“Rider G’ladheon,” the king corrected.

“Hunh?”

“She is Rider G’ladheon.”

Drent hacked and spat. “Rider G’ladheon, you will attack the boy, full speed.”

“What? I—! But he’s the king!”

Drent rolled his eyes. “Gods have mercy. Of course he’s the king.” He passed his sword over to the king. “Girl, Rider, you will commence the attack.”

The king smiled encouragingly at her. “Don’t worry about me, so long as you are wary of the blade edges.”

Karigan unsuccessfully tried to brush away her apprehension. She had never practiced with edged weapons before, and she feared that a single slip could seriously maim the king.

“Ready yourselves,” Drent said.

Reluctantly Karigan faced the king, the sword feeling like lead in her hand.

“Begin.”

Karigan brought up her sword in reflex, touching off with the king’s. As they commenced the sequence Drent desired, Karigan’s own timid moves were matched by hesitant ones from the king. All the strength and power she had observed in his earlier swordplay was now lacking. With some surprise, she realized he was concerned about hurting her, too.

Drent groaned. “Stop, stop, stop. Pitiful, absolutely pitiful. Girl, you are not doing your sovereign any good by being gentle with him. He won’t learn to defend himself with this pitiful tapping.” Then he turned to the king. “And you shall respond in kind. If you do not, then she will draw blood and I shall have to hang her from a tree. Now. Harder, faster.”

Karigan swallowed, but as ordered, launched into her attack. A spasm of surprise rippled through the king’s expression as he stepped up to catch the blow. If it was her speed or strength that surprised him, it quickly faded from his features, which became angled with concentration.

About halfway through the sequence, the weight of the sword and Karigan’s previous injury took its toll. Her initial speed slackened, and her movements felt jerky. Pain stabbed through her arm from wrist to elbow to shoulder. Grimly she bumbled through the sequence, the king’s swordplay flawless, and his control precise.

Karigan raised her sword to absorb the king’s final blow, but pain like jagged edges of glass grinding in her elbow stole all strength from her arm.

Unable to block the final blow, the last thing she saw was the edge of King Zachary’s blade hurtling at her face with unstoppable momentum.

KING, SWORDMASTER, MAN

Laren didn’t know who to throttle first—Zachary or Drent.

Fastion stood outside the doorway of Karigan’s room and, sensing her mood, stepped aside. Was it her imagination, or did the Weapon look just a bit sheepish? If she found out he had anything to do with this, she’d throttle him, too.

She turned to enter the room, and nearly collided with Master Mender Destarion, who was on his way out. Destarion held his hand up, indicating she should step back into the corridor.

“The room is a bit tight at the moment, Captain,” he said.

She peered over his shoulder and saw Drent’s bulk hogging up most of the space. Zachary was in there, too. The two men blocked her view of Karigan.

“If Drent would—”

“A few words please.” Destarion’s voice was always level and pleasant, his expression mild. He was well trained in the mending arts, and his manner calmed her. A little.

“Your Rider is fine. A little bump on the head. There shall be some bruising and a headache, but I suspect no serious head injury. Just in case, however, I’d like someone to look in on her periodically through the night.”

“I’ll do it.”

So intent upon finding someone to throttle, Laren hadn’t noted Mara shadowing her. Mara had been the one to bring her the news of the swordplay gone awry.

“Additionally,” Destarion said, “she won’t be able to use her sword arm for a time. Apparently she wrenched muscles and tendons already weakened by an injury received during her recent delegation duty.”

Laren began to feel a headache of her own coming on. “She never told me she had been hurt.” She would definitely add Karigan to her list of throttlings.

Destarion shrugged. “She tells me she felt it had mended on its own, and I suspect it mostly did. It was not healed enough, however, for the activity she engaged in today. Not an uncommon injury, I might add, among swordfighters. I recommend very light duty until I deem the arm sound.”

Very light duty. That meant no message errands. Laren frowned and entered Karigan’s room, leaving Mara to receive the mender’s more detailed instructions.

She pushed between Zachary and Drent to stand over the bed. Karigan lay sprawled across it, boots still on. Her arm was slack across her stomach, and with her good hand, she held a wet compress to her temple.

“I would like an explanation,” Laren said.

Karigan tried to sit up, winced, and laid back down. “I—”

“It was not her fault,” Zachary interrupted. “I am—”

Laren turned to him, glowering. “You mean she isn’t at fault for not informing me of a prior injury?”

A gleam lit in Drent’s eye at the prospect of Karigan receiving all the blame, but he blinked when she transferred her glower to him. When she looked back at Zachary, she noticed he cradled his wrist in a compress.

“What did you do to yourself?”

“He sprained it trying to snap back the blow he landed on the girl,” Drent said. “If he hadn’t, your Rider would be ascending to the heavens with Westrion right now.”