She shook her head; her hair swirled. “I will not tell you,” she said. “But I will tell you that when I am done with you, I will kill your Squires … and then your lady and those unborn children you’re so proud of.” She looked down the length of her sword. “Ah … I think I have lingered enough.” She opened her heart-hand again and showed the bright silver curve of a small knife. “This, to start.”

She walked toward him, utterly unafraid. Kieri judged the distance, drew the great sword and his dagger just as she came in reach, and struck. He missed her; she danced back, laughing now. “Foolish boy; I have elven mail and sword, and I am far more experienced than you. I wondered were you truly snared.”

Kieri had heard that elven mail could not be broken by humans, but his was an elven sword. Perhaps … He began a turn to the right; she matched him on the circle, perfectly aligned. She was, like all the elves, tall and lithe, in her first youth, perfectly fit. He reversed; she did the same.

“You dance well,” she said. “But you cannot dance forever.” She moved in then, quick and sure with the correct move for her position; he blocked her thrust easily, and she parried his. As parry followed thrust again and again, Kieri tested her skills. He soon knew her for a novice—fast, strong, schooled in all the standard moves, but she had learned swordplay as recreation, as a dance, as anything but what it really was. Had she been other than his mother’s murderer, Orlith’s murderer, and the murderer of all those unborn babes, he would have warned her. Instead, he played on, testing which of her moves gave him the best openings given the mail she wore.

She pushed harder with her magery, trying to slow him, but it had no effect. He pressed his own attack, forcing her to respond faster than she had. Suddenly her heart-hand flashed, and the curved knife sped toward his face. He jerked his head aside without dropping his guard; he’d seen such tricks before. But she rushed in anyway, not waiting, counting on a gap that wasn’t there.

His response came automatically: the block with his dagger, the practiced thrust any soldier would have made to kill a novice crazy enough to make such a naive attack. To his astonishment, his blade slid through the elven mail as if it were not there and pierced her through.

“For my mother,” he said, as her eyes widened in disbelief. Her knees buckled, though she still breathed, as strength left her and life ebbed. Her weight dragged his blade down; he stepped back, pulling it free. “And for my father, and my sister, and for me. For Orlith and the children unborn.”

“You … will … never … know … who…”