The armsman asked which hand I intended to lose.
I looked at him. He looked at the way I was holding the practice blade.
"The grip, young master. Your thumb is across the flat."
I moved it.
"That would explain it," I said.
He didn't smile.
Perhaps he hadn't meant it as a joke. Perhaps an heir holding a sword incorrectly wasn't funny when someone might later ask whose fault it was.
The man wore a plain practice coat and carried no visible rank badge. A pale scar ran along the knuckle of his index finger. He had arrived with the clerk's instructions, two wooden blades, and an expression that suggested he preferred all three to remain undamaged.
Yesterday's session had involved posture and no magic. My hand was less tender this morning, though I still felt the old burn when I tightened my grip.
The Duke's examination was two days away. I couldn't afford another injury. I also couldn't afford to discover in his study that my entire plan only worked on furniture.
"Light contact," I said.
"I was told."
He took the blade from me and showed me the small ward fitting near its guard. The effect covered the wooden edge, softening impact during ordinary practice.
At least, it did while the ward remained active.
He turned the control to its lowest setting and offered the hilt again.
"The ward isn't a reason to stand still."
I thought of the disc striking my arm.
"I know."
He watched me take the blade.
I knew. My feet would be the part we were testing.
The attendant stood by the door, well away from the floor marks. Another household man had checked the straps on our padded coats before leaving. Nobody was here to applaud.
Good.
I asked for the strike slowly first.
The armsman stopped beside the nearest mark and raised his wooden blade. From there, he brought it down toward my shoulder with no more force than someone setting a stick against a wall.
I stepped back, bringing my own weapon across it.
Wood met wood. His edge slid past the guard and rested against my sleeve.
"Too late," he said.
He reset before I had decided whether to be offended.
That helped. If he waited for my reaction after every mistake, we would be there all morning.
On the second attempt, I moved earlier. His blade met mine at an awkward angle, but the strike stayed clear of my shoulder.
"Again."
I opened my mouth, then closed it. That was his instruction, not mine.
We repeated the same movement without Aether. Step. Turn. Guide the strike away. I understood it well enough while he paused between each part.
When he joined the parts together, I forgot my feet.
The padded edge touched my coat.
"Your hand is doing the whole exercise," he said.
I looked down. Both feet were still on the marks where I had started.
The armsman lowered his weapon and pointed at my rear foot with the blunt tip.
"Turn it slightly."
I did.
"Less."
I moved it back.
He waited until I stopped looking at the floor, then pushed gently against the outside of my shoulder.
My balance shifted. This time, moving the rear foot felt possible without first untwisting my knee.
"You set yourself to receive the blow," he said. "Then you try to leave from the same position."
I had copied a stance from a character who could afford to receive it. I needed to stop doing that.
He made me step out twice without an incoming strike. On the second movement, I tried to go too far and had to bring the other foot over quickly to avoid falling.
He didn't offer a more impressive exercise.
We repeated the small one.
The attendant kept his eyes on the far wall. I knew he could still see us, which made the simple steps feel considerably less simple.
I wanted the armsman to stop correcting me in front of him. I wanted to get through tomorrow's preparation without discovering another problem with my legs.
The second desire won, narrowly. "The distance?" I asked.
"Enough to clear the strike. More leaves you farther from the answer you intended to make."
He demonstrated once, moving less than I expected.
I could see how the motion worked. Repeating it while watching the blade would be the difficult part.
We both knew that. He reset the exercise without saying it aloud.
In the game, pressing dodge had moved the entire character. No separate command for remembering my left leg existed.
I put the practice blade aside.
"Once more. This time, I want contact near the guard."
His gaze went to my right hand.
"Bare?"
"For the release."
He considered that, then reduced the starting distance.
"At this pace. If you lose the line, move out. Don't reach after it."
I nodded.
He demonstrated the approach without making me respond. The blade moved diagonally toward my left side. Its ward was thin enough to see the wood through it. Near the fitting, the cloudy layer narrowed where the flow returned.
A join. Moving, this time.
I could not erase the force of the strike. I needed to interrupt the ward, let the blade pass, and turn out of its path.
That was what I wanted from a counter. A brief opening I could use, not a hand strong enough to hold an armed man still.
I remembered the completed technique as Null Counter. What I was attempting today was the first part, with no spare force to send back.
I set my feet farther apart and opened my right palm. The armsman waited until I looked up.
"Ready?"
I began the circulation.
Cold moved along the easier path in my chest. I kept it narrow as it passed my elbow.
"Ready."
The wooden blade came toward me. Too quickly.
No. Faster than the last demonstration, but still slow enough to follow. I had watched faster attacks thousands of times. My body simply didn't seem interested in what my eyes considered reasonable.
I turned my palm toward the join.
The edge was already closer to my sleeve than I wanted.
Move.
My right hand reached. My left foot stayed planted.
I touched the ward beside its fitting and released.
The cloudy layer vanished. Wood struck my upper arm.
For one stupid moment, I tried to stop it with the hand that had just removed the only thing softening the blow.
The armsman checked his strike and pulled back.
It still hurt.
I stepped sideways too late, caught my balance, and stood with my palm burning and a deep ache spreading beneath the padded coat.
"End," he said.
I hadn't asked him to end it. I also hadn't managed anything that earned me the right to argue.
The attendant moved forward. I lifted my good hand, less sharply than usual, and he stopped beside the bench.
"I'm standing," I said.
"Yes, young master," the armsman replied. "Keep doing that. I'll put these away."
He took two steps back and checked the practice blade.
No impressed silence. No shocked admission that I had discovered something impossible.
He had seen the ward disappear. He had also seen me get hit immediately afterward. Both deserved to be remembered.
I sat while the attendant loosened the sleeve of the padded coat. A red patch was forming above my left elbow. The fabric hadn't torn. The bones still worked. That was more than I deserved from the attempt.
"Any numbness?" the armsman asked.
"No."
"Open and close the hand."
I did. The movement pulled at the bruised muscle.
"The other one."
Right. The one I had put against the ward.
Opening it hurt more. The old mark had reddened again.
He looked without touching.
"No further releases today."
"I have an examination."
"Then it would be useful to arrive with a hand."
I stared at him.
He waited, looking neither apologetic nor pleased with himself.
I wondered how many of Cedric's bad decisions this man had already been expected to call training.
"What goes in your report?" I asked.
"Contact achieved. Ward interrupted. Physical guard failed. Session ended after the strike."
Four short statements. No praise I could hide behind and no insult I could use to dismiss him.
"Accurate," I said.
His shoulders eased a fraction.
That was all he had wanted from me, apparently. Permission to describe what happened.
I let the attendant bring water this time. The armsman waited until I had checked the skin again before collecting the last piece of equipment. At the door, he turned back.
"Your eyes stayed on the fitting."
"That's where the join is."
"Yes. The rest of the weapon travels with it."
I looked at my arm.
"I noticed."
He bowed and left.
Alone again, I wanted to blame the pace, the angle, the unfamiliar weapon. Any of those might have helped if they were different.
None changed the part I had failed.
I knew the blade would keep moving. Knowing hadn't made me move with it.
The training disc had taught me about weight. This morning had shown me how quickly I could forget a useful fact when I was frightened of missing the contact point.
I waited until the sting eased before going back to my room.
The demonstration sheet lay beneath the Duke's notice.
One release against a ward. Stop before the flow became uneven.
I added a condition in the margin: no moving target unless ordered.
Then I underlined unless ordered, because I didn't get to choose every part of the examination.
My better chance was still the same small action. The longer I tried to make it look impressive, the more opportunities I gave my body to fail.
I loosened the practice coat with my left hand and had to stop halfway when the bruise pulled.
The attendant helped with the second fastening. I let him.
Two days. A sore palm. A shoulder I would feel every time I raised my arm.
Tomorrow, I would practice the order of the demonstration without making another release.
Today, I needed to leave the coat off and stop pretending rest was optional.