Huntress by Malinda Lo Page A

her lips together.
    As Kaede mulled over her words, Taisin saw that she didn’t seem to realize that anything had been held back. But why should she? Taisin knew she had done her best to keep her emotions hidden. She had even tried to keep them hidden from herself, though it was becoming increasingly difficult.
    Kaede asked, “Where is this beach?”
    Taisin was startled. It had never occurred to her to wonder about that at all. “I don’t know. I just saw it. It’s part of this journey—that’s all I know.”
    They heard Tali calling to them; supper was ready.
    “You go ahead,” Taisin said, taking the opportunity to change the subject. “I’ll be there in a minute. I just want to put away the brushes.” She held her hand out for the brush Kaede had taken from her, and for a moment Kaede didn’t seem to want to give it to her. She was looking at Taisin closely, searching her face. Taisin tried to school her expression into one of calm blankness; she had the irrational fear that Kaede could see right through her.
    But Kaede only said, “All right,” and handed over the brush. “Don’t be long. The food will get cold.”
    Taisin clutched the brush with one hand, the teacup with the other, and told herself that she shouldn’t be so silly. It was dark, and besides, Kaede couldn’t read her mind.

    Around the campfire that night, they told stories. What had happened in Ento had left them all unsettled, and tale-telling was a welcome distraction. Con, it seemed, had heard every story ever told, and he regaled them with the legendary exploits of King Rin Tai, who traveled to the clouded mountain to face the sinuous green dragon who had terrorized the people of six provinces.
    “And when he returned, I suppose he married the most beautiful highborn lady in the land and had a dozen children,” Shae said drily.
    Con shrugged. “You object to a happy ending?”
    Shae leaned forward, poking at the fire with a stick. The flames roared. “I’d like to hear a tale about an ordinary person for once. Not all of us are born princes.” She softened the sharpness of her words with a smile, but Con was chagrined.
    Tali laughed. “She has a point. Do you have a story in your head for us common folk?”
    “Is that a challenge?” Con asked.
    “Yes,” Tali said. “A challenge.”
    “All right, then.” Con flexed his fingers and thought for a moment. “Have you heard the tale of Farin and Anmin?”
    Taisin smiled. “I have.”
    “Good. Then you can correct me if I get it wrong. Farin was a blacksmith—a noble enough profession, to be sure, but one that kept him hard at work day and night. His village was located near the King’s Highway, and his smithy was adjacent to the town’s best inn, which was always busy with travelers. One autumn, a wealthy merchant and his family were passing through Farin’s village and boarded at the inn. The merchant had a daughter, whose name was Anmin. She, they say, was as beautiful as a spring morning.”
    Tali whistled. “I haven’t seen one of those in a while.”
    Con gave him a stern look. “Anmin, as I was saying, was a beautiful girl. Her father had aspirations for her. He was a merchant, but he hoped to marry her to a wealthy lord and thereby increase his standing in the court.”
    “Here come the nobles,” Shae said.
    “Wait until you hear the whole story,” Con objected. “Anmin was more than beautiful; she was also intelligent, and she knew what her father’s plans were. But she had other goals in life. She had heard from her father that there were other lands across the sea, and she wanted to explore them. She knew that to become an explorer she would have to learn how to ride and defend herself—talents that no lord’s wife needed—so every chance she had, she would practice swordplay or horsemanship. One afternoon while she was in the village, she discovered that her sword had a knick in it, and she decided to bring it to the blacksmith nearby. When she