Hmm, Kingfisher Circles the Pond. Yes.

Merasiël mentally followed each maneuver that he went through, alternatively placing a name to the ones she had been working on and mentally noting the ones she had seen but not yet received a name. It wasn’t too difficult, the man was devoted to his art. He practiced every day without fail, and by this point, she figured that she had seen all of his moves—

Hmph, she thought. Haven’t seen that one before. I’ll have to ask him about it later.

Merasiël continued to watch quietly, her arms folded across her waist as she rested against the bulwark of the ship. Around her, the activity on the Gleaming Endeavor continued as though Gabriel wasn’t practicing only a few feet away from them. She came to the conclusion that they were just used to it by now. He has such a gift, she mused. Grace, precision, speed…it’s a pity these traits are wrapped in skin that will wither and fade in a few years. That is, if death doesn’t wait for old age to claim him. But then again, isn’t that true for all of them? They all look so much older than they did in the Crusades. But how many years ago was that? Seven? Ten? When we part next for another span of years, will that be the last I see them?

She shivered, shaking away the dark, unwelcome thoughts, and returned her focus to the sunlight flashing off the blade. One, twist of the blade. Two, arc upward to the neck. Three, The Boar Rushes Downhill.

One, two, three.

Merasiël lost herself in the rhythm of each attack and defense, and thoughts of the past came rushing to the surface, unbidden.

One, two, three.

One, two, th–

————————

“—ree. One, two, and three. And one, and two, and–no, no, a thousand times NO!”

Merasiël turned away from her partner, a sour expression on her face. “What is the problem now?” she growled.

A balding, poufy man pulled a small handkerchief from a coat pocket and mopped his head. The already soaked scrap of fabric did little to dry the sweat from his brow. He then pinched his nose in frustration and answered slowly through gritted teeth, “You are trying to lead. Again! You are the female, you must follow your partner in the Mazurka!” He wrung out the cloth, his jowls flapping as he continued to complain, “My Lord Tereus, you have asked too much of this old man. I should be guiding the young nobility to their futures, teaching young ladies how to woo the young lords and teaching young lords how to woo the young ladies, not trying to turn a mule into a fine mare! Phah!” He flung his hands up into the air, helplessly. “I thought elves were supposed to be graceful!” He opened his mouth to speak further, only to be cut short by a knife that appeared distressingly close to his neck.

Merasiël spoke from behind his right ear, her voice deadly and quiet. “I am graceful where it counts, instructor mine.” She tilted the edge of her knife into the pale flesh of his throat to emphasize her point. When he made a strangled noise, she released him, and then shoved him to his knees.

“I tire of this, Tereus,” Merasiël grated. “Why must I go through this farce? Let me just knife the old man and be done with it.” The instructor squeaked from his kneeling position and Merasiël growled down at him, “Not you. You will regrettably continue living.”

Lord Tereus approached Merasiël and grasped her by the shoulders. His grip was stronger than one would expect from a middle-aged noble. Merasiël flinched, but resisted the urge to pull away from his touch. “The old man has information that we need. You must get close enough to him to retrieve it. When we have what we need, we will allow you to end his life.” He sighed. “The feast is tonight and you are out of time. Just…don’t let the boy talk you into a dance and you’ll be fine.”

Merasiël sheathed her blade and stepped around him to gather her things. “I still would prefer my method, but have it your way.”

Before she could leave, Tereus spoke once more. “Oh, and you may be there a while before we are ready for you to strike. You’ll need this.” He tossed a pouch at her, which she caught with one hand. She gave the contents a sniff, and made a face at the pungent odor.

“Venena sterilitatis,” he intoned blandly. “It wouldn’t do at all for you to wind up bearing another heir for House Bonet, my dear.”