Torsten fights the way someone fights who has spent more time imagining victory than preparing for it, and the observationtells Evran everything he needs to know about the man he is dealing with.
The bout ends. Torsten catches the stocky man's practice sword in a bind that the stocky man visibly allows, wrenching it from his grip with a twisting maneuver that sends it clattering across the packed dirt. The stocky man swears, rubs his wrist with the practiced wince of someone who has performed this exact concession many times before, and steps back. Torsten straightens, breathing hard, and turns.
And sees Evran.
The surprise on his face is genuine. For one unguarded moment, before the mask slides back into place, Torsten looks startled, caught, as though Evran has seen something he was not supposed to see. Then the easy smile reasserts itself, brighter than before, and he approaches with the sword still in his hand and sweat darkening the front of his tunic.
"Evran." He is breathing hard, his chest rising and falling visibly, his face flushed with exertion. "What a surprise."
"Dane brought me," Evran says, keeping his voice light. "He said you were asking after me."
"I was. I didn't expect him to deliver you personally." Torsten plants the practice sword point-down in the dirt and leans on it, and the pose is so carefully arranged, the casual lean, the easy confidence, the slight tilt of the head, that Evran can see the seams of it. Every angle calculated. Every line of his body arranged for effect. "I hope you weren't put out by the walk."
"Not at all. The fresh air is nice." Evran gestures at the clearing. "You fight well."
The compliment lands exactly where he aims it. Torsten's face brightens, not the controlled brightening of the mask but something more genuine, the involuntary pleasure of vanity being stroked. He straightens up, pulling the sword from the dirt and tossing it from hand to hand.
"I would have performed better if I'd known I had an audience," he says.
"I doubt that. You looked very impressive from where I was sitting."
Torsten's smile widens. The stocky man, still rubbing his wrist at the far side of the clearing, gives Evran a look that is equal parts suspicion and amusement. Evran ignores him.
Torsten closes the distance between them, stopping a few feet from the log where Evran sits. He is close enough that Evran can see the sweat on his temples, the rapid flutter of the pulse in his throat, the flush of exertion and, beneath it, the heat of being watched by someone you want.
"Do you have any skill with a sword?" Torsten asks.
The question is casual, inviting, an open door.
Evran has been training with Kellin for six months. He can hold a guard, throw a combination, block a strike and counter. He is not a warrior, will never be a warrior, but he is competent enough to surprise someone who expects nothing. Kellin said as much last week, in the closest thing to praise the man has ever offered:You won't win a fight, but you might survive one.
"I've always been more interested in books and gardening than the blade," Evran says, and makes his voice a little sheepish, a little self-deprecating. The harmless southerner. The pretty bird who does not know which end to hold.
Torsten's eyes light up.
"Let me show you," he says.
What follows is the most awkward and uncomfortable training session of Evran's life, and that includes the time Kellin made him practice footwork drills for three hours straight in the rain while shouting corrections that were more insult than instruction.
Torsten fetches a second practice sword and presses it into Evran's hands, adjusting his grip with fingers that lingeron Evran's knuckles. He positions himself behind Evran and reaches around to adjust his elbow, his chest against Evran's back, his breath on Evran's neck. He demonstrates a stance by placing his foot between Evran's feet and pressing his knee against the inside of Evran's thigh to widen his base.
Every correction is a reason to touch.
Evran endures it. He keeps his breathing even and his face appropriately flustered, which is not difficult given that his skin is crawling, and pretends to be a worse fighter than he is. He fumbles the grip Torsten shows him, though his hands know the correct one. He stumbles on the footwork, though Kellin drilled it into his muscle memory months ago. He swings too wide on the practice strikes, leaving openings that a child could exploit, and Torsten steps in to correct him each time with the solicitous patience of enjoying the power imbalance far too much.
"Here," Torsten says, sliding behind him again, his hand closing over Evran's on the hilt. "Your elbow is too high. Drop it. Like this."
Evran drops his elbow. Torsten's hand stays on his.
"Now turn your wrist. Feel how the angle changes?"
Evran turns his wrist. He can feel the heat of Torsten's body along his back, the press of his chest, the curl of his breath past his ear. Every instinct he has is screaming at him to drive his elbow into Torsten's solar plexus and step away, which is, incidentally, exactly what Kellin would tell him to do.
He does not. He stays where he is and says, "Like this?" in a voice that is breathy and uncertain and makes him want to wash his own mouth out.
"Perfect," Torsten says, and does not move away.
The lesson continues. Torsten shows him how to parry, badly, with none of Kellin's precision, and how to block, with more force than necessary, creating opportunities to grab Evran's arm and reposition it. He demonstrates a dodge that involvesputting his hand on Evran's hip and pulling him sideways, and a counterattack that requires Evran to step into Torsten's space, their bodies close enough that Evran can count the flecks of green in his blue eyes.
