General Marcum strode down the wide lane deep in contemplation. That boy could not possibly be a master healer of the mundane. At his age, he would have had to begin his apprenticeship at the age of four or five. It was absurd. He did not believe Rezkin for a moment, but at the same time, he was wary of thinking him a liar. It was a contradiction he could not resolve. Perhaps the young man had been duped. Some charlatan could have taken him under his wing for a couple of years, for a price of course, taught him a few herbs and techniques and proclaimed Rezkin a master. Marcum might have been able to convince himself of that if Rezkin did not appear to be so intelligent.

The young man was cultured, educated, well mannered, and conducted himself with both courtly grace and the elegance of a skilled warrior. Marcum had not yet seen the young man in action, but the way he moved indicated he was either a dancer or practiced fighter. Rezkin did not look like a dancer. He was a mystery the general could not solve. Every conclusion seemed to point in a different direction. The only confluence he could find was one he did not wish to consider.

Tam and Frisha worked their way through their exercises. Tam’s motions grew more fluid as he became comfortable with the weight of the sword and motions of the forms. Rezkin always knew exactly when Tam had not performed correctly to the slightest nuance and was sure to correct him. In addition to memorizing the movements of the sword forms, Tam was learning to block. At first, Tam was hit nearly every time, but now he felt a growing sense of pride every time he managed to block a strike.

Frisha found that she was better able to clear her mind and focus when Rezkin was working with Tam. As soon as she caught the handsome warrior’s attention, her concentration shattered, and her blades would fly wide or short of the target. This morning, Frisha was having particular difficulty clearing her mind. It was obvious that her uncle did not care for Rezkin, and she could not understand why. Rezkin was the model of perfection and had been courteous and exceptionally tolerant of her uncle’s accusations the previous night. Frisha had been utterly mortified by the entire turn of events.