Chapter 2: Training Mishaps

The blade stopped a hair's breadth from Amie's face.

Granted, it was blunt and Bevil would rather cut off his hand than hurt our friend, but it had worked all the same. The spell Ames had been weaving – an innocuous Flare – frizzled into nothing as she lost her footing and fell flat on her face. I could only wince in sympathy while Bevil helped her up with a litany of heartfelt apologies.

These joint Wizarding-Militia training sessions were the pinnacle of Tarmas' borderline sadistic tendencies. He tried to hide them under the guise of a mutually beneficial arrangement so that our esteemed militiamen could learn to fight spellcasters and for us –Amie and me, that is— to practise in a realistic environment. He called them educational experiences. I called them the perverse pastime of an old wizard with way too much time on his hands.

I joined Amie at the edge of the sparring area, where Brother Merring was assessing the damage. I plopped down next to her, our shoulders touching, and started picking grass strands out of her hair.

"Anything broken?"

"Just my pride," she answered, smiling ruefully. "What are the chances of everyone not reminding me this for the next ten years? "

"Well," I tapped my chin thoughtfully and did my best not to giggle. "It was a pretty impressive fall. I wouldn't get my hopes up for anything under twenty years, honestly. But by then Georg will be saying you fell fifteen feet off a cliff, probably fighting that Swamp Elf of his in a heroic duel. Seriously, though, I give this a couple of days at most. At the Fair someone —probably several someones— will get drunk and fall into the drinking trough or try to dance with the training dummies and everyone will be too busy laughing at them to remember this."

"Gods, I hope so. The last thing we need is giving more ammunition to the Mossfelds. Their dirty orphan and crazy witch routine is bad enough."

"I wish magic was allowed at the Brawl. Well, I welcome any and all opportunities to set Wyl Mossfeld on fire," I glanced at Brother Merring, who had until now been polite enough to pretend this was a private conversation. "Accidentally, of course. "

He finally looked at us, with the expression of someone who knows exactly that what he's going to say will have no effect whatsoever, but out of moral obligation and civic duty is going to say it anyway.

"Girls, as each dawn brings a new day, it might be time for you two to let go of your quarrels with the Mossfelds. This year is your last chance at the trials of the Fair; it might do you good to enter them with a cleaner conscience and a light heart."

I liked Brother Merring; I really did. He was kind and didn't look at me like I was seconds away from blowing up the whole village, but sometimes it was immensely difficult to keep a straight face when he started talking about forgiveness and redemption and daylight metaphors.

"It would certainly save you a few bandages" Amie muttered. Louder, she added "We never start anything. You can expect us to just sit quietly and let them insult us."

To be fair, them was mostly Wyl. Webb usually just hung in the background shooting us apologetic looks and trying very hard to convince the earth to swallow him. I had never heard Ward string together a sentence longer than 'Go away'. His talents lay more on the lurking menacingly side of things.

"Exactly!" I jumped in. "Ward once threw Bevil into the well. And Wyl just egged him on. After that, I believe any action against them is fully justified."

"Be that as it may," Merring continued patiently. This was not the first time, nor the twentieth, that we were having this conversation. "I'd like to remind you that this regrettable incident happened eleven years ago. Moreover, most people would agree that letting him spend the afternoon in the shape of a slug was punishment enough."

No one knew how I had done that, least of all me, and Tarmas still liked to ponder on it in lazy afternoons. I just had been scared, and angry and wanted to make Wyl's sneering face go away. I'd never managed to do it again (not for lack of trying, I assure you), but it still remains one of the proudest accomplishments of my life.

"He's never apologized" I retorted, my voice just a little heated. "Bevil could have died and Wyl or Ward haven't deigned to say sorry. Not once in, as you have so helpfully reminded us, eleven years. I'd say they've had the time."

Before Brother Merring could get started in what was sure to be a heartfelt speech filled with many metaphors about the benefits of forgiveness, friendship and new beginnings for the teenage soul, Georg approached us.

"Are you alright, Amie? You need to roll when you're falling. We'll work on that next time."

"I'm fine, Georg, but thanks. I just hope Jylla Tanner doesn't get much inspiration from this."

"I wouldn't worry too much, Ames," I teased. "After your joint number at the Fair last year, I bet she sees you as a fellow artist."

Amie and mead shouldn't mix. It was a sure path towards increasingly dirty songs and, surprisingly enough, tavern brawls.

"Hey! We agreed to never speak of it again. Ever," Amie pointed an accusing finger at me. However, with her creeping blush, the overall effect was rather adorable. "Besides, I still don't remember anything. Sometimes, I think you just made it all up."

"Yeah, right," I drawled. "'Cause Bevil totally wouldn't have tattled in like thirty seconds. And the horrified looks Lazlo gave you the whole summer were part of the joke, too."

"Ladies, I'd like to remind you there is training going on," Georg interrupted. He turned to me with a smile a little too bright for my liking. "Get up, Farlong. Liza wants to spar with you."

I looked up, eyes wide and pleading to Georg's ever-growing smile and I knew that pouting wasn't going to get me out of this one. From his seat, far away from everybody else, Tarmas was gesturing me to get to the sparring zone. Fantastic. Bevil patted my shoulder sympathetically and Garth – Liza's brother – gave me an apologetic smile. Why couldn't I spar with Garth instead? A mild breeze could take him.

I walked slowly, prolonging the painlessness as much as possible. Some villagers had stopped to watch a while ago. The people of West Harbour had early on recognised these training sessions as the free entertainment they were – allegedly – not meant to be and had taken full advantage of them. Lewy Jons had started a profitable side business managing the bets and the whole Buckman clan got together to have a picnic and cheer on Lazlo.

Liza was already waiting for me, frowning even more than usual, a head taller than me and with shoulders almost as wide as Bevil's. When I reached an acceptable distance, she threw me a quarterstaff. Thankfully, I managed to catch it before it hit me in the face. I sent Liza a tentative smile, but she only scowled harder. This was going to hurt.

"Alright, girls," Georg stepped between us. "Remember, this is for practice. A friendly spar," he warned Liza. "Avoid blood if you can," then he turned to me. "And you try to not set anything on fire. Are we far enough from the dummies?"

Ah yes, the highly flammable training dummies. Set one on a tiny little minuscule fire once and you become the village fire hazard for life.

"It will be fine, Georg. It's me who's going to need repairs after this, not your precious training field."

"Are we done?" snapped Liza, pointing her longsword at me. "Don't you dare hold back, Farlong. I don't plan to. "

Georg stepped away and that was all Liza needed to begin.

She lunged fast, probably to nullify the longer reach of my quarterstaff. I scrambled to pull back and tried a sweeping blow to her unprotected shins. She sidestepped it with far more grace you'd expect from someone her size and didn't waste time in attacking again. This is how we danced around each other for a while, Liza attacking mercilessly and me trying to keep her at bay with increasing desperation.

She trained hard every day and it showed. Her breath was steady, her movements harsh, but precise. She would outlast me or get lucky. The moment I tried to cast anything; she'd strike me down faster than I could say Magic Missile. Winning wasn't a possibility. And this was unfair, really. In real life I wouldn't attack her outright. I'd get someplace high and out of reach and wait until she turned her back. There was no chance in all the Nine Hells I'd ever go face-to-face against the scary nightmare that was Liza Lannon with only an overgrown stick. There were too many ways that could go wrong.

As for example, getting caught up the absurdity of the whole situation and forgetting that there was a very real person swinging a sword at me.

I snapped out of my self-pitying reverie to see a blade coming straight to my face. Instead of parring, dodging, or doing anything a normal person might have tried, the only thing that came up amidst my abject panic was to stop the blade grabbing it with my hand.

I know, sometimes my raw brilliance surprises me, too.

As I moved, a warm, bubbly sensation rushed form my heart, my gut, my head. It fed from my surprise and the panicked desperation only a sword to the face can give you. When it reached my open palm, it went into the blade and made it shine read and then white.

Liza cried once in pain and dropped the sword with a curse.

Before I could do anything but blink stupidly at the blood flowing through my hand, Georg was there. He glanced at the Liza's sword, which had regained its normal colour and was smoking gently on the ground. Then he looked at me.

"Are you alright, Shelyen?" he wrapped a cloth around my hand and steered me gently towards the edge of the field. "What was that? Can you do it without touching the blade?"

"I don't know," we sat down next to Brother Merring. He was tending to Liza's hand, now red and full of blisters. Hopefully, it wouldn't be for very long. "It's the first time I've done this. You know I don't work like Amie or Master Tarmas. Most of the time, I panic, and things burn. Or freeze. Or get sprinkled with acid. I don't always choose the specifics."

"You should try, anyway. This trick could save your life in a real battle, "he said, more serious than I usually saw him. "You never know when you might need it."

He patted my shoulder affectionally and went to shout at some of the younger militiamen who had stopped to watch the show into going back to their drills. The next few days were going to be full of badly concealed looks and gossip. Before I could start truly sulking, Brother Merring gently took my hand. The blood had soaked the improvised bandage and some rivulets flowed towards my wrist. He unwrapped the cut gently and prodded at it a little. He smiled kindly and closed his eyes.

Healing magic was a curious thing. It was intrinsically different than what Amie or I had, and Brother Merring had told us that like all divine magic it was intrinsically dependent on the god that granted it. I don't know if it was all Lathander's influence or the caster shaped it a little too, but Brother Merring's felt like laughter and sunlight and hope. It was soothing and a few seconds later the cut was gone, leaving just a tender pink mark behind.

"This should do it. Try to be careful with this hand for a few days and come see me if there is any trouble," he instructed. He smiled again with that kindness that never seemed to leave him. "My door is always open."

I smiled back. In all honesty, it was hard not to. If we harbormen actually listened to him from time to time, West Harbour would be a much nicer place to live in.

"Thank you. I'm going to see if Master Tarmas takes pity on me and lets me go home."

Tarmas was at the edge of the training grounds, as far away as possible from everyone else and looking like that wasn't still anywhere near far enough. Amie was with him, trying to stem an unending flow of apologies from Bevil.

"See, I'm fine! Why don't we worry about Shelly instead, huh? She's the one that's actually gotten hurt."

Thanks a bunch, Ames.

I raised my hands, both in surrender and to show them that I wasn't actually hurt anymore. Better get this sorted out before Bevil truly freaked out and brought Retta.

"Everything's fine, honest. Brother Merring has already healed it. I just have to try not get cut again and that I can certainly manage," I turned to Tarmas. "Before you ask, I didn't plan that. I panicked and then the sword was on fire. Promise."

"It would be more accurate to say that you transmitted pure heat to the blade. Spells that create actual flames do in fact exist and are significantly different than the magic you just exhibited." Right, very interesting. And completely relevant to this conversation, too. Tarmas tapped his chin thoughtfully and looked at me like I was a particularly aggravating spell formula. He did that a lot, actually. "You need to control yourself, Shelyen. Lannon could have been the one smoking on the ground, not her sword. You'll be an adult soon enough; for all our sakes, start acting like one."

That felt like a slap to the face. A sparring accident made me a stupid kid? It was not my problem that wizards could cast spells by reading.

"It's not like I do it on purpose! It's fine most of the time except, you know, when someone tries to tun me into mince pie filling. And whose idea was that, by the way?" my voice shook with anger. Being considered a walking danger wasn't new, but usually it was the farmers, not my mentor. "I'm not like you. Or Amie. You don't know what my power feels like or how it works!"

"Maybe I don't, but I have seen how sorcerers end up when they lose control, young lady. I assure you; it is nothing pleasant," he took a deep breath. His eyes looked tired and maybe… worried? This wasn't the usual irritated exasperation. "Look, Redfell has just bestowed me the great honour of managing The Knaves' Challenge – because teaching our kids to pick locks? Nothing wrong can come from that, surely – but after The Fair, we'll se about alternatives for your training. Try not to cause any major explosions until then."

Tarmas left, leaving us youngsters standing in an increasingly awkward silence.

Amie cleared her throat. "Well, uhm… I'll go see if Master Tarmas needs any help," her expression softened, and she squeezed my hand. "I'm sure he's just being grumpy, Shelly. Everything will be fine tomorrow."

"Sure," I tried to smile. She meant well, but Ames had never been much of a liar. "See you tomorrow."

She left after her Master in a hurry. Bevil kept his gaze on her trail even after we'd lost her among the houses. His brows here furrowed, and he spoke with worry.

"Are things actually going to be alright?"

"I don't know," I admitted. My voice wavered more than I liked. "Probably. Maybe."

He nodded slowly. Suddenly his expression cleared, and he offered me his arm like a gentleman would to a lady.

"There's still some blueberry pie from breakfast at home."

I linked my arm with his and we walked together to the Starling Farm in a companiable silence. Bevil was a solid rock to lean on and there was nothing in life that couldn't be improved with pie.