Gwen woke without Steffan at her back. The predawn sky was halfway from sapphire to cerulean. She had slept fully clothed, so all she had to do was roll out of bed and grab her pack by the door, which she’d filled with enough dried food to break her fast while she walked. That and the staff Steffan had given her, and she was ready to go. His pillow was cold, so he’d probably gotten drunk at the tavern and spent the night there. She would stop to say goodbye on her way out of town.

It turned out she didn’t need to. Steffan was sitting against the old, scratched fir next to the sheep pen, the one he used for practice on the days they didn’t take out the flock. His sheathed sword lay next to him in the grass.

As Gwen walked toward him, Steffan grabbed his scabbard and scrambled to his feet. His face was flat, unreadable even to her.

“Steffan--” Gwen started to say. A dozen thoughts danced on the tip of her tongue. Apologies, regrets, reassurances.

“Don’t,” he said. “I’m not here to listen to your excuses. I’m here to challenge you to a duel.”

“A... a duel?” Where did that come from? Was he serious?

“If I win, you stay here for another month. You let me train you and give me time to actually be ready for you to leave.” His tone was hard and his gaze was harder. He sure seemed serious.

Anger flared in Gwen’s chest. Did he think she was some helpless child? She supposed until yesterday, she practically had been. Now, though, she was just as strong as he was. Her thoughts were faster and her senses were sharper. She could survive on her own. If Steffan wasn’t going to trust her on that, then she would just have to prove it.

She set down her pack. “Fine. But if I win, you hug me and you wish me well, like brothers are supposed to do.”

“Fine.” Steffan swung his sword a few times. When the scabbard stayed on, he held the weapon in front of him and settled into a fighting stance.

Gwen took up her own stance, holding the staff with her hands about a foot apart like Steffan had taught her. That would let her attack with either end and block with the middle.

Steffan lunged at Gwen, chopping at her shoulder. She swept her staff sideways to knock away his sword, but when she tried to counterattack, he just pulled his front leg backward, taking his body with it. Gwen’s swing hit nothing but air.

“You sure move better than yesterday,” Steffan said with a bitter, lopsided smile. Then he charged her.

Fast attacks flew at Gwen from all sides. She was able to get her staff in position to block the first few, but they forced her slowly backward. When Steffan swung the next time, Gwen rammed the end of her staff into his gut, hoping to stop the attack.

It almost worked. Steffan’s sword still connected, though because Gwen leaned forward instead of back, it hit her arm instead of her side.

The siblings staggered away from each other. Steffan coughed and gasped for air, while Gwen rubbed her aching arm. Even fighting with blunt weapons was dangerous. If that had hit its target, it probably would have cracked one of her ribs.

Steffan closed in again, this time without the wild assault. He kept the tip of his sword aimed at Gwen’s throat, which meant if she wanted to attack, she had to find a way around the weapon. Gwen had to admit that her brother knew a lot about fighting, especially for someone who wasn’t a soldier.

Not that Gwen would let that stop her. She’d have to survive plenty worse if she was going to reach Selador.

Gwen used one end of her staff to smack aside Steffan’s blade and the other end to smack his face. He was ready for that, though, and lifted his sword out of the way of the first swing. That let him use it to block her second swing, the one that mattered.

Then Steffan let go of his weapon to backhand Gwen across the face.

Gwen staggered backward, her hand going to her nose, which throbbed angrily. “How--why--that wasn’t fair!” But part of her had to admit that not everyone she met would fight fair. She’d just assumed Steffan would because he was her brother and this was a duel.

“Do you want to be good at dueling?” Steffan kicked her in the side, making her gasp. “Or do you want to be good at fighting?”

He smacked Gwen in the head with his sword, sending her sprawling onto the ground. Her skull throbbed and her vision swirled.

“Do you want pride?” Steffan asked. “Or do you want to survive?”

Gwen dropped her staff and held up her arms in surrender. Her sight cleared to see Steffan standing above her, hand outstretched.

Gwen took it.

“I want to survive,” she said.

#

“High!” Steffan called as he swung at Gwen’s head.

Gwen raised her staff to block Steffan’s sheathed blade. The scabbard connected with a dull thunk that hummed along the wood.

“Kick!” he said.

Gwen threw a kick at Steffan’s side. He let go of his sword with one hand to block, but the impact still made him step backward.

“Flurry!” he barked.

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Gwen set down her kicking foot, using the momentum to make a reaching swing with her staff. Steffan gripped his sword with both hands so he could block again. Taking another step forward, Gwen closed the distance and made several fast, sharp attacks, alternating which side of her staff she used. Though he blocked the first few, Steffan couldn’t keep up with the threats from all angles. Gwen eventually hit him in the side. That made him gasp, and he was barely too slow to block her next swing at his head. He blocked the swing after, also at his head, but that left an opening for her to kick his other side.

Gwen’s second-to-last attack made satisfying contact with Steffan’s temple. Her last attack only made contact with the air as her brother dropped to the ground.

Theodora trotted up and started licking his face.

“Okay, okay. I’m fine.” Steffan gently pushed the dog away so he could sit up. He gave her a scratch between the ears. “You’re getting better way too fast,” he told Gwen. “Consistently beating me in spars after only ten days...”

“Blame it on kind of sort of being part god.” She offered him a hand up, which he accepted. “It helps that you call out cues for me, though.”

“It’s what trainers do during spars,” he said with a shrug. “If you went right from practicing forms and combos to free sparring, you’d learn too many bad habits.”

Something within Gwen doubted that. Steffan was probably right about most people, maybe even most Torchbearers, but she had the Ember of Wisdom. Her first instinct in their spars was almost always the same as Steffan’s call moments later. Still, she had to appreciate that the few times he contradicted her initial impulse, he stopped her from making a mistake. Some things were better gained from experience.

Things like strength and endurance, for example. The day of training before she’d gotten the ember left her exhausted. The day after had been better, but not by a huge amount. To be fair, she’d been tense that day for other reasons. Now, though, after a week and a half of exercises, drills, and spars, Gwen could feel how much she’d changed. No one thing was tremendously different--she was still tired and sore at the end of the day, and she still made mistakes in practice--but everything had improved enough that, on the whole, she was doing far better. She’d gotten stronger and faster, her body responding more readily and effectively to her mind’s commands. She’d grown tougher and hardier, fighting through pain and fatigue without much trouble. She’d become more skilled and clever, consistently finding and creating openings during spars.

Steffan told her none of that was normal. According to him, it usually took months to get stronger and faster and tougher in ways you could notice. Skills supposedly came more quickly, but still not nearly as quickly as they’d come to her. Basically, the ember was doing exactly what the Herald had said.

Speaking of the Herald, he hadn’t shown himself to Steffan since that first night, preferring to be seen only by Gwen. She’d asked him to assist with her training, but he insisted he couldn’t help her gain power, so instead she had him keep watch on the sheep while Steffan trained her. That seemed to be fine because it was directly helping the sheep and only indirectly helping Gwen.

“I’m glad you stayed,” Steffan said as they headed for home. “It’s fine,” he added when she hesitated. “You don’t have to say it back.”

Gwen gave him a smile. “I am glad, though.” At least, part of her was. Steffan’s training was helping her more than anything she could have done on her own. It also gave them time to sell off a couple of the sheep and get everything ready for Gwen to leave on better terms in a couple more weeks. True, she’d been bitter and distant for the first several days, and each day since, she looked longingly at Ascangen, wondering how far up she’d be by now. It was a mixed blessing.

What ate at Gwen more than anything else, though, was that Steffan had pushed her into staying instead of just asking her. She might not have agreed in the end, but that was her right. Challenging her to a duel was ridiculous and childish.

Still, Gwen had made a promise. She stayed and took the best advantage of the time she could. She found she only needed five or six hours of sleep to feel rested, which gave her time to meditate every night after dinner and every morning before breakfast. It was like praying had been, except instead of trying to connect to the Beohur in Selador, she tried to connect to the divinity within herself.

So far, that was going more slowly than learning to fight.

After a couple hours of walking in silence, Gwen spotted their village, complete with twin pillars of smoke rising from the inn and the smithy. It took another minute for Steffan to see it.

“Oh, thank Ryl...I mean, thank...you?” Steffan said. He sighed and rolled his eyes. “I’m glad we’re almost home, is what I mean. You were hitting harder than usual today. My whole body is heavy.”

Gwen couldn’t help but smile at the praise. She was feeling more comfortable with the weapon every day. “It’s getting easier and easier to swing. Starting to feel a bit light, though.”

The next day, she hit Steffan so hard she broke the staff.

#

Steffan staggered backward, clutching his broken collarbone. “Kendra’s--Kendra’s left--ow!”

Gwen dropped the splintered length of wood and hurried over to help him. “I’m sorry! Are you all right? You didn’t get any splinters in your eye, did you?”

They had been sparring like usual, and Steffan made the mistake of deciding Gwen was ready to fight without any structure. Things started out even, but a quick switch of grips let Gwen take the initiative. Steffan had jumped back to make some distance, so Gwen brought her hands closer together near one end of the staff, letting her hit him with the other end from farther away. Steffan had taught her the long-range grip, but she hadn’t practiced with it yet, so it caught him off guard. The extra distance was probably what let her swing the staff with enough strength to break it.

“I can’t--ahhh!--can’t move my right arm.” His pale face twisted in pain.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. Here, let me help you.” She bent her knees and lowered her brother to the ground, fending off Theodora when the dog came trotting over. Slowly, carefully, with much starting and stopping, she peeled his tunic away from the wound.

“That was impressive, though,” Steffan said weakly. “You just keep surprising me.”

“In this case, the feeling is mutual.” Gwen had aimed at his head, but he’d leaned forward in just the wrong way. “So much for training tomorrow, eh?”

“I’m sure you have to catch up on sitting still with your eyes closed.” He winced as her grip tightened on his shoulder. “Joking! Really, just meditate. I’ll figure out what to do for the day after, and maybe see if Seamus and Darlene can work together to make you one with a metal core. You’re--ahh--almost strong enough to wield it. That Torchbearer power is scary.”

“Thank you,” Gwen said. Even wounded, her brother was still thinking about her. Just as he had when he lost his eye protecting them. Just as he had when their parents died. One part of her wondered if he’d ever learn to turn his mind off, while the other was grateful he hadn’t figured it out yet. “Now come on. Let’s help you home, all right? We’ll get Charles to see to that shoulder.”

“But he’ll scold me,” Steffan whined. “He always told me he wouldn’t stitch me up if I hurt myself practicing with the sword.” The old healer was less than approving of violence.

“Steffan, that was almost ten years ago. Besides, I’m the one who hurt you. He can take it out on me if he needs to.” Gwen tore the bottom of Steffan’s shirt to make an improvised sling. Once it was secure, she grabbed his good arm to help him up.

“I’m glad you weren’t this good when we fought that night,” he mumbled as they headed back toward town. “I’d be all sad and alone. No offense, Theodora.”

Gwen rolled her eyes. Of course he thought the dog might be the one offended by that instead of the sister he’d cheated into staying. But she held her tongue. There was no point in digging up those old bones.

#