Spar

The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall, stained-glass windows of the dining hall, painting the empty tables in streaks of red and orange. Prince Mikhail sat alone in the far corner of the room. A plate of grilled sausage and potatoes lay mostly untouched before him, but the mug of ale in his hand was almost gone.

Footsteps rang in the outer corridor, and if anyone else hand been in the room, they would have seen him quickly straighten in his chair and reach for his fork.

Ilya entered the room, and the Prince frowned and returned his attention to his drink.

"There you are! Is it a late lunch or an early dinner?" Ilya asked, dropping into the seat across from him and glancing at the full plate. "Hmmm... it looks as though it's neither. Drinking again, are we?"

"What do you want?" Prince Mikhail snapped.

"She isn't coming down today either?" Ilya guessed.

"It makes little difference to me how she chooses to spend her time," Mikhail growled.

"She spends it sleeping, mostly. That's what the maids tell me. She doesn't eat even a quarter of anything the kitchen sends to her rooms, and she rarely talks to anyone, not even to the Vezdan girl you brought. She may be ill," the aide suggested.

"She isn't ill. I sent a doctor yesterday," Mikhail muttered.

"I thought she would take an interest in choosing her clothing when the dressmakers arrived, but they tell me she asked the slave girl to go down and choose some gowns for her. She never even left her room. I don't think I've ever heard of a woman with no interest in clothes!" Ilya shook his head.

Prince Mikhail scowled darkly and took another swig from his mug.

"You should speak with her," Ilya suggested.

"Yes. Because we all know how much she enjoys my company," Mikhail scoffed.

"Her lady has made her clothing for the purpose of training, but we don't have any guards who are proficient in the daggers," Ilya mentioned lightly.

"Are you suggesting that I train her?" Mikhail glared at him.

"Why not?" Ilya shrugged.

The Prince frowned and took another long pull from his ale mug.

"We are unevenly matched," he muttered.

"So much the better. She'd have difficulty doing any damage to you, wouldn't she?" Ilya turned to flash a wide smile at the kitchen worker who approached with another plate of sausage and potatoes. The man set it down in front of him and then glanced to the Prince.

"Another, my Prince?" he asked.

"Well?" Ilya prodded. "What's it to be? Yet another mug of ale along with my cheerful companionship or...?"

"I'm finished," Mikhail snapped, shoving the mug across the table to the servant.

The servant picked up his untouched plate and empty mug and bowed before backing away.

"Good," Ilya smiled to himself, and began eating. "Shall I send her a message to meet on the training field in two hours time?"

"I doubt she'll respond," The Prince grumbled.

"There is no success without failure-- that's the secret to my luck with women, you know. You just keep trying until they give in," Ilya shrugged, spearing a particularly large potato and stuffing it in his mouth. "Just... like... war," he continued while chewing, "and you're good at that!"

"I have no need of 'luck' with the princess," Mikhail insisted, narrowing his eyes. "I owe her a debt. I only need her to live long enough--"

"Perhaps I should try my luck with the princess then," Ilya interrupted with a thoughtful expression.

"I'll cut off your head," Mikhail answered simply.

Ilya chuckled and speared another potato.

It was just beginning to grow dark by the time Prince Mikhail arrived at the training field. A selection of swords, daggers and light armor were arranged in the racks as per his instructions. He looked them over briefly before glancing toward the distant house.

The sun was setting behind it and there were already lights in a few of the windows. It would be a cold night. They had yet to see the first snow fall of the year, but it would come quickly. The ground was already hard underfoot, and the dead grass was frozen and crunched when he walked. She would be cold if she came, perhaps too cold. He should have asked for servants so that they could light the torches and maybe start a fire. Ridiculous that he had specifically requested that no one be allowed on the field while the Princess trained.

He noticed the sparkbox and flint laid carefully beside the rack and realized that perhaps the new servants Ilya had brought were not completely useless.

He was lighting the torches on the field when he first noticed the small figure on the path from the house. She wore a long dark robe with the hood pulled over her head, but he knew at once that it was her. Not only her stature, but the way she walked, those determined quick little steps, gave her away. She was alone, none of her maids walked beside her or trailed behind and he frowned to think that they were so lax in their duties.

Mikhail finished with the remaining torches and stood waiting beside the racks. She dropped her hood as she approached and he felt a shiver run up his back as those blue-green eyes met his.

"You sent a message saying that you'd found a trainer for me," she greeted him, frowning a little as she looked around as though waiting for someone else to pop out of the ground. Mikhail silently cursed Ilya in his head.

"I thought... it would be best if I trained you myself," he answered.

The princess made no reply. She crossed her arms in front of herself as though cold and took a few steps closer to the racks.

It was not a refusal, so it must be an agreement, he realized.

"Yes... the... the hand scythes... as I said, we don't use them in Unaria. They aren't practical, but some of the same principles apply to the daggers. You... don't have great range because of your size. Sword fighting would not be an efficient way for you to defend yourself, because all of your opponents would be taller than you with longer limbs. This style of dagger fighting employs light shielding armor that will allow you to move closer to the attacker so that you can use the size of his weapon against him," Mikhail explained slowly.

"Yes, yes, I understand," she nodded, "But my trainer, Sir Aron, also had me learn the double-bladed staff. His belief was that by using a weapon longer than a sword, I can make up for that lack of range."

"You'd still have to worry about defending from above... because of your... your height," he frowned. "Which is why the daggers and light armor-"

"I've never fought wearing armor. Sir Aron thought that because armor is heavy and confining it would affect my speed and strength too greatly," she interrupted.

"Part of training, good and rigorous training, is building strength through diet and movement," Mikhail growled in response. Each time she spoke of Sir Aron, the image of the famed Vezdan general, seated beside the Princess speaking in low tones of friendly marriages and offering himself like a great flaccid sacrifice, came unbidden to his mind. It was no surprise to him that Sir Aron was as languid in his personal affairs as he had been on the field in the final years of the war.

The princess stiffened visibly as though sensing his disdain for the man but said nothing.

"You'd... have to agree, if you want to train... that you will eat the food you are sent as part of the training," Mikhail continued, speaking slower to keep the anger out of his tone.

She frowned, but after a moment, nodded slightly.

"You would have to take exercise... regularly. Perhaps, begin with daily walks, and... and... a normal sort of schedule to ensure you get proper rest. All of that is part of training," he added quickly.

"What is this light armor that you speak of?" she demanded. "I want to see it."

"For dagger fighting, we traditionally employ the use of the gauntlet shield," he explained. "There are several designs, and you may find one which is more suited to you than others."

He began sorting through a few of the armor pieces as he spoke and tossing them on the ground before her.

"This one is a bit larger and heavier in size. You would have more coverage, but less movement of your arm. Here is one that's smaller. Note the projections on this one-- very good at deflecting the blow of a sword and has the added benefit of acting as a weapon in a pinch. You could slam it into an opponent if you're close enough. Here is one where the shield is welded directly to the gauntlet, good coverage, more stability, but again, you lose some mobility in your hand. The lantern gauntlet for night duels... I think they included this one as a bit of a joke, it's.... it's more of a novelty."

As he tossed each one to the ground before her, she studied them, and the curiosity on her face was easy to read. She liked learning about weaponry! Of course, she did. She'd been at war since her birth. Learning about the training and armory of her enemies would certainly spark her interest and excite her. Perhaps Ilya was not quite as foolish as he'd assumed. She'd even smiled the smallest bit at the lantern gauntlet. It had caused a pleasant sort of shiver in him to see it-- he'd amused her.

"I... I'd recommend the fish scale gauntlet shield," he finished, and lifted the small piece gently to hold out to her. She bent to examine it.

"It is smaller than the others, isn't it? It doesn't look as strong though," she decided.

"Less coverage, yes, but it's made for fighters who are quick and it is stronger than it looks, the plates move when you curl your arm. When held straight, the plates overlap and lock and are quite strong and can deflect quite well, but when you bend your arm..." Mikhail bent the armor piece in his hand, and the sharpened plates protruded at different angles.

The Princess sucked in a sharp breath of surprise, and then giggled.

"It becomes another weapon!" she realized. "Yes, I see. Your opponent might not be expecting it."

Mikhail nodded eagerly.

"Could I... could I try it on?" she asked and began fumbling with the clasp of her cloak.

"Yes, I can... if you hold your arm out, I can... I can fit it to..." the Prince mumbled.

The Princess dropped her cloak, and Mikhail saw that her training clothes consisted of a pair of boy's leggings and a tight, long-sleeved tunic. Her hair had been tied back with a simple thong. She held out her arm and glanced up at him through lowered lashes. He swallowed hard and pressed his lips together.

"What? You don't like my training wear?" she smirked. "Are you going to tell me ladies in Unaria are supposed to wear ball gowns on the training pitch?"

"No," he countered. "This... this is fine."

He took her small arm gently in his hand. Turning it over to expose her wrist, he paused. In that moment, he was almost overcome by the urge to raise it to his lips and kiss the delicate skin above the cuff of her sleeve-- to press her hand against his face, forcing her to touch him-- to yank her forward by it, so suddenly and so hard that she stumbled directly into his arms.

Prince Mikhail swallowed hard again.

"What is it?" the Princess asked, wary of his long silence.

"I... I don't think we have a size that will fit you," he muttered.