Lerran’s day was full of letters and documents. With his warm breakfast and the kiss of his wife fading to distant memory, he pressed his palms to his temples and waited for his head ache to fade. It did not.
The first letter, a short note scrawled on crinkled, over-chalked parchment, came from Lerran’s spy, Erril. It was confirmation of his letter to Noress-That-Was on Lerran’s behalf. Erril predicted they’d receive the letter in two-week’s time. He was certain they’d be able to meet to discuss the terms of Lo Mallago’s sale during the 4th Moon, barring that, the 5th month.
The second letter was a little lengthier, written in Borik’s cursive style. Each character of the Raderan language was tall and inked carefully, with tails linking symbols when possible. Whoever Borik’s secretary was, they had spent an hour scribing the document. In it, the Rebel King confirmed his seizure of Wartha Mull from Jorath’s orphaned daughters. He gave them their brother Alrin’s estate in Lo Mallago city, where he could keep an eye on them. Labourers under Borik’s estate now worked in the gold mine, and Lerran was promised an imminent sample shipment. Until such time as Lerran handed the city limits to new Noress leaders, he’d profit from the mine too.
As good as the news was, Lerran’s knee bounced and his skin itched. He was restless. It wasn’t a day he usually trained, but he stood up from his desk and said, “Enough.” He’d read enough papers today. Though he was waiting for Antha to arrive to share a drink with him, he chose to leave his office early.
Lerran marched down the steps and out the front door of the manor, which was finally done its repairs after Paksis’s attack earlier that month. He turned left, and followed the deck to the side of the mansion. The eaves reached a wooden canopy that extended out, past the limits of the house, to shade the training yard. A few guards sparred there right now, and they paused, mid-bout, to see their leader approach. Smoke from the nearby incense brazier concealed the smell of sweat.
“Continue,” Lerran said. “I’ll join next.”
They continued dueling, wooden blades clacking as they slashed and parried. The taller of the two, a man named Roln, fought as he should, using his height to keep Elomar’s blade lifted. He was trying to tire Elomar out, and succeeded. The longer the fight last, the lower Elomar kept his defences, until Roln rushed him, and landed a few bruising bashes off Elo’s shoulders and back.
Lerran wasn’t in a mood to teach Elomar to improve. He was in a mood for a good fight, so he told Roln to stay in as he selected a new practice sword from the rack against the house’s dark brick wall. The city was sweltering today; it hadn’t rained in a few days, aside from a small drizzle from the morning fog.
They hadn’t even finished a practice match when Antha joined them. “Lerran,” she said. “Eseveer said I’d find you out here.”
Lerran smiled. “Grab a sword,” he said, with a smile. He’d planned on getting her a drink before he had chosen to train.
She laughed. “I’ll humiliate you in front of your boys,” she said, quietly. She had cut her brown hair even shorter. He had asked her to come for a drink, but his true intent was to make her feel more at ease here. She’d been unhappy since he revealed her true parentage to her, and Havard’s most recent letter had warned she would soon leave the city, and Lerran’s service.
“Let’s just have some fun,” Lerran said.
“Fun,” Antha said, rolling her eyes. Nonetheless, she pulled off her outer tunic, so only a small brown shirt garbed her. Lerran had been married for years, but his twin—he corrected himself—his half-sister had never found happiness like he had. For a moment, Lerran wondered if she had any men in her life presently. She grabbed a short sparring sword. “Attack me.”
Lerran did just that. He lanced forward, and raised his guard when she sidestepped. Her upward slash knocked his block upward. She stabbed, and he brought his blade down to parry. His riposte followed close on the heels of her slash, but she easily stepped away from his quick sweep. They paced around one another for a moment.
“You could have been killed, you know,” Antha said. She tested his guard with two quick jabs. Lerran blocked the first and stepped back from the second.
“They’re wooden swords. I’d be fine.” Lerran eyed his sister, waiting for her next move.
Antha smirked. “I meant when that woman attacked and took Paksis. I saw the damage, heard accounts. You shouldn’t have followed after her. Your curiosity is going to get you killed.”
Lerran attacked, driving forward with an easily predicable slash—when she parried, he arched his back and slid under her sword, trying to get her with the flat of his wooden blade as he ducked close to her underarm. She shoved his shoulder gently, and stepped back. His attempt was pulled way off course and she paced warily away from him.
Sweat dripped down his brow and he wiped it away. “There’s a hundred things I’m more curious about,” he said. “I know when to ask and when not to.”
“Do you?” Antha asked. “What hundred things?”
“Havard,” Lerran said. He stabbed, slashed and jabbed again, pushing Antha back through the yard until she wasn’t in the shade any longer. She frowned, and spun around him. Squinting in the sunlight, Lerran said, “Vaenuth.” The woman was on her way to Starath now, with a few of his guards. “Gharo.”
Antha paused, caught off guard. Lerran pressed his advantage, and earned himself a point with his blade clacking off her shoulder. She spun, and slammed her palm at his chest. He was knocked off kilter, stumbling back into the shade of the canopy, but he didn’t lose his feet. The other guards had watched a while, but had decided to give them some privacy; Lerran strode back to his original, starting position. He wiped his brow again. “How are you doing?” he asked, quietly.
“I thought you said you knew when to ask and when not to,” Antha said, and came at him with a flurry of swings. He parried, and blocked, stepped back, stumbled. She continued her onslaught until he rolled on hands and knees before leaping back to his feet. He still hadn’t been hit though. Despite her grumpy comment she was smiling now. “Is that what this is about?” she asked. “You want me to tell you I’m not happy, being guard captain of Sheld? I’m tired of dealing with common rabble? Or I’m not going to take orders from a man from another father?”
Lerran shrugged. “Were you happy before? When Gharo was?”
Antha bristled. “He can rot in the bottom of the salty sea,” she muttered. She swung her sword about her feet and then readied her posture again. They engaged in another bout, still without landing a blow on either. They pulled apart again. Antha was sweating now. Unlike the rest of the conversation, she looked away from him, at the orchard on her right, then at the front gate on her left. “I need to leave, Lerran. I was never happy here, but I didn’t think I had any other option. I need to go find who I am, because I’m not… this.”
“Antha…” Lerran began. He switched his sparring sword to his off-hand, holding its wooden blade. “If you have to go, then go,” he said, quietly.
“What?”
“Take a hundred Grey Sea coins,” Lerran said, with a shrug. He turned to the sword rack and replaced his blade. He glanced back at her. She regarded him with a dropped jaw and wide eyes. “Will you help guard our Fam—my Family, through the Lo Mallago deal, at least?” the Prince of Sheld asked, quietly.
“Alright,” she said.
Lerran bobbed his head. “Good,” he said. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.” He tried to smile, but he’d miss her. Whether they were twins or not, there was no more than a year between their ages. Though he’d always been closer to Gadra, he had grown up with this woman.
Antha nodded too, but didn’t move until Lerran pocketed his hands and walked away.