She tried, but he all but brushed the strike aside. Now she saw: even if she got past his own weapon, she had to travel within his arm’s reach and then hit a shoulder still tilted askew from her.

“That’s why,” he said. “If anything will keep you alive, it’s this: be as small a target as you can. And always keep your weapon between you and your foe.” His mouth twisted. “All things considered, that will probably come naturally to you.”

She gave him a dark look. “Aye, and I bet hitting you will, too.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” The grin that followed flashed more than a shade of his usual humor. “Short swords don’t have much range, but you have the element of surprise. Your best shot will be knocking a hit off course and using that opening to go for their hands, eyes, anything you can. Try to hit me, slowly.” She did. He brushed her strike off again, but then in a blink, he was closer, his scabbard tapping her forearm.

Fie narrowed her eyes. “What just happened?”

Tavin shifted back. “Watch. Block.” He pushed her scabbard away slow, firelight slipping along the lines of his scarred wrist. “Step in.” He stepped into the void. “Strike.” His scabbard completed an arc it had begun in the block, landing at her forearm again. “Now you—”

She moved before he finished. He automatically sprang out of her range, then sighed. “I knew I should have put off teaching you how to hit me.”

“You said to use the element of surprise.”

“Yes, on people who are trying to kill you!” He gave an exasperated laugh, a little too loud, then glanced to the prince.

Jasimir was listing sideways, chin propped on a palm. A snore betrayed him.

Relief flickered through Tavin’s expression.

Fie lowered her scabbard. “Why are you dragging it out?”

“I’m not,” he said, setting himself back into the sword stance. “I am fully prepared for you to hit me. Have at it.”

She scowled. Block. “You know what I mean.” Her scabbard pushed his aside. Her voice lowered. “You’re not going back to the palace.” Step in. “And he thinks you are.” Strike. She went for the throat. “You’ll die for him, but you won’t tell him the truth?”

Tavin’s face was unreadable; he did not move away. “What does it matter to you?”

“It’s a pain in my ass,” she hissed. Yet another half-lie. “And yours. He keeps harping on the Hawks because he needs to believe you’re all squeaky-clean and selfless, married to your duty.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

Fie stepped back. “What’s your duty to the prince?”

“To keep him alive.” Tavin nodded slowly. “To … to die for him.”