“A warrior needs to practice and practice,” Grim said. “So that when the time comes his body just does what has to be done. In a battle you don’t have time to work out right and wrong. All you’ve got time for is making sure the other fellow doesn’t kill you before you kill him. A couple of days, that’s not very long. But it’s long enough.”

“A pox on it all,” I muttered, finding my eyes drawn to that shining blade, that elegant handle. “Why in the name of the gods did I ever agree to this?”

“You’re the only one can answer that,” said Grim. “Come on, breakfast.”

“Did you sleep in the guards’ quarters?”

“Didn’t do much sleeping. Talked about the job you have to do, worked out what weapon was best. This one’s the right weight for you. They’ve got a supply of seasoned wood there. Made a new handle, did some work on the blade. Better balanced now. Want to hold it?”

“No, thanks. I’ll wait until later. To tell you the truth, the very idea makes me feel sick.”

“Doesn’t get any easier.” Grim ran a thoughtful finger along the ax’s cutting edge, somehow managing not to draw blood. “You never get used to killing. You just get better at making yourself do it.”

• • •

If I hadn’t known already how patient he was, I’d have learned it that day. We worked from breakfast time until midmorning before he let me try the ax. It was all foot positions, balance, turns. Practicing slowly so everything was correct, then speeding up. Going through the movements and then having to tell him what I’d seen around me while I was doing it. In case, Grim explained, there was something unexpected up in the tower, apart from a monster, of course. You couldn’t leave anything to chance, he said.

We worked in a small yard next to the guards’ quarters, a place designed for just such a purpose. I was pleased to be without an audience for my fumbling attempts to make myself into a warrior. In particular I didn’t want Geiléis watching. I’d been thinking about her a lot since Flannan had told us the old story, and those thoughts set me on edge.

The ax was perfect for me. Holding it, lifting it, swinging it, I understood what Grim had meant a little earlier when he’d talked about balance and trajectory and using the strength you had to best advantage. The handle was of ash wood and there was a spray of blackthorn carved along it—thorns, flowers, berries, similar to the one he’d done along my bed back at Winterfalls. This decorative carving had been carefully placed so it would not affect the grip. I wondered if its purpose was the same as that of the creatures he’d made to decorate the roof of our cottage. To ward off danger. To keep the user as safe as he possibly could.

The men-at-arms came out to watch us as the morning went on, one or two of them at a time, so I had an audience whether I liked it or not. There was encouragement—“Good strike, Mistress Blackthorn!” “Well blocked!”—and advice—“Bend your knees!” “Go for his privates!” And this from the usually aloof Onchú, toward the end: “Morrigan’s curse, Mistress Blackthorn, you’re a real fighter!”