A First Meeting
Through the corridors of Borromeo Castle, Ajihad walked briskly. A few months ago, he was elected leader of the Varden by the council of elders, succeeding the former leader. Following the successful recruitment of a group of capable magic users to serve their cause, Deynor had unexpectedly passed away. The council had unanimously elected Ajihad, his former deputy, to take his place.
Ajihad was a tall and broad-shouldered man. His skin was as dark as ebony. While he meticulously shaved the curly hair on his head, he maintained a well-trimmed beard covering his jaw and upper lip. Prominent facial features and two serious, intelligent eyes greeted every interlocutor—eyes that, combined with the dignity in his movements and his deep, confident voice, gave him an air of authority.
Ajihad's only daughter, Nasuada, had now reached the age of twelve, an age when most girls of the wandering tribes—from which he himself came—had already shown the first signs of early maturity. Ajihad adored his daughter. If necessary, he was ready at any moment to give his life for her. From a young age, he had made sure to raise her with manners and rules that would befit a lady. Regardless of her gender, he ensured she received the knowledge a king would provide for the heir to his throne. The leader of the Varden aimed to equip her with every necessary tool to survive with confidence and dignity in the difficult and dangerous times they lived in.
"If I may, Ajihad, a young girl like Nasuada should not be mingling with warriors in a training courtyard, whether they are men of the Varden or of Surda." Elessari, a woman from the council of elders, was walking briskly on the left side of the Varden's leader, struggling to keep up with his pace. Ajihad had just suggested that it was time for his daughter to start sword defense lessons. Elessari tossed back her long braid of gray hair and continued speaking stubbornly. "I had already been with the Varden for seven years when you joined us. I saw Nasuada grow from the frail baby she was then into the beautiful girl she is today. I do not believe it would be fitting for a noble girl like her to handle weapons. There are so many guards among the Varden who would surely consider it an honor to protect her at any moment. Besides, ..."
"Thank you for offering your opinion, Elessari, which you know I deeply appreciate and respect," Ajihad interrupted the woman's tirade. "However, I must disagree. Nasuada is not the daughter of just any revolutionary; I mean no disrespect to the contributions of each man to our cause. But as the daughter of the leader of the Varden, she must always be ready to defend herself. If, due to her age or gender, you believe weapon training is unsuitable, let me remind you that you always carry a sharp dagger for self-protection. We do not live in peaceful times, Elessari. The dangers we may face in the near future could be great. I want my daughter ready to handle anything at any moment."
Ajihad was determined. Nasuada would receive the appropriate lessons in swordsmanship, learning to defend herself. The age when she could handle a light sword had already arrived. Nevertheless, he had to admit that Elessari was not entirely wrong. The thought of a girl spending her hours among rough soldiers did not appeal to him at all.
Perhaps it would be better to avoid her presence in the training courtyard entirely. Couldn't they arrange some private lessons for her?
As if reading Ajihad's mind, his adjutant, who was also walking on his other side, suggested, "I believe we could arrange lessons with a palace instructor. Perhaps Prince Orrin's instructor, if available, would agree to take on Lady Nasuada."
The leader of the Varden nodded ambiguously in silence. Jörmundur was always shrewd. Often, he gave the impression that he knew what Ajihad wanted to say before he said it. His right-hand man since assuming the highest authority of the Varden, Jörmundur was an expert in army matters. He was well-liked among the men, and everyone obeyed his orders without complaint. He knew most of the revolutionary warriors and some from Surda as well as he knew his own family. Perhaps Jörmundur could suggest a suitable instructor.
"Pff, the prince's instructor!" Elessari, frustrated that her opinion was not heeded, expressed complete disapproval of the proposed person. Nevertheless, she considered it politically wise not to completely oppose Ajihad's decision. He was Nasuada's father; he could take responsibility if something unfortunate happened to his daughter during these lessons. Let him do as he wished.
"I acknowledge Nasuada's sharp mind and all her abilities without exception," she said. "Despite her young age, her faith in our cause is as strong as her father's. Perhaps Ajihad is right about the swordsmanship lessons his daughter should receive. One day, Nasuada will become one of our most capable members. So, let her skills be strengthened with one more for the good of the Varden.
But... Prince Orrin's instructor? Jörmundur, you couldn't have suggested a more unsuitable person," she complained, immediately explaining. "It's not that I generally criticize people—everyone has the right to live as they see fit—but in this case, I must. As everyone in the palace well knows, this particular person is the most... unreliable to be trusted with a young girl. Completely unsuitable to teach Nasuada."
Without speaking, Ajihad agreed with the woman. Prince Orrin's instructor was a master swordsman; no one could deny that. That was, after all, the reason why King Larkin had entrusted him with training his heir. However, it was well known that he was an incorrigible womanizer and quite handsome, often achieving his goal. From time to time, the entire capital buzzed with tales of this frivolous seducer's exploits. Nasuada was a girl of integrity and moral seriousness, and despite her young age, Ajihad trusted her judgment and dignity. However, Prince Orrin's instructor was certainly the last person he wanted spending time with his daughter.
"Hmm..." Jörmundur rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Perhaps Elessari was being excessive. He considered the instructor to be the most skilled in the palace. However, women's judgment on matters of morality always differed from men's. He had also heard various things about Orrin's instructor, but perhaps they were just exaggerated rumors. "If not him, then maybe we should turn to another, not necessarily someone from the palace."
All the reputable weapons instructors, as far as he knew, were assigned to the military forces of the palace of Surda. However, there was a foreigner who had been living in the city of Aberon for some years and could be considered a local. He had his own school and was held in high esteem among the nobles of the court. Recently, it had even become quite fashionable for most of the aristocracy's offspring to attend his classes.
"I would dare to suggest someone who doesn't live in the castle nor belongs to the ranks of the military," Jörmundur suggested. "He has his own fencing school in Aberon, and I know some nobles who have entrusted him with the training of their sons. His name is Tornac, and I believe he comes from the empire. Perhaps he would agree to come to the castle for a fee."
Ajihad paused, casting a scrutinizing glance at his adjutant's face. He considered Jörmundur a responsible person. If he wasn't absolutely sure of this instructor's worth, he would never have mentioned him.
"I would like to meet him," he declared. "I would be obliged if you could arrange this meeting between us."
.*.*.*.
On the turrets of Borromeo Castle, many flags always waved. Among the symbols of the kingdom of Surda and the personal banner of the Lagfeld royal family, one could also distinguish those of the noblest and most powerful families in the land. Surda, a small kingdom in terms of territory, relied primarily on the economic capabilities of wealthy families, whose gold and extensive network of commercial power could secure them titles, honors, and glory, as well as lands with strong fortified residences. Many of these lords had formally earned the right to display their family crests on the banners waving from the numerous turrets of the capital's castle. However, no matter how hard one searched, they would not find the banner of the Varden among them.
Embroidered on a crimson background, a white dragon holding a rose and a sword with its blade turned downward in its fearsome claws would never wave above the battlements of Borromeo Castle. The reason was simple: Surda might act as the public face of the rebels in the empire, but their presence within its lands had to remain secret. Using an extensive network of spies, Galbatorix always knew about the close ties between the Varden and the subjects of Lagfeld. Rumors reached his ears suggesting that their new leader was residing within the royal palace, highly active in organizing military units, a spy network that spanned his entire domain, and guerrilla groups ready for any skirmish.
However, as long as appearances were maintained, Galbatorix could always feign ignorance of the Varden's presence there, pretending they did not exist while planning countless schemes for their future complete annihilation in ways as minimally damaging to himself as possible.
Thus, officially, the banner of the Varden did not wave on any of Borromeo's towers. However, if an observer entered the rooms occupied by the rebels, they would find that their decoration with the crimson banner was not only free but also customary. Many of their senior commanders had even taken care to embroider this symbol in small sizes on shirts, armbands, or sew it onto their cloaks and leather armor.
The walls of the spacious room where Lady Nasuada's fencing lessons took place were covered with the symbols of the Varden. Several more banners hung from the ceiling, so with every attack, spin, or parry, their triangular edges waved in the air current created by the opponents' sudden movements.
"Cut fencing with a lunge usually exposes the one who performs it without skill and prudence," corrected Tornac. "On the other hand, a lunge should never be executed on uneven, hollow, or slippery ground—a problem that we obviously do not face here."
Tornac smiled at his charming student. Several weeks ago, he had met her father for the first time, who he later learned was the leader of the Varden himself. In that first meeting, they had only discussed matters related to his daughter's training and arranged the place, time, and payment for his lessons. Later, however, they had spoken a couple more times, and the fencing master had developed a deep respect for that man.
Tornac visited Borromeo Castle unfailingly two mornings a week to train his young student in the art of sword and saber. Despite it being his first time training a female, and initially feeling somewhat awkward about it, Tornac had to admit that this girl was talented. A diligent student who never forgot and always applied his teachings, quick in thought and movement, she had proven to be better than some noble boys who attended his school daily. She was now turning around the imaginary axis of her body, as he had shown her, and as he counted the beats, she prepared her attack. Her long, braided ponytail bounced on her shoulders, and her wide, skirt-like trousers folded around her slender legs.
"In time fencing, as well as in any other risky attack, the one who knows how to fence must predict the opponent's intentions. By carefully studying their movements in advance, we are always aware of the potential consequences," instructed Tornac, having skillfully avoided the young girl's attempted attack. With sufficient practice, the girl would not only be able to fend off attacks, but would herself become a dangerous opponent.
For a while now, Tornac had noticed Ajihad himself watching their lesson from an overhead gallery. Most of the time, there was someone, either on that same gallery up there or even inside the room, observing the lessons he gave to Nasuada. Usually, it was a governess, an attendant, or a trusted Varden guard. Tornac never let it bother him. He taught as he should, never tempted to lighten his exercise program just because his student was a girl, addressing her politely but always demanding the same strength and accuracy as he would from a boy of the same age. So far, his student had met every expectation.
"Enough with the sword for tonight," said Tornac, having just finished demonstrating the correct parry to her stubborn attack. "It's time to practice a bit with the saber."
Soon the lesson was over, and Tornac began to pack up his training weapons in their case. Ajihad watched him bid farewell politely to Nasuada, place the case under his arm, and leave. The leader of the Varden had grown to appreciate this fencing master during the time he had been training his daughter. The information he had gathered about him from barons of the aristocracy suggested that this man possessed unique talent in fencing—Ajihad had admired some of the parries Tornac demonstrated to Nasuada and had even tried them himself during training sessions. However, none of the aristocrats of Surda who trusted their sons to the hands of this skilled instructor could say anything about his origins. Beyond the fact that he had once lived in the empire and had settled in Aberon years ago, no one knew anything else about his past.
Tornac owned a two-story house in a quite good neighborhood of the city. The ground floor housed his school, and the first floor was his home. He had no wife—he was probably a widower—but he had a son, whom he raised with great love and care. A loyal spy of Ajihad, who had been tasked in the early days to gather information about the fencing master, secretly conveyed the knowledge that Tornac seemed moderate in all respects. He didn't drink, didn't seek out fleeting pleasures, was always consistent with his work, and took care of his home.
One day, after Nasuada's lesson had ended, Ajihad suggested to Tornac that he stay a little longer for a duel between them. However, the fencing master had politely declined, claiming he had other lessons waiting for him. He had even refused to share a cup of wine with him, using the same excuse, as he wanted to keep his mind clear and his senses always alert for his lessons. Ajihad had doubly appreciated him. Proud men like him, skilled with weapons, were the ones he wanted to join the Varden.
In some subtle references he later made to Tornac about the rebels, Ajihad understood that Tornac preferred to stay uninvolved in the conflicts with the empire. Ajihad didn't know the reasons why this man had left Galbatorix's territory, but it certainly seemed he had reasons to cut ties with a past he preferred not to remember. The leader of the Varden respected that. Whatever it was that had driven a man of such skills out of the kingdom of Alagaësia must have been something very painful, perhaps even dangerous.
Ajihad came down from the mezzanine to meet his daughter, and together they left the room where the fencing lessons took place, heading towards their apartments. In the long corridor, in front of an open gallery, they passed by several ladies of King Larkin's court, including Sabrae, a member of the Varden's council of elders. Ajihad nodded politely to the women and passed by without giving further attention to the group. However, Nasuada could not avoid noticing the looks of disapproval they cast her way, due to—as she believed—her attire and the sword at her belt.
Sabrae, in particular, looked at her with her small, overly close-set eyes and muttered something about masculine habits that were unbecoming of a young lady. Nasuada was sure her father had also heard the bitter comment, but Ajihad walked on, upright as always, paying no heed to what was said. The young girl, imitating his demeanor, avoided giving the woman a second glance. Nasuada did not particularly like Sabrae. Her overly painted cheeks with bright rouge repelled her; so did her sickly-sweet, heavy perfume, which brought to mind the scent of rotting flowers rather than myrrh.
The young girl straightened her shoulders proudly and walked beside Ajihad with her hand on the hilt of her sword, a gesture she had often seen her instructor, Tornac, make. Nasuada always agreed with her father in everything. If he believed that fencing lessons would be useful to her, she was grateful for the knowledge he provided. Moreover, Tornac's lessons were so interesting that she eagerly looked forward to the two days a week when she would meet him in the training hall. Her fencing instructor had won her over from the beginning, and she attended all his lessons with attention and enthusiasm.
As for her father, her love and admiration for him and his ideas were immense. It had been a while since she had given up all her childhood games and started following him around like his shadow. And he, showing great trust in her, rewarded his only daughter by entrusting her with simple tasks to complete.
Ajihad led her to his office. Since the time his daughter had shown the first signs of early maturity, he had gradually begun to introduce her to some of his duties as the leader of the Varden. Nasuada was loyal and discreet, suitable to work closely with him. Indeed, in whatever task he assigned her, his daughter seemed to excel just as well as she did in acquiring knowledge. In the practical matters he had to solve regarding the well-being of their people, Nasuada was gradually becoming his right hand. The time had come for her to start preparing for the secrets of administration so that one day she could delve into the games of political power. No matter how hard he would search, Ajihad would not be able to find a more suitable person to assist him.
.*.*.*.
A mild winter had just passed, and early spring was already budding flowers on the trees. The outskirts of the city were dressing in green, and the sun flooded them, pouring golden rays all around. In the roadside ditch beside the small grove, red wildflowers had sprouted like smiling little mouths. Butterflies and bees flew among the stems as if carrying cheerful messages from one plant to another. The gardens of the noble houses were flooded with violet, yellow, red, and white colors from the many blooming flowers, and the air was filled with white, fuzzy pollen.
Many of the residents of Aberon that morning were delaying their tasks to enjoy a bit of the nature that was being reborn beside them. The boy, however, walked quickly, paying no heed to the sweet songs reaching his ears from the birds' nests and the honeyed breeze. His grim expression stood in stark contrast to the radiant spring day, and his furrowed brow shaded a deep, worrying concern. One would swear he hadn't lived more than fourteen winters, and sweet youth had just knocked at the door of his life. He was certainly no longer a child, but neither was he yet a man. Long, brown curls framed his serious face, and gray eyes looked out proudly at a world in which he claimed his place. A soft down had already sprouted on his upper lip, and the vigor of his movements betrayed the well-trained body beneath his simple clothes. Under his left arm, he carried a leather, elongated weapon case in which he transported training swords, and it was clear he was in a hurry.
His stride lengthened as he passed the noble houses around the palace and saw in front of him a long line of people waiting outside the guarded, central gate of Borromeo Castle. The young man muttered something with a sharp tone, but without getting discouraged, he bypassed the crowd, reaching the gate and its guards. Many people expressed their displeasure by shouting at him, and some even tried to stop him. However, he moved nimbly like an arrow, leaving them all behind and reaching the guards at the gate.
"Halt! Who goes there?" barked one of the two guards responsible for checking those who wished to enter. The man had noticed him hurrying past the other citizens and had heard their grumbling. "Back!" He pushed him forcefully in the chest with the wooden shaft of his spear. "You have to wait like everyone else to enter in your turn."
Despite the fact that the blow would have been enough to knock down a larger and heavier man, the youth only staggered back a step and quickly regained his balance. His eyes darkened with anger, not so much because the guard had abruptly stopped his haste, but more for the guard's insulting tone. Who was this brute, and what right did he have to push him without cause, speaking to him in that manner? He stood tall with dignity—all fourteen years of him—and glared at the guard.
"Let me pass," he demanded. "I am the weapon master of Lady Nasuada, daughter of Ajihad, the leader of the Varden," he declared with an air of authority. "I am late for my lesson, and the young lady will be waiting."
The second guard, who had been watching this unexpected confrontation with interest for a while, burst into laughter. "Surely you are not. I know Lady Nasuada's weapon master, and he's three times your age."
"Better tell us you're a lackey for errands—that I can believe more easily," mocked the first guard. "Pfft! A weapon master, this boy!" With a dismissive wave of his hand towards the youth, he turned to the crowd, who, angry from the previous line-breaking, had now gathered closer, gawking for entertainment. "Get to the back! Wait your turn like everyone else, or you'll get a beating." He made a threatening gesture towards him, touching the hilt of his sword.
he youth was angered by this insult. It wasn't just that they questioned his honor, but they mocked him in such a way, ridiculing him. Additionally, they were laughing at him in front of so many people, giving everyone the right to scorn him. His eyes flashed with fury, his lips tightened with determination, and he stood proudly before them, glaring at them fiercely.
"Apologize for your words immediately," he shouted at them. "Ask for my forgiveness and make way for me to pass. Only then will I forgive your foolish insults."
At these words, the guards became furious, and their laughter abruptly stopped. The first one moved threateningly towards him, ready to use the butt of his spear to strike him. The other reached for the handle of his whip, which was coiled around his belt in case he needed to restore order among the crowd. With a movement that none of them could see, the sheath the 'boy' was holding opened, and a sword appeared in his right hand. Some from the crowd cried out in fear at this unexpected escalation, stepping back. This youth seemed determined to punish those who had just humiliated him.
"Even with my training sword, I am capable of defeating you," he threatened them. "Step aside and let me pass, but first, apologize."
Seeing him threaten them with the sword in hand, the two guards attacked him in unison. They would disarm him in a moment and then give him a good beating to teach him to respect his elders. The first guard aimed a blow between the youth's legs with the spear to knock him down, while the other abandoned his whip and drew his sword, approaching from the other side. The young man deftly jumped over the spear's shaft, avoiding it, and as the guard lost his footing from the momentum, he passed behind him and, with a strong push to the back, sent him face-first into the ground. Then he stepped back, skillfully parrying the blade of the other guard.
His swift movements had brought him inside the gate, and the shouts and clanging of weapons were already rousing other guards, who ran to see what was happening. At the same moment they arrived, the blade of the second guard had slipped from his hand, clattering noisily on the courtyard's stones. The guard himself stood gaping, looking around in bewilderment, unable to believe that a beardless youth had disarmed him with three moves.
"Stop this instant!" shouted the guard captain, signaling his men to surround the intruder. "You! Drop the sword immediately! As for you two," he cast a look of contempt at his two guards, "aren't you capable of maintaining order?" From what he could see, the troublemaker was nothing but a boy.
The youth carefully placed his weapon on the ground and stood still with his arms crossed over his chest. Even though the soldiers closed the circle around him and he had no choice but to submit to their will, he remained upright, looking at their leader with a confident gaze and a proud demeanor.
The captain approached him with a stern demeanor but couldn't entirely hide a hint of admiration in his eyes. "If you intended to make your mark and claim a position in my guard this way, lad, you've certainly earned it," he said.
"That was not my intention," replied the youth. "I am the weapon master of Lady Nasuada. And these two," he pointed towards the gate guards, "would not let me in to go to my lesson."
After hearing this, the captain looked at him suspiciously. "You are not Lady Nasuada's weapon instructor; that is Tornac, the weapon master. I happen to know him."
"He's my father," the youth declared proudly. "I am his son, Murtagh."
The captain rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "So tell me, Murtagh, son of Tornac, why didn't your father come to teach his lessons himself as usual, but sent you instead?"
"He's been ill these past days," the boy replied, his eyes darkening with worry again. "I am the one who substitutes for him at the school and in all the other lessons he has taken on. I am, after all, his assistant."
The captain nodded understandingly. "From the way you handled the sword earlier, I have no reason to doubt what you say," he said. "However, no one has the right to come here threatening and causing a commotion at the gates of the royal castle. It is my duty to hand you over to the officer of the guard, and he will judge you." With a nod, two guards grabbed him by the arms and began to drag him towards the garrison headquarters.
The captain nodded understandingly. "From the way you handled the sword earlier, I have no reason to doubt what you say," he said. "However, no one has the right to come here threatening and causing a commotion at the gates of the royal castle. It is my duty to hand you over to the officer of the guard, and he will judge you." With a nod, two guards grabbed him by the arms and began to drag him towards the garrison headquarters.
"Please! Wait!"
The clear, girlish voice from the balcony drowned out the noise made by the men in the courtyard, and everyone saw her leaning over, signaling for them to wait for her to come down. For a while now, Nasuada had been watching from the external balcony the scuffle that had taken place in front of the castle gates. As she had previously hurried along the exterior corridor towards the fencing hall for her lesson, the shouts of the soldiers and the clanging of weapons had caught her attention. She had seen the boy disarm the guards from above and had heard his claims that he was the son of her instructor. She had been impressed by his skillful sword handling and felt suddenly responsible for his possible punishment. Now she was hurrying down the stairs towards them.
The youth, like everyone else, turned towards the voice that, with a regal air, had commanded rather than requested them to wait in the courtyard. He watched her approach, speechless, seeing her as half girl, half dream. He saw her move towards him with graceful ease and an enchanting mystery. Her dark skin was not so rare in Aberon, nor were her curly hair, part of which was intricately braided around her forehead, leaving the rest to hang in a forest of long braids. As she reached them, a fresh fragrance filled the courtyard, masking the smell of metal, the leather of the armor, and the sharp sweat of the men. Her almond-shaped eyes turned towards him, shining like two stars in a cloudless night sky beneath two delicate arches that were her eyebrows.
"I heard that this youth is the son and assistant of my weapon master, Tornac!" she spoke to the captain with a regal bearing and tone, as if long accustomed to addressing subordinates, but with such gentleness in her voice that no one could ever take her for authoritarian.
The captain bowed respectfully before her. Although he belonged to the king's guards, he held a deep friendship in his heart for the Varden. "This lad claims so, my lady. Nonetheless, he will be taken to the officer of the guard at the castle to be judged for his actions."
Nasuada looked at the young man again with a scrutinizing gaze, as if measuring him. "Since my instructor deemed it fit to send his assistant to me today, it is my desire to practice with him." Her words were sharp, filled with confidence that her will would be carried out, and as she extended her hand towards the youth, asking him to follow her, the guards who had detained him were taken aback.
"As my lady wishes," the captain bowed again before her and, with a nod to his soldiers, compelled them to release him.
The boy, picking up the fallen sheath and his weapons from the ground, obediently followed her. The girl hadn't turned once to see if he was coming until she led him to the room where her lessons took place. Only then, when they were alone, did she turn towards him with interest.
"Why didn't my instructor come himself today but sent his assistant?" she asked.
He felt as if her eyes were piercing his soul, yet he detected traces of concerned sympathy in her voice. He bowed respectfully before her, something he hadn't managed to do in the courtyard while under the grip of the guards.
"My name is Murtagh, my lady, Murtagh, son of Tornac. My father is ill today, so he sent me to complete his lesson. I am indebted to you for taking the trouble to speak on my behalf to the soldiers. It was your intervention that saved me from the captain's punishment."
The girl smiled at him sweetly, and it seemed as though flowers bloomed on her lips. "I hope my instructor isn't seriously ill," she said, her tone revealing a question filled with genuine concern. As for his thanks for saving him, she avoided commenting on it.
"My father has a persistent cough that has been bothering him frequently lately. Last night, however, he also developed a fever. I hope it's nothing serious and that he can quickly resume his lessons."
"I hope so!"
They began to train. At first, it was just an assessment, each measuring the other's skills. Quickly, however, the boy's superiority with the sword became evident. Despite his initial shyness, he swiftly adopted the demeanor of a teacher.
"A feint is used to deceive the opponent and initially does not differ from a real attack." It was as if Tornac himself was speaking through his lips as he repeated, showing her again and again – sometimes slowly, sometimes with lightning speed – the same movement. "Attention to this rhythm! Yes, very good! And now a circular motion... Calmly! Back to guard. Now, focus. En garde! To me! No matter, again. Force me to parry with the first two times. Correct... Steady there! Disengage now. That's it. Thrust inward! Deep! Good. Strike. Excellent."
"How did I do, teacher?" she asked, wiping her sweaty forehead with a white handkerchief, a satisfied smile on her face.
"Quite well, my lady, quite well. However, you still allow your sword to be easily engaged. If you ever find yourself in such a difficult position again, do not hesitate to increase the distance by taking a step back," he commented, feigning indifference as a shiver ran through him. He often felt this same indefinable sensation, a delicate shiver running down his spine during their lessons. And he was sure it wasn't due to the metallic vibration from the crossing blades.
Ajihad had earlier been informed about the commotion at the gate. Motionless from the high gallery, he had watched his daughter's lesson, impressed. This assistant of Tornac, despite his young age, was no less skilled than his master. As the boy gathered the training weapons and placed them back in the sheath, Ajihad deemed it appropriate to appear and escort his daughter back to her quarters. As he was leading her towards the exit of the hall, his arm around her shoulder, he turned again towards the youth.
"Please convey our best wishes to our dear instructor for a full and speedy recovery. I hope he will be present for my daughter's next lesson."
Without waiting for a response, Ajihad led Nasuada out of the hall, and Murtagh remained alone, watching them leave, impressed by their regal bearing. He took the sheath with his weapons under his arm and hurried out with quick steps. His father surely needed him by his side, and he had many other duties to attend to before dusk.
Fortunately, no one stopped him in the courtyard, and the guard shift at the castle gates had changed. The current guards—preoccupied with the incessant coming and going of merchants, suppliers, and others engaged in business transactions, giving and receiving from the castle—paid him no attention as he left. On the way, he paused briefly on the path beside the forest and picked a bunch of red wildflowers. He would place them in Tornac's vase on his bedside table. If his father couldn't go out to enjoy the spring, spring would come to him.
As he bent over the ditch, selecting the most beautiful buds, his thoughts involuntarily returned to the face of the girl he had just taught. Didn't her lips open in the same way whenever she spoke to him and smiled? And didn't the freshness of the petals and the scent of the flowers remind him of her cheeks and the fragrance from her tender bosom?
That same night, he dreamed of her eyes and her sweet gaze. Upon waking with the coming dawn, he knew deep within that something in his life had changed forever.