Elora never felt more alive than when a sword swung toward her body.
This one aimed for her heart, but she parried the blow. As always, her sword acted as a shield as much as a weapon. The two blades clashed midair. It took her a moment to regain a ready stance.
In the precious second she lost, her opponent managed to sneak in another strike. The lethal point of his sword kissed her bare arm on its way to her heart. It was too bad for him that she knew the move well.
Her steady footing gave just the right angle to slide her blade against his until the tops of their hilts clanged. With a great shove, she pushed the sword away from herself.
Her opponent stumbled backward for three steps and then landed on the dry, cracked dirt of the clearing where they fought. Faced with his defeat, Elora’s father let out a chuckle as he smoothed wispy brown strands back over his balding spots. His silver eyes shined as he reached for the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword.
“I don’t know how much more I can teach you, Elora.” Hearing his gentle voice always jarred a bit with the ferocity of his sword fighting. He let out another soft chuckle and shielded his eyes from the sun, looking toward his forge.
The little clearing in the woods had always been the perfect spot for sparring. It sat close enough to his forge for her father to see when a customer approached. And even though their little cottage stood nearby, the clearing was far enough away that Elora’s mother wouldn’t see her fighting—in a dress and corset, yes, but without the long-sleeved under slip she was supposed to wear at all times.
The tight corset only barely limited her movements now that she was used to fighting with it. But the under slip that covered her arms always got in the way when she had to move fast. Fighting without it always went smoother.
Her father had sheathed his sword. He stroked her cheek with his knuckle, wearing a smile that always made her feel proud. “I think you’re better than me now.”
The words came with a biting reminder. Her blade sang as she slammed it into its sheath. “I’ll never get to fight in the tournaments as long as I’m a woman, though. How do I know how good I really am if I’m not even allowed to fight?”
Her father managed to stop himself from wincing at her words. Maybe he’d been practicing. Apparently, he didn’t want to start a fight. He leaned up against a tree filled with leaves fluttering in the gentle wind. “You don’t need to fight. I won hundreds of tournaments in my day, and you can beat me. That should tell you exactly how good you are.”
That was all her sword fighting was allowed to be. A hobby. Something to pass the time, like needlework or poem writing. A woman could have a talent for others to applaud and admire, but it could never be something she earned money from.
Besides that, beating her father now didn’t mean as much as it used to. As a child, she loved sitting on her mother’s lap and ogling as her father easily defeated every sword fighter he went up against. But he was an old man now, with three daughters to provide for and only a forge in an out-of-the-way village to do it with.
He hadn’t even ordered a new shipment of ore for several weeks.
From the corner of her eye, she noticed a flash of movement. Her head jerked toward it but only found the same tree that had always been there. After narrowing her eyes for a moment, she turned back to her father.
With a handkerchief embroidered by her mother, he dabbed at the sweat on his forehead. “I have something for you.”
He must have been in a very good mood if he limited his lecture to those three sentences. Now he reached for the leather bag that usually held his business letters and a few of his favorite forging tools.
From out of the bag, he pulled a soft leather-bound book. The pages all poked out at different angles; a haphazard length of string seemed to hold the whole thing together. His silvery eyes brightened again as he pushed the book toward her. “It’s from my friends who still work at the castle.”
Her stomach danced a jig as soon as she touched the book. Her fingers buzzed as she struggled to open the buckle that held it closed. When the pages fell open in her hands, a gasp of sheer delight escaped her.
Drawings filled most of the pages, but many had descriptions too. The first section showed plants and flowers from the castle gardens. Another showed the layout and the quaint cobblestone paths between the different areas of the garden. The next section focused on clothing the courtiers and noblemen wore. One gave a detailed description and drawing of the king’s favorite red velvet and gold crown.
“I explained to my friends how my oldest daughter is clever and always curious. I asked them to send drawings and descriptions so that you could see what the castle is like.”
She turned over the pages with insatiable hunger, eager to devour the information at the greatest possible speed. But another part of her held her fingers back and forced her to enjoy each drawing to the fullest. The small details were always her favorite.
It didn’t matter how quickly she looked through the book anyway, it would take her weeks to fully digest it all. Her eyebrows pinched as she neared the end. “Did they include any information about the food?”
Her father leaned forward, turning down one corner of his mouth. “I’m afraid I forgot to ask about the food. But I did ask about—”
Another gasp escaped her. If she’d had any control over it, she wouldn’t have interrupted her father, but the final drawings were too great to suppress a reaction.
Luckily, he only smiled in response. “I specifically asked that they give detailed information about the guards’ armor and weapons.”
She stroked the page, sliding her finger over a drawn sword, as if her touch might convince it to leave the page and become real.
When her father swallowed, she tried to ignore how his fingers had stiffened at his sides. He cleared his throat. “What have you been thinking about marriage these days?”
The book suddenly felt heavier in her hand, like the pages had been forged from steel and the edges were sharp as blades. As much as she would treasure the book, she couldn’t help seeing it for what it really was now. A bribe.
Her lips barely parted as she spoke. “I’m only seventeen. Isn’t that too young for marriage?”
Her father dabbed his forehead again with the embroidered handkerchief. He seemed unusually sweaty in the cool air that surrounded them. “Many get married younger than seventeen.”
She brought the book closer to her nose, specifically avoiding his eyes. “If you’re ready for a wedding, why not wait for Chloe? She’s fifteen and dying to get married. Can’t you wait another year to arrange a wedding?”
“We can’t wait that long.”
He swallowed again. The lyrical sound of harp music drifted toward them from the cottage. Based on the speed of the scales, Grace was obviously the one playing. She may have been the youngest sister—only twelve—but she was still the most accomplished harpist of all three sisters.
While Elora and her father had been sparring, a cool, gentle wind kept her internal temperature perfect for fighting. Now it made the little hairs on her arm stand on end.
Her father lowered his eyes to the cracked dirt of the clearing. It had been too long since the last rain. Everyone in the village felt it. He stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket. “You know I had a butcher who commissioned that strange set of knives a while back. He never picked them up or paid. I’ve only been able to sell one of the knives since. The others used an alloy so strange, I can’t melt them down to use for another weapon.”
Tension caused her fingers to curl around the spine of the book. “You don’t have enough money to buy more ore?”
He looked away. “Recent times have been difficult for many people in the village. My skills are great, but few are wanting new swords.” His head hung. Sunlight pierced through the strands of his graying hair, making his bald spots prominent. “I can’t provide for our family.”
Her heart sank at his ability to speak such words. At one time, he never would have accepted defeat of any kind.
With a tender hand, he brushed her long, light brown hair behind her shoulders. “With your beauty, we’ve already had men offering small fortunes just to be with you. But your mother and I love you more than anything. I’ve made some inquiries and already dismissed several men who were clearly not worthy of our precious child.” His hand dropped onto her shoulder, which he gave a strong squeeze. “I promise I will find you a good husband, someone who is kind and has the means to take care of you.” Now his smile returned, but it carried a weight that hadn’t been there before. “And he must allow you to practice sword fighting every day, or I will not even consider him.”
When he pulled her into his arms, she buried her face in the safety of his chest. He had always been there to take care of her, to teach her. She had always known this day would come, but somehow, she had never been able to imagine another shoulder catching her tears. Maybe she’d have to embroider her own handkerchief to do the job.
Or maybe, she’d never feel safe enough to cry again.
A pair of boots had been stomping across the nearby path, but now they moved close enough to crunch the gravel in front of the nearby forge. Her father tightened his embrace. When he stepped back, he brushed his knuckles across her cheek again, but this time caught the falling tears.
He attempted a smile. “It seems the squire is here to have his swords polished. I have to go. Enjoy your book.”
He swung the leather bag onto his back and started toward the forge. But then he looked back at her with a pair of tired eyes that she knew well. “And Elora, when you do harp lessons with your mother later, please don’t give her too much grief.”
His retreating form filled her with a rolling nausea. She’d always been his favorite. Chloe cared too much about epic poems and falling in love. Everyone loved Grace, but she acted so childish compared to the rest of them.
Elora and her father had always shared a special connection the others didn’t have. His promise to find someone who would let her practice sword fighting every day had sounded simple. Truthfully, it wasn’t simple at all. Most people looked down on her for knowing how to fight. Most people called it frightening and uncomely. Her father had taught her to ignore those comments just as he had taught her how to parry and strike.
For him to promise to find a husband who would allow her to continue sword fighting was probably the greatest gift he could possibly give her.
A hard lump formed in her throat as she pulled the book of drawings close to her chest.
Was it wrong for her to dream of something more?
Her lip quivered as she glanced through the woods at a path she had taken many times. At the end of it stood a tree she had often climbed. Yet, it in all her years, she had never managed to climb to the very top of the knotty tree.
It had always seemed like she’d have time someday. But maybe time wasn’t as abundant as she had thought.
She glanced back toward her little cottage with blue-painted shutters. She had always intended to get through at least one music lesson with her mother without throwing a fit.
And what about the frame she had promised to buy for her sister Chloe to display her favorite love poem? And what about the harp duet she had promised Grace they would learn someday?
Unwittingly, her fingers clutched around the hilt of her sword, squeezing much tighter than she meant to. And what about the tournaments? She had always dreamed of disguising herself in order to compete. They couldn’t turn her away if they thought she was a boy.
The thought of defying her parents’ greatest wish turned her mouth dryer than the crusty dirt under foot. She let out a sigh and glanced down the path ahead.
Then her eyes narrowed, and her heart skipped a beat.
Perhaps fighting in the tournament was too big an adventure to attempt without careful planning.
But climbing that tree to the very top? That was dream she could finally fulfill. If she could accomplish at least some of her dreams, then maybe her marriage wouldn’t feel so much like imprisonment.
She’d climb the tree that evening.