demonstrate, with your permission. If you will hold the paper thus.”
I gave her one of my practice scrolls, which I could easily mend.
She smiled in anticipation as she held the scroll stretched between her hands.
“Hold it taut,” I said, and she snapped it taut.
The fan form is done slowly—that is what keeps our muscles supple. The word “form” is meant to imply dance. Some centuries ago any reference to actual warfare was smoothed away, and the
arts of war
became
arts
. “No one actually practices at speed, or against others, at least, not in Alsais,” I said as I set my slippers and my cloud blue robe aside and began the first moves. “We are told that the Altans have guards who still practice at speed. It’s because of their proximity to the pass and to the Chwahir. Our teacher is from Altan.”
As I said the above I moved with gathering speed, the fans closing and opening in my hands, until at last I stepped, whirled, and with a swift cut of the open fan, dashed it across the scroll, which ripped across.
“Yedi!” Lasva exclaimed, leaping back and dropping the ends of the scroll. “I did not expect that!”
I finished the form, picked up the scroll ends, and examined the tears. “Oh, I would get a bad mark for the jagged rip. A good strike cuts the paper cleanly straight across.”
She picked up the fans, then canted her head. “Is this why the challenge fan has points painted on it?”
“The challenge fan is a descendant of these, we’re told,” I said.
No one in court carried the intimidating fans with thorns or clawed figures painted on them anymore. Now anger was signified with the snap or angle of an ordinary fan, or an oblique reference to Thorn Gate, which had been the old place of punishment during our very early days. Thorn Gate no longer existed—had not for centuries—but in referring to dire judgments everyone pointed north as if its shadow still lay over that end of the old castle.
Lasva whisked herself into her room and returned with her two largest fans. These were half the size of my Altans and had lace or painted mounts on only one side of the blades, but they would suffice.
We pushed the furniture to the edges of the room, then she removed three of her filmy outer robes, until she stood in her cotton-silk body robe of pale peach. I carefully set the queen’s scrollcase on top of my robe for instant retrieval, though Lasva had told me her sister was no letter writer. That would make a communication all the more imperative.
I showed Lasva the first steps, which I warned her would have to be practiced over and over.
Without our knowing, Kaidas moved along the balcony until he could see through the wickerwork, down to the top of Lasva’s now dark head.
That dark hair startled him. He bent down cautiously so that he could see better. He watched Lasva mirror me through the fan form across the balcony, and when we turned, he glanced at me, only to dismiss my scrawny, chipmunk-faced self. (Seeing oneself in others’ eyes can be disconcerting at best. But I will have more to say on that later.)
The important thing at that moment was this: Lasva caught and held his attention, the living breathing image of her great-mother, the famous Lasthavais Sky Child, who had wandered into Colend and ended up married to a king.
He bent even lower, looking for flaws, for differences from the centuries-old magical image caught from a few moments of Lasthavais Sky Child’s real life. His father had shown him the gallery his first week at court.
This
, his father had said,
is beauty.
Not just her face, or her figure. Listen to her laugh and watch her movements. Such a woman would never cease to set you aflame
.
On our second journey across the balcony, Lasva had learned the basic pattern enough to resume converse. “Can you tell we are nearing Sartor?”
“Turn your wrist up. That’s right. Yes, I thought the air smelled different. And it seems… bluer, somehow.”
“I felt the
I gave her one of my practice scrolls, which I could easily mend.
She smiled in anticipation as she held the scroll stretched between her hands.
“Hold it taut,” I said, and she snapped it taut.
The fan form is done slowly—that is what keeps our muscles supple. The word “form” is meant to imply dance. Some centuries ago any reference to actual warfare was smoothed away, and the
arts of war
became
arts
. “No one actually practices at speed, or against others, at least, not in Alsais,” I said as I set my slippers and my cloud blue robe aside and began the first moves. “We are told that the Altans have guards who still practice at speed. It’s because of their proximity to the pass and to the Chwahir. Our teacher is from Altan.”
As I said the above I moved with gathering speed, the fans closing and opening in my hands, until at last I stepped, whirled, and with a swift cut of the open fan, dashed it across the scroll, which ripped across.
“Yedi!” Lasva exclaimed, leaping back and dropping the ends of the scroll. “I did not expect that!”
I finished the form, picked up the scroll ends, and examined the tears. “Oh, I would get a bad mark for the jagged rip. A good strike cuts the paper cleanly straight across.”
She picked up the fans, then canted her head. “Is this why the challenge fan has points painted on it?”
“The challenge fan is a descendant of these, we’re told,” I said.
No one in court carried the intimidating fans with thorns or clawed figures painted on them anymore. Now anger was signified with the snap or angle of an ordinary fan, or an oblique reference to Thorn Gate, which had been the old place of punishment during our very early days. Thorn Gate no longer existed—had not for centuries—but in referring to dire judgments everyone pointed north as if its shadow still lay over that end of the old castle.
Lasva whisked herself into her room and returned with her two largest fans. These were half the size of my Altans and had lace or painted mounts on only one side of the blades, but they would suffice.
We pushed the furniture to the edges of the room, then she removed three of her filmy outer robes, until she stood in her cotton-silk body robe of pale peach. I carefully set the queen’s scrollcase on top of my robe for instant retrieval, though Lasva had told me her sister was no letter writer. That would make a communication all the more imperative.
I showed Lasva the first steps, which I warned her would have to be practiced over and over.
Without our knowing, Kaidas moved along the balcony until he could see through the wickerwork, down to the top of Lasva’s now dark head.
That dark hair startled him. He bent down cautiously so that he could see better. He watched Lasva mirror me through the fan form across the balcony, and when we turned, he glanced at me, only to dismiss my scrawny, chipmunk-faced self. (Seeing oneself in others’ eyes can be disconcerting at best. But I will have more to say on that later.)
The important thing at that moment was this: Lasva caught and held his attention, the living breathing image of her great-mother, the famous Lasthavais Sky Child, who had wandered into Colend and ended up married to a king.
He bent even lower, looking for flaws, for differences from the centuries-old magical image caught from a few moments of Lasthavais Sky Child’s real life. His father had shown him the gallery his first week at court.
This
, his father had said,
is beauty.
Not just her face, or her figure. Listen to her laugh and watch her movements. Such a woman would never cease to set you aflame
.
On our second journey across the balcony, Lasva had learned the basic pattern enough to resume converse. “Can you tell we are nearing Sartor?”
“Turn your wrist up. That’s right. Yes, I thought the air smelled different. And it seems… bluer, somehow.”
“I felt the
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