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“It’s difficult not to,” he said from that position, eyeing her in the shadows. “Every man must have at least one fault.”
Hettie walked into the training yard, arms folded, her frown concealing the beginnings of a wry smile. “When is Baylen going to get back from the bakery with food for our journey?” she asked.
“I think he’ll be gone a little while . . . why?”
She lunged forward, dropping low, and swung her leg around in a wide arc, slamming the staff hard enough to topple his stance.
He remained floating in the air, the staff spinning away. He let it clatter. “I knew you were going to do that. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.”
The two engaged in a full-stroke series of punches, kicks, and grappling techniques. Her reflexes had improved immeasurably since the Scourgelands. She did not hold back, and he had to admit that before too much longer, she might be ready to start sanding the calluses off his heels.
Their forearms jarred together in an intricate series of blocks and strikes. She shoved him hard against the chest and did a reverse kick that clipped his cheek. It even hurt a little.
She landed, grinning triumphantly, and he let her enjoy the moment before coming at her like an avalanche. Their arms and legs locked, fingers groping, feet positioning, and switching from one stance to another as they tried to achieve the right leverage. She caught his wrist and chopped at his neck. He blocked with his elbow and caught around her neck, spinning her around his exposed leg and tripping her backward. Hettie tucked her shoulder and pulled him off his feet. He felt his balance lurching.
Hettie grabbed a fistful of his tunic front and then kissed him passionately on the mouth, breaking his concentration completely. He forgot about the fighting, forgot everything except the taste of her, and then realized she was tricking him.
He backed away just as she was about to land her knee in his stomach. He caught the knee, hooked it with his arm and then hoisted her up higher, making her lose her balance. He reversed his hold, swept her final leg, and then watched with satisfaction as she toppled—at last!
Paedrin normally would have tackled her and pinned her, but he was winded from the duel and instead reached and helped her rise.
“I almost had you,” she teased, panting.
“You came close,” he agreed. He cast his gaze around the training yard, seeing glimpses of the memories it contained. “I’ll miss the Bhikhu temple,” he said solemnly. “It is colder in Shatalin. Do you fancy climbing the side of the mountain again?”
“Only if you are there to catch me,” she answered slyly. “You realize I saved your life in the Scourgelands, Paedrin. When Tyrus was going to burn you to death. He would have, you know.”
He gave her an arch look. “You want me to admit it?”
She nodded vigorously.
Paedrin grabbed her around her waist, his mouth crinkling with joy and a wistful smile. He stared hard into her eyes, soaking her in. “You did save my life, Hettie. And I’d like to thank you. The Romani way.”
She smiled, nuzzling up against him. “I’d like that.”
Annon cleared the branch away, exposing the small hut. It surprised him to see that much had changed since he had last visited Dame Nestra and her husband. He recognized the stump near the fire pit, the whetstone sitting outside the hut. But a barn had been constructed and some of the woods had been cleared. It looked peculiar, jarring with the memories he had of the place. A little prick of disappointment flashed inside his heart, but he stifled it. He had changed much himself since he had last wandered the forests of Wayland.
“Annon?”
It was Dame Nestra. She came from the doorway of the hut, her expression brightening when she recognized him. “Darling, Annon is back! Look at you!” She swept from the hut and approached him, eyeing him with mouth agape. “You’re a grown man now, no longer a boy. Bless my heart, but you’ve changed. It’s been so long, Annon. Where have you been hiding all this while?”
He took her hand and then gripped her husband’s when he emerged from the hut, stroking crumbs from his mustache. “Bless me, lad. Look at you!”
Annon smiled in spite of himself, feeling grateful for the warm greeting. “I’ve been away too long. You have a barn now. It’s impressive.”
The woodcutter chuckled. “We get too many visitors, you see,” he said with a shrug. “Word of my wife’s cooking has spread in these parts, and folks come out of their way to pass by. Many are Druidecht, but occasionally Romani too or stonemasons from the west. It’s safer in these woods, boy. The things you taught us—how to watch for the spirits and not disturb them.”
