It was early when Lucia woke, two marks past dawn, though she did not mind the timing of the hour. In fact, she was quite accustomed to rising at such a time. With haste, she clothed herself and hurried to the hall of combat in her father’s house. From behind the wooden door, she could already hear a multitude of sounds forming a single clamorous din, which grew all the louder as she opened the door and stepped inside, but she thought nothing of it. Likewise, Lucia glanced without interest at the chaotic sight of her fellow students.

At sixteen years of age, Lucia cared not for the heavy thud of wooden weapons, the ringing clash of iron upon iron, the rumbling of the false horse, and the cries and shouts of mock battle, for by now they had become common to her. Still, she could easily recall when she had first come to Delbray only three years prior and such things had unsettled her.

Lucia crossed the room without as much as a second glance to the other pupils. Her only thought was to continue her training in the art of the sword, and her eyes briefly scanned the rack in which were laid many weapons wrought of wood and iron until they settled upon a large wooden blade. With one hand, Lucia tested its weight. It was heavy to her arm, but she could hold it with ease.

A rather wide smile of satisfaction curled upon her lips as her thoughts drew back to her early teachings, when many had mocked her for lacking the powerful arms of a man. She knew it to be true, for she had never held one of the larger blades. Yet now, she could lift the heavier training swords without any great effort.

Sure of her choice, Lucia found an empty spot on the floor to begin the day’s lesson. She took her stance, setting her feet firmly and gripping the handle with both hands. She did not think herself ready to fight with only one hand, though she could hold her sword so. Closing her eyes, Lucia pictured some unseen enemy before her, and taking a breath, she recalled the numerous steps, strikes, and dodges her limbs had committed to their memories.

Her eyes snapped open, and Lucia stepped forward.

Quickly, she swung her sword in a rising motion from one side. Just as quickly, she swung her blade again from her other side. Without hesitation, she stepped forward and brought her sword down. Lucia took a swift step back and parried. Back and forth, again and again, Lucia attacked and withdrew, noting every step, swing, dodge, and thrust. At length, Lucia turned round and held her blade high, as if she were about to face an attacker from behind. However, to her surprise, a second blade of wood did indeed meet hers. On instinct alone, Lucia turned her opponent’s weapon away with a circling motion and freed her sword before pointing the tip towards the intruder’s chin.

The room still rang and rumbled with the sounds of battle, but Lucia heard only silence between her and the man who now stood before her. At length, looks of recognition passed between the two of them as the heated encounter gave way. Still, Lucia kept her sword fixed upon him, even as his lips parted to reveal a toothy smile.

“Impressive, Lady Lucia,” said the man, “most impressive. It seems you are not the hopeless girl I thought you to be.”

“Thank you, Master Gorloche,” Lucia replied with care so as not to betray the dislike she struggled to hide.

From the very first moment she had laid eyes upon her master those three years ago, Lucia had to resist the urge to wrinkle her nose in disgust, and, even now, she found him an ugly man. His face was rounded and lightly haired upon his chin, though the top of his head was bare. A scar from an old wound marred one cheek, and it was a sickening mark to be certain. In his smile, Lucia could see the empty space where a single tooth had been lost, and she could not bear the sight of his remaining teeth, stained forever a hideous looking shade of yellow.

Aside from his appearance, Lucia found his mannerisms distasteful. He had insisted on teaching her the very basics of swordplay, and she had insisted that she knew them, for she had begun the art of the sword not in Delbray but under the guidance of Lord Renning himself. Still, Gorloche had not listened and indeed asserted that she had no place among the fighting men. More than that, she knew him to be a harsh master, quick to strike any pupil across the shoulder with his stiff leather crop if he found any fault, and he had found a great many faults with her.

Even his very name Lucia found equally repugnant to her ears as his face was to her eyes and his demeanor to her heart. Yet Lucia knew she could find no greater master. Even at his age of forty and two, Lucia recognized that he was a swordsman of great skill. She had heard many tales lauding many a daring feat of his youth. While she doubted the truth of a number of such stories, they all agreed that Gorloche was all but peerless among the men of Delbray, and she did not doubt it.

“I don’t give away compliments lightly,” Gorloche said as he returned his false sword to its place. Lucia lowered her own blade, though behind her master’s back, she furrowed her brow and wrinkled her nose, unable to resist any longer. She knew well that he would likely find some way to mock her when he began to speak so. After each blow he had laid upon her, or any other student she recalled, his tongue would continue the beating with equally-harsh words.

“I never expected much of you, my lady,” her master continued. “I only agreed to take you as a student because your father wished it, but you’ve surprised me. I’ve known men who took up the sword but were only fit to be squires. I’ve never known any woman to not only learn the sword but progress as quickly as you have. In fact,” he said, turning back to Lucia, “give me that stick of yours. It’s time you put a real blade in your hand.”

Lucia was stricken mute at such words of praise. She had readied herself to receive words of derision, yet her master instead commended her. She was so taken aback, she could not raise her arm to do as she was bidden at first. Still, her strength returned, and she silently handed her master the wooden blade. Lucia watched, though the moment felt as if it were but a dream, as Gorloche strode to the rack and returned with a scabbard in hand. She had wanted to step forward herself and accept it, but she found her legs could not move. However, she did manage to take an instinctive step back as her master thrust his arm towards her.

“Take it,” he bade. Lucia slowly reached out and accepted the sword. At her master’s urging, she gripped the handle and drew the weapon. She listened as the metal blade scraped against its housing, and, her eyes shined with a sense of awe at the polished surface of the blade, much as how the tempered steel itself shined in the light of lamps and the sun. Lucia thought to raise the sword high and proud, but instead she merely returned it to its sheath.

“I…I…” she stammered, finding her voice at last. “Thank you, master. I am honored, sir. I will bear this sword proudly,” she added, binding the scabbard to her belt.

In an instant, the stern look in her master’s eyes returned, and Lucia felt her back grow stiff in preparation for another blow. Her gaze drifted to Gorloche’s belt, where the hated instrument dangled. She knew not why he should find fault with her now, but she knew Gorloche could find fault at any time he wished. She expected his free hand to snatch the crop, but it never moved, save to point a single finger mere inches from her face.

“Don’t be so quick to thank me,” said he in an angered tone, “and don’t be so quick to accept honor. I said you were progressing.”

“But, master,” Lucia replied quickly and without thought. “You said.”

Her words went unfinished as Gorloche raised his hand and delivered a quick slap across her face. Lucia did her best not to shrink back or even cover her stinging cheek, for he would only berate her all the more. Still, she was taken by surprise as Gorloche had never struck her so before.

“Don’t speak over me. I don’t care if you are the count’s daughter; I won’t have any pupil of mine contradicting me. I said you were ready to have a real sword, but you’re not ready to use one.” By now, the pain upon her cheek had subsided, though it was anger that had replaced it. Lucia wondered indignantly, though silently, why he should think her ready yet also unready at the same time.

“I’ve watched you, don’t forget,” said he, as if he were sensing her very thoughts. “Your stance is flawless. Each strike would find its mark. You’re precise in swordplay, my lady, but precision won’t save you in a fight. If you’re going to kill a man, you need to learn how.”

At his words, Lucia’s eyes grew wide, and her breath caught in her throat. Her ears fixed themselves upon only one word, and she hated the very sound of it.

“Kill,” she repeated.

“What did you expect?” Gorloche asked, though by his voice, Lucia was uncertain if he wished her to give an answer. “Did you think you would actually learn the sword for any other reason?”

Lucia said nothing. She was certain if she had spoke, she would receive another strike from her master. Still, her mind was abuzz with many thoughts. She was not ignorant; she knew the sword to be a weapon. She knew it to be dangerous as well. Yet, the thought of killing had not entered her mind until now. Every day, she had worked to commit only each new stroke and step to her memory. She had not yet considered the ending of a life. Though she did not know it, Lucia’s face began to twist into a look of revulsion.

“You don’t like the idea of killing?” she heard her master say. His voice sounded as if he were bringing some accusation against her. Lucia only shook her head in reply.

“Then it’s time you learn,” said Gorloche. Lucia watched as he took only a few steps away from her, and despite the many loud noises that filled the room, she covered her ears as her master shouted above the din. Indeed, she even flinched at the sound of his voice. It astounded Lucia that he could make himself heard as iron, wood, and battle cries fell silent. Lucia’s eyes darted here and there as she watched the other students begin to gather around the place where she stood. Though she was not a timid girl, she felt as if she were again that girl of thirteen as she felt the eyes of the fighting men.

Lucia felt a tightness around her wrist, and she saw that Gorloche had taken hold of her. “Come,” he said. “Consider this your first lesson in the way of the sword. All of you,” he added, looking about the room at the men assembled around them, “follow me.”

Lucia resisted the urge to struggle as he roughly led her from the room. Behind her, she could hear the footfalls of the other pupils sounding heavily along the stone floors. The procession was loud to her ear, yet in the halls of her thoughts, Lucia heard only one sound that was far louder. It was the single word her ears had found.

“Kill,” her mind repeated over and over.

***

Lucia could only suppose what sort of lesson her master had planned, but she was certain that she would not find it in any way enjoyable. Though she knew of several men who had received their swords over her time in Delbray, she had always paid more mind to her own training, especially when she could hear Gorloche berating another pupil. She wished now that she had listened to what was said between teacher and student. As she followed behind her master through the halls, Lucia could also recall a number of times when she had spied a pupil entering the hall of combat with a face filled with pride, as though he were a great hero of the battlefield. She had not once even wondered why.

Once or twice, despite her master’s quick pace, Lucia managed to turn her eyes toward the other students. Though her glances were brief, Lucia did not fail to notice that some of the men wore looks of ill intent, as if they expected to once again mock and jeer her, and Lucia again wondered what her master intended for her. She reasoned that he surely would not have her slay another man, though she did not like that he had declared so firmly the need to learn to kill.

By now, the band had reached the rear gate of the castle. Lucia wondered if she should ask Gorloche to release his grip, or at the very least, ease it, but she then thought it best to say nothing. Some twenty paces ahead, Lucia could see a crude wooden pen and beyond the fence, she could see a rather large object. As they came closer and closer, Lucia could hear the sounds of grunts and squeals. And then she saw it fully. It was a large brown boar tied to a short post by an equally short tether. Lucia stumbled slightly as Gorloche released her, though he partially cast her towards the pen.

“If I were to have my way,” he remarked as Lucia stared at the creature inside the pen, “I would have all my students face a condemned man for this lesson. In fact, I heard of a man who is to be hanged tomorrow in the city who wished to fight for his life. Of course, the count would never allow me to do so, so I must make do. All the same, I might take all of you into the city to witness the execution.”

Lucia could scarcely believe her own ears at the ease in her master’s voice. To her, it sounded as if he were merely discussing crops or the rains. Her eyes drifted downwards, and she took notice that the grass inside the pen was not green but rather a dulled shade of red, like stains of blood. And, at once, she knew what her master intended for her.

She was to kill the boar.

Lucia could not help but keep her eyes fixed upon the creature. It was an ugly beast to be certain. Yet, Lucia found her heart filling with pity as she watched it pull and tug only to fill the air with frustrated grunts and fearful squeals. Lucia felt her back stiffen as she became aware of a presence behind her. She turned to see Gorloche standing so near that he could have brushed against her without even taking a step. With his head, he motioned towards the boar.

“It’s a fighter, Lucia. I caught it yesterday, and it nearly rammed me twice. It’s an angry one, that boar.” Lucia watched his face grow dark once more as he looked at her. “Still can’t stomach the idea of killing, can you, girl?”

“No, master,” Lucia replied.

“Then you may as well take off that sword.”

“Why?” Lucia asked. “Is it not enough to know what I know?”

“No,” Gorloche replied quickly. “Honestly, women should never take up arms. As I said before, you are too precise. You commit everything to your mind as if you were preparing for a dance, but battle is no dance. You need savagery because it’s the only thing that drives a warrior to survive. You must learn not only to grow comfortable with death but to revel in it. You must learn to wallow in the blood of your enemies because they will do no less. You must learn to be wild, as wild as the sub-humans themselves, and your enemies will need to see the will and desire to kill in your eyes. You must make yourself feared because the fearful have no place in battle.”

Without knowing it, Lucia’s eyes grew wide in utter astonishment at such words. Before her, Gorloche seemed more imposing, more frightening, more monstrous than she had ever known, for she could see the very look in his eyes that he described. Though she knew he would not raise a sword against her, Lucia could not help but shrink back.

“You see,” her master went on. “You feared me, just as my enemies once did when I took to the battlefield. If you wish, you can be feared as well. Now, draw your sword.” Lucia found that her arms would not move as if they were made of stone, and she stood still. Once again, she felt her master’s hand strike her across the cheek.

“Believe me when I tell you, girl, this will be nothing. If you can’t even kill a wild beast, how will you kill a man? Now, draw your sword and face your enemy.”

His command was slow and deliberate, and Lucia knew he did not intend to say it a third time. She found her arms becoming flesh and blood once more, and hesitantly, she pulled her blade from the scabbard. She slowly turned back towards the pen and walked with unwilling steps. All the while, Lucia felt her mind fill with many fearful thoughts. Could she indeed do this deed when she did not wish it? What if she failed? What if she wanted to fail?

“You would be dead by now at your pace,” she heard Gorloche shout. “Now, get in there.”

Swallowing, Lucia stepped into the pen. She watched as the other pupils gathered around, but she quickly turned her eyes towards the creature she was to kill. Again, she felt a great sense of pity towards the boar. However, she soon found her pity replaced by fear as the boar turned its gaze towards her, lowered its head, and pawed at the ground. A cry pierced the air and told Lucia that the boar would no longer try to flee but fight. She found her fingers tightening their hold upon her sword. She watched as her master entered the pen from the other side with a sword in hand. She saw Gorloche sever the rope binding the boar with one quick stroke, and he quickly fled from whence he came.

Another feral battle cry filled the air, and the boar charged with primal anger in its eyes.

***

Lucia did not move as the boar charged. Closer and closer it came, and Lucia found her feet fixed to the place where she stood. Her mind was a tempest of thoughts, none of which she could discern at the moment. She felt her arms tremble, and the knowledge of all she had learned even of the very weapon in her hands disappeared. In those moments, time itself seemed to slow, as if she were still abed in the midst of a dream. All around her, she could hear voices, voices of men, yet she could not hear the words. The boar was growing nearer, nearer with every passing moment. And then finally, she heard another voice.

“Run,” it bade her, though she knew not who had spoken it or if the word had even been spoken by her own thoughts. Nevertheless, Lucia obeyed.

She dodged quickly to the side, and she found the world becoming real once more. A loud thud reached her ears, and when she turned to look, she saw the boar had rammed the pen. She watched the animal stagger but only briefly. She watched as it searched for her, grunting in what sounded like frustration. At last, the creature turned and saw her. Lucia dashed away towards the edge of the pen. She no longer cared for this exercise; escape was now her only goal. Yet, before she could even raise a single foot to climb out, the other students roughly pushed her backwards, and she fell to the ground, losing her grip on her sword.

The blade landed mere inches from her hand, but Lucia cared not. The boar charged again, and Lucia managed to roll out of its path. She scampered to her feet and ran again, but once again, she could not flee as her fellow pupils caged her.

Again, she dodged the boar as it charged, but this time her movement was clumsy and she again fell to the ground. Lucia winced as she felt her shoulder strike something hard, though she knew not what. Among the rapid sounds of her own breathing and the pounding of her own heart, Lucia could hear the voices of those gathered around.

“What are waiting for?” the voice of Gorloche shouted irately. “Get your sword, and kill it. Kill it now.”

“She probably can’t stand the sight of blood; too much of a lady,” one pupil mocked.

“Run home to mother,” another man taunted.

“I knew she was no good with a blade,” a third remarked.

As Lucia looked around, she began to notice their pointing fingers and faces filled with ill amusement. The pain in her shoulder seemed to grow, and at the same time, her fear began to wane. As she laid there, the taunts and teases of her fellow students filled her ears. By now, her fear had turned to anger. She wished to shout out for them to remain silent. She wished to act, but she knew not how. By chance, Lucia looked behind her to see the boar. To her eyes, even the creature seemed to mock her. To her ears, its snorts and squeals sounded as the same cruel laughter of her fellow students. It seemed to dare her to rise as it pawed the ground. Lucia felt her jaw grow tight as each breath came through her teeth.

And when she turned her eye away for just one moment, she glanced upon her sword lying on the ground.

Lucia sprang to her feet and grabbed her weapon. She turned to her enemy, and her fingers held tight to the handle so she would not drop the sword a second time.

The boar charged once more. With a cry of rage, Lucia charged as well. Closer and closer they came, and Lucia kept her eyes fixed upon the boar. Fire itself seemed to course through her blood, and when it seemed that they would collide, Lucia dodged to one side and raised her blade.

Lucia struck. She heard the pig squeal in pain and saw a slight trickle of blood running down the beast’s flank. Now, it was the boar who tried to flee, and Lucia gave chase. Her anger became strength, a primitive sort of strength, to her limbs, and she struck without thought. Her eyes and mind only drew themselves upon the boar. Indeed, as she rained blow after blow upon her enemy, it seemed to Lucia that all besides her and the boar had vanished. It was as if an endless mist had blotted out all the world beyond the boundaries of the pen. Somehow, it seemed to only add to her might as she basked in it.

With a final, primal cry, Lucia brought her sword down once more.

***

Slowly, the fog about Lucia’s head began to lift, and the world again appeared before her eyes. As it did, Lucia saw simple shapes, like shadows in the waking hours, appearing. The uncertain forms soon became like men, and Lucia recognized the faces. They were her fellow students, and to her puzzlement, all of them stared with expressions of utter shock. More than that, she wondered why they should direct such faces towards her. She also wondered why each breath came with labor, as though she had toiled for many hours.

“What is it?” she asked, looking around as she spoke. “What is it?” she said again. Lucia felt the weight in her hand, the weight of her sword, and with apprehension she lifted her arm. Her eyes grew wide at the sight of blood running in crimson streaks down the once pure surface of the blade. She saw one student point, and she followed his finger. She looked downwards, and she gasped in terror at the sight.

It was the body of the boar.

Its carcass bore many wounds, some small but others long and deep, and each one spilled forth in streams of red. Nearby, Lucia saw the head of the creature hewn from its body. Her free hand clutched her breast, and her eyes widened as she felt something warm and sticky. Slowly, she pulled her gloved hand away, and to her horror, she saw the white cloth dyed scarlet. She looked down at her clothing, the grass, even her boots stained afresh with blood; blood that she had shed.

“What have I done?” Lucia whispered, unable to make her voice louder. Her eyes again turned to the other students, as if asking them to answer for her.

Just then, a sound filled the air; a sound that filled Lucia with revulsion. It was the sound of applause. Quickly, she looked behind her to see Gorloche standing there with a wide, yellow smile of pride as he clapped. Soon after, Lucia heard and saw the other pupils following her master and clapping as well. Lucia could scarcely believe that they would do such a thing, but she could not speak the words to ask the reason.

“You surprised me, Lucia,” Gorloche remarked, and Lucia thought she heard glee in his voice. “Did you see that, men?” Lucia did not even flinch as she felt her master’s hand lightly strike her shoulder. “This one will make a warrior yet,” he proclaimed with joy. Lucia felt her heart sink and her belly boil as a chorus of cheers rose up from the gathered students.

“This is how battles are won, men. And no one forget that,” Gorloche declared, and another sickening cheer filled the air. Lucia could scarcely believe her own ears as her master continued.

“With time, my lady,” he declared proudly, “you will kill enemies with the same ease as you have killed this boar. But for now, we will celebrate this victory.” Lucia watched as he pointed to two of the men standing near. “You men gather up that carcass. Cut it up and roast it. We will all eat well from that.”

Lucia felt her arm grow weak and her legs bending as if they could no longer bear her weight, and she feared that she would fall where she stood. She heard a dull thud and realized she had again dropped her sword. Her eyes gazed in shock and terror at the carcass of the boar, and her ears could not believe what they had just heard. To have only now killed the creature, the thought of eating it sickened Lucia.

“Pick that blade up,” her master bade her harshly. “No warrior leaves a sword on the ground.”

Lucia turned towards him, and she felt her belly begin to rebel against her at the sight of her master. His appearance seemed all the more sickening to her. All at once, she felt her body lurch forward slightly, and she saw that she had vomited upon Gorloche. Lucia’s eyes darted around to glance quickly at the crowd. Though she saw them only briefly, she saw the other students begin to snicker and point, and she found she could not bear the sight of them, the dead boar, or her master any longer.

Lucia fled, leaving her sword behind.

***

Lucia hurried through the halls of her father’s house, caring not for her pace or the questions she briefly heard from the servants and guards she passed. Once or twice, she nearly collided with a guard as he walked his patrol. When she came at last to her quarters, Lucia shut herself in. She pressed herself against the door, even though she thought it foolish as anyone could still enter.

Lucia took a slow step forward, but her legs would bear her no longer, and she fell to her knees. With one look back towards the closed door, Lucia allowed a sob to escape her mouth and a single tear to fall from her eyes. With the falling of one, however, more began to course freely down her cheeks. It was not often that Lucia wept, but it seemed she could do nothing else. She could still scarcely believe what she had done, and to comprehend what she had done filled Lucia’s heart with fear and dread.

She had killed. Though it was not the life of a man, it was a life; a life that she had ended. In flashes, like lightning against the darkened sky, Lucia saw the boar lying dead at her feet, and each time, it looked all the more horrible. With her own hands and her own sword, she had all but cut the animal to pieces. She could only imagine that death had come slowly for the creature, and it was by her doing.

Lucia looked at her clothing, her gloves and her boots, and she could not bear the sight of red any longer. With haste, she cast aside her stained garments and clothed herself in a simple white dress her mother had sent some months ago. It was not as flowing as some of the princess’s clothing, but Lucia did remember her mother always saying that, as her daughter, she should try to dress and act more as a woman and less like a soldier. The thought did bring a weak smile to Lucia’s face as she remembered all the times when her mother would give her a stern lecture for teaching what she considered poor habits to the young Elincia. Of course, she and the princess would simply laugh about the matter.

Lucia found herself walking to the window and surveying all her eyes could see. From the heights of her chambers, she could see much of the land of her father. The small dirt roads turned, rose, and fell with the land. The hills were covered in green grass, and though she could not see them from here, Lucia could tell where she had found flowers growing in shades of bright yellow, pure white, and soft violet. To see such a view reminded her more of the simple life she had lived at the royal villa alongside her brother and dear milk-sister. Even now, she could hear their merry laughter as they played.

To think of those days made Lucia wish to relive them anew, for now, Lucia knew the truth of the sword, and it was a truth she did not think she could bear.

Again, she surveyed the land before her eyes. She could see the grasses stained with blood, the flowers trampled under the boots of iron-clad warriors, and men, young men, not at all unlike her fellow students or even her own brother, lying dead across the field; their bodies slashed and hewn in terrible ways. And Lucia knew that even this would be brought about by her own hand. The very thought frightened her. Already she wondered why men should seek out war and revel its horror. She wondered how men, like her master, could find delight in death and destruction. She wondered how young men could only find glory in killing their fellow men. Most of all, she wondered if she could do the same or if she even wished to do so.

A knock at the door stilled her mind. She thought to ask who was at her door, but at the moment, Lucia found herself unable to speak. She did wonder who should come to her chambers. She hoped it was not her master, though she had never known Gorloche to come to her room. The knocking came again, and when it ceased, she heard a voice calling out to her.

“Lucia,” it said. It was the voice of her father. “Are you well?”

“Yes,” she replied, finding her voice again.

“Are you decent?” her father asked. Lucia knew why he had asked. He wished to enter. Lucia looked down at her unshod feet and though she had no mirror or looking glass, she knew her face had reddened from her fallen tears. She did not wish for her father to see her in such a state, for to her, his daughter, there was no man greater than he, not even the king himself.

“One moment,” she replied. Quickly, Lucia found a pair of clean shoes and put them on. She also stepped to her small washing basin to clean her face or at the very least hide her tears. She cleared her throat and stood straight before she bade him to enter.

“Hello, father,” she said as he stepped inside her room.

He was an aged man, Count Delbray. Lucia had seen him come of forty and eight only this year, but she could see the undying pride in his eyes, which seemed to grow when he saw her. His hair was fading into silver, yet it still bore the same shade of azure. A distinguishing patch of hair settled on his chin and above his lips, and Lucia thought it befitted him. His eyes gleamed with a sense of pride, for he had once been a great warrior in the days of his youth, fighting for his king and his country.

“Hello, Lucia,” he began, gently. Lucia felt her heart sink as she beheld the sword clutched in his hand, the very same sword she had used moments ago. Her shoulders sagged as a knowing sigh passed her lips. “I just saw Master Gorloche. He said you need to take better care of this.”

Lucia hesitated, wondering if she should take the sword once again, but she did accept it, if only to avoid being seen as weak by her father as well. She knew that he had spared her the harshest of her teacher’s words. If she had to guess, she imagined that her master would have said that Lucia had no place in the hall of combat.

“Thank you, father,” she said, though her voice sounded small and feeble even to her own ears. Lucia saw her father’s eyes fill with concern but a warm smile also appeared upon his face.

“Come, dear,” said he as he walked to the edge of his daughter’s bed and sat down. “Sit with me a moment,” the count added, lightly patting the spot beside him. Lucia, at first, wondered what intent her father held. Would he say, as kindly as he could, that she was unfit for the sword, or would he encourage her to continue her training? Lucia did not know if she wished for the former or the latter, but she, at length, sat by her father’s side.

“Speak your mind, Lucia,” he bade her as she felt a comforting arm drape across her shoulders.

“What do you mean?” Lucia asked.

“Lucia, Gorloche told me everything,” her father replied. Lucia did not find his voice, firm yet still caring, affirming. “He told me about the test. He also told me what he thought of you.”

“And what did he say?” said Lucia, fearful of the answer yet wishing to know nevertheless.

“Well, my dear, I dare not say everything as he did. He said that you have potential with the sword, but he said that you lack the desire of a warrior. He said that you were weak and that you would always be weak. He also said that I should be ashamed to call you my daughter.”

“Is that what you think, father?”

“Hardly,” the count said with a slight chuckle. “In fact, I threatened to knock another tooth out of him if he should say that again. He knew I meant it as well.” Lucia even found herself giggling at the thought of her master shrinking back at her father’s words. “But I wanted to hear things from you instead. So please, my dear Lucia, tell me what troubles you.”

Lucia closed her eyes for a moment, and again she saw what she had done with her own hands. She saw the blood pooling at her feet, she heard the squeals, though now they sounded more like screams, and in her nose, she thought she could smell the stench of death and rot. With a heavy sigh, she opened her eyes, but she did not turn her gaze to meet her father’s. At first, Lucia knew not what she should say. She, at first, thought to simply say what she thought her father would wish to hear and bear her own burden. Yet, she could not. He knew much about what had happened earlier, and she knew she could not deceive him.

“I don’t think I can do this, father,” she said at last, casting her eyes to the floor. “I don’t think I can go on with my training.”

“What makes you so sure of that?” Count Delbray asked, though Lucia heard no sign of surprise in his voice. Indeed, it sounded as if he had expected her to say those very words. With another sigh, Lucia went on.

“I can’t even stand the thought of killing a boar. When the day comes, and my enemy isn’t a wooden man or a wild beast but another human, I just don’t think I will be able to…” Lucia felt the word catch in her throat, for she wished never again to speak the word ‘kill.’ “To do what I must,” she added. “I suppose that makes me a poor excuse for a swordswoman.”

“There is no shame in that, my dear,” said Count Delbray, lightly rubbing her shoulder.

“Master Gorloche doesn’t seem to think so,” Lucia replied quickly, all but spitting her master’s name. “He talks like you almost have to bathe in blood to be a warrior.”

“And how do you think?”

“I know he’s right, father,” said Lucia. “I know why men learn the way of the sword. But why do they celebrate it, father? Why do they think that killing is some glorious feat? The other students, they all act like they can’t wait for a battle, just so they can go out and prove that they’re men by killing someone. I just can’t do that. I couldn’t even enjoy killing a wild boar. If I can’t even do that, how can I do what will one day be required of me?”

“And what do you think is required of you?”

“Father, I know Princess Elincia will have an easy life. She will not be queen, and I don’t think she would have it any other way. Still, I know I will have to protect her. Besides that, if I take up the sword, I’ll be called to battle, just like Geoffrey will, and I can’t fight. Father, after today, I’m scared to fight.”

At first, the count said nothing, save to hold her close as any father would. Lucia felt her shoulders sag, as though she were already defeated, as in the silence, she saw herself fleeing the battlefield or standing frozen in fear as the enemies charged towards her.

“Lucia,” her father said at last, “look at me.” Gently, he turned her face so that her eyes met his. “I fought to keep the peace within Crimea years ago, but before I faced another man in combat, I was like you.”

“Father, I know the stories. For three years, all Master Gorloche could do was either talk about himself or you; well, when the other students weren’t.”

“Oh, bah,” he scoffed, with a wave of his hand. “Those are just tales, Lucia. Oh, I’ve had my share of deeds, but I’m sure they’ve changed in the telling. Before I even took to any battlefield, I wondered if I could end another life, just as you do. And, my dear Lucia, there is no shame in it. Battles are ugly matters, my dear, and they fill even the strongest warrior with the same fears, the fear of dying and even the fear of killing. So, you are not alone in that.”

“I don’t think Master Gorloche has ever felt those fears. If anything, I think he wants to go back to killing again. He seems to think that’s all that matters.”

“Lucia, Master Gorloche is a wise man when it comes to teaching swordplay. He understands that killing is not easy. He knows what it’s like to have to end another life. It’s hard, and it’s something that you must learn to do. But there is one thing he’s failed to teach you.”

“And what’s that?”

“Let me ask you, Lucia. Why did you want to learn the sword in the first place?”

The question struck Lucia dumb, for she had not thought of her reason for three years. She remembered the mock combat with Geoffrey when they simply played with sticks. Then as Elincia grew, the princess herself even took a lesson in swordplay from her uncle. As the thought of her milk-sister came to her thoughts, Lucia recalled her mother. ‘Watch over her,’ she would say. And then she found her voice.

“I took up the sword to protect Elincia,” Lucia stated firmly.

“Indeed, and that is what I want to teach you. Lucia, in our younger days, Gorloche and I were brothers-in-arms, as were all the men who fought alongside us. Before one battle, some men spoke of glory and childish excitement. But when it began, we all knew the true meaning of the sword. We were willing to kill anyone who threatened our brothers. Never forget this, Lucia. The true meaning of the sword is not glory or battle, but a cause that is greater than yourself, a cause that will overcome even the horrors of war and death. Without that, the sword has no meaning.

Do you understand, Lucia?”

“Yes, father,” Lucia replied, nodding her head.

“Good,” the count said softly. He gathered Lucia into his arms to embrace her. When the came apart, he spoke again. “When you feel that same fear, and I know you will, remind yourself of why you took up the sword. And also remember this, Lucia. A cause worth killing for must also be a cause worth dying for. If you aren’t willing to die for a cause, then learning to kill for that cause will mean nothing.”

“I understand, father,” Lucia replied soberly, as his counsel began to soak into her mind and heart.

“Good. Now, come, dear,” her father said, standing and offering a hand to her. “Let’s go for a walk and talk of better things.” Lucia placed her hand in his, and he helped her to stand. “Before we go,” he added. “Let me see a smile from my daughter. I would not have you leave this room so melancholy.”

Though she did not feel as if she could smile, Lucia managed a small one nonetheless. Her father smiled as well and led her from the room. All the while, until they were required to part ways, they spoke of many things as though the world was again right.

Later, that night, as Lucia laid herself in bed, she thought of all that had happened. She thought of the sword. She thought of the horrors of battle; horrors that she had not yet witnessed. To be certain, she still knew not if she wished to see them at all. More than anything, however, she thought of her father’s words. She thought also of Elincia, back at the royal villa. She thought of her mother, telling her to watch over the young princess. And in the darkness of her quarters, Lucia repeated the words her father had spoken, finding strength in them.

“A cause worth dying for is a cause worth killing for, and a cause worth killing for is a cause worth dying for.”