glance that the teacher was in a bad mood.
The silence dragged on.
Deirdre was too irritated to make any concessions at this time. After all, he was not the one being forced into a marriage to a man she had never met.
Once again, Will was the first to break down.
"I'm so delighted you've honoured me with your visit.," he said in a mock cheerful tone, not even looking back. He sounded angry. "I thought I would be deprived of this honour today. You should probably be preparing for the wedding right now, not wasting your time on useless activities."
Deirdre could barely suppress a heavy sigh that was on the verge of escaping her lips.
Sheurot knew what or who had set Will off this time, but one thing was clear - he wasn't even going to hold back, clearly determined to pour out all his bile on her.
As if interpreting an insult in her silence, Will turned abruptly and and nearly flung a training wooden sword into her face. A little more, and the carefully carved guard would have hit her on the nose. Deirdre was saved by her reflexes, the only useful skill she had acquired in these classes. Will the Limp was a really good swordsman, but he made a terrible teacher.
"Do I have to greet you in person, milady Drien?" Will turned to the counter again, pretending to pick up a weapon for himself. Although he had no choice, only the same wooden sword as his student's. "What a generous haul for an old maid. A baron, the owner of land in the Eldra itself, the only heir, and undoubtedly a handsome and wealthy man."
Since becoming her father's trusted man after the death of old Garh An Gright, Will the Limp's insolence had ceased to have any limits. Deirdre could hardly suppress the urge to beat him with the same sword. It wouldn't have worked anyway. He hadn't taught her how to attack or defend herself, but if she did manage to force him to fight, he always won, turning it into a humiliating and demonstrative act, and never letting her forget it.
"I think you've confused the training room with a society gathering, Sir An Gright," this 'An Gright' was even more sarcastic than Deirdre had expected to hear from herself. As well as a reproach that was understandable only to a narrow circle of initiates. "Shall we continue gossiping or finally get to the lesson?"
