Alaire could almost forget his royal blood out here on the outskirts of the kingdom.
It's a good thing I'm the eighth son. I know I could never handle being king. Lucky Derek, he has the throne and all its responsibilities to look forward to.
By now he must feel like an actor in a play, with all his lines and actions written out for him.
Alaire struggled to his feet and answered Nai- tachal's salute with one of his own.
"We aren't finished yet," the Dark Elf said.
As if I was worried we might not be, Alaire thought, heeding the challenge nevertheless.
Naitachal struck with a vengeance, taking Alaire by surprise. What's gotten into him? The boy thought as he frantically defended himself. The elf was attacking his left side, just as he had the day before.
He did his best, but it became painfully evident that either Naitachal had been toying with him earlier, or else he had been distracted by something and was now leveling his full concentration on the bout. Within moments, Alaire was struggling just to keep from being scored on.
Within a few breaths, it was obvious that he was not going to manage even that.
"Hit," Naitachal declared; the swordpoint wavered just above his heart. "You're dead."
Alaire froze, then dropped his swordpoint to the ground.
They both bowed, formally, as the etiquette of Swordmaster and pupil demanded. Then both grinned, and Alaire wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.
"Let's take a break," Naitachal said, "then back to work."
"I was about ready for a breather," Alaire admitted, omitting the real reason he wanted to stop: he wanted a drink to wash away the dust he'd eaten.
They set their wooden swords on a small rack near the practice field and went to the well beside the front door. Dipping a ladle into the bucket of ice-cold w Alaire drank deeply, clearing his mouth of the dirt.
Naitachal drank too, though he didn't seem winded or even truly tired. His folk have a constitution we humans can only dream of, the bardling thought with envy, at the same time uttering a brief prayer to the gods that be that he would never have to fight an elf for real. The practices are hell enough!
Naitachal's age was as much an enigma now as it had been when Alaire first met him. From some of the old songs and tales, Alaire learned that he had been around in King Amber's time. Even then he was old by human standards.
Now's a good time to ask him again, Alaire thought.
He might even answer. He'd met only with annoying silence every other time he'd inquired.
"You know, you seem to be holding up well for someone as, well, old as you," Alaire ventured, cau- tiously. Naitachal frowned; but then, he usually did when that question came up. The bardling's words still came out wrong, as if his mouth assumed a will of its own whenever he asked something personal abou Master. Inwardly, Alaire winced. He didn't want to annoy the elf, particularly when the swords were within reach. The next bout might be even harder!
"How old are you, Master?"
The elf took his time answering. Alaire wondered if he had ignored what had become a rather rude ques- tion, or had chosen not to hear it.
"You're all of nineteen years old, young bardling,"
Naitachal began softly, after drinking from the ladle.
His eyes softened, and Alaire sighed in relief. "A mere infant. A toddler. At best, a child." He smiled wistfully, as if considering a secret, amusing thought. "I am old by your standards."