LITMIR.BIZ

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than a touch. There had been no blood-war as there had been when her marjal traits started to show.

      Tallow lifted a hand to indicate the other nun. ‘This is Sister Iron, Nona. She is to be the new Mistress Blade. She takes over today.’

      ‘No—’

      ‘I am getting old, child. We hunska do that fast too. I will join the Holy Sisters and give the Ancestor my full attention as the abbess instructs.’

      Nona shot a glance towards the stands. The sister superiors flanked the abbess. Sister Rose sat to Wheel’s left. Wheel, the older-looking of the two, though they were of an age, glared at Nona with those pale, watery eyes just as always.

      ‘You will fight Sister Iron for the Red, novice.’ Tallow drew a sword from a second scabbard at her left hip. A Red Sister’s blade, Barrons-forged. She handed it to Nona. ‘Control. Restraint. Respect.’ Tallow folded Nona’s fingers around the hilt. ‘You’ll be judged on these. But in the Corridor … winning is also quite important.’

      ‘I’ll win then.’ Nona stepped back, circling away from Sister Iron. She didn’t want a new Mistress Blade, though she couldn’t quite suppress the relief that she wouldn’t have to face Sister Tallow with sharp iron in hand in an earnest fight.

      Sister Iron drew her blade, a sword identical to Nona’s since pitting Ark-steel against Barrons-steel would damage the latter and likely ruin it. The nun made no move, only cocked her head to the side and watched how Nona positioned her feet. Her gaze slid up the length of Nona’s body, coming to rest on her wrist and the fingers around the sword hilt. Nona felt as if she were being judged and found wanting.

      ‘You’re ready?’ Nona asked, unsettled by the woman’s stillness.

      Back against the wall Sister Tallow rolled her eyes.

      Nona came forward, sword extended before her. She didn’t reach for her speed but instead waited to react, a lesson she had learned from Zole. Sister Iron did nothing, only watched her move, her own blade loose in her hand, the point in the sand.

      Nona came closer. Closer still. The point of her sword just two feet from the nun’s chest. She could lunge and run the woman through. She glanced towards Sister Tallow, uncertain.

      The moment Nona’s eyes moved from her Sister Iron pushed Nona’s sword away, the back of her hand flat against the side of the blade. The nun released her own sword and slapped Nona across the face, hard enough to rattle her teeth. Nona leapt away and by the time she was clear Sister Iron had kicked her falling sword back into the air and snatched hold of it once again.

      ‘You think this one is ready?’ Sister Iron asked Sister Tallow.

      Nona spat blood into the sand. A dozen sentences wanted to escape her tongue, some bitter, some angry, but she swallowed them all. The fault was hers. There were no rules. ‘Try me again.’

      Sister Iron came forward, blade extended as Nona’s had been. Nona let her get just as close. The nun’s gaze never faltered. She lunged, showing no reservation about skewering a novice. Nona sank into the moment and made to push the sword away as Iron had, only to find the cutting edge angled towards her hand. She pushed it anyway, sparks flying as Barrons steel scraped over flaw-blades. She made to slap the woman but Iron proved swift, Nona’s fingertips missing her cheek by a hair’s breadth.

      Nona kicked her falling blade back into the air and caught it as Iron had but with far less grace. The pair of them finished two yards apart, gazes locked, one on the other.

      ‘No claws today, novice.’ The abbess’s voice from the stands. ‘Just the blade you hope to earn.’

      Nona nodded her acknowledgement. She moved smoothly into attacking. No more playing, no more games. She told herself that Zole stood before her. With the exception of Yisht and Sister Tallow, Zole had been her most lethal opponent, faster than thinking, merciless, efficient.

      Sister Iron replied with a storm of blows, feints, and counterattacks every bit as swift and ruthless as Zole’s had ever been. She had more than that, though. Something in her touch, a kind of mastery that let her tame a blow on her blade, guide it, twist it. At every exchange Nona felt on the edge of having her sword torn from her grasp. Sister Iron used combinations that Nona hadn’t seen before, series of moves that drove Nona step by inexorable step into the wrong place, her balance lost, her momentum stolen, sword unready.

      Sister Iron ended a lengthy combination attack with a rising slice. An extravagance of speed saved Nona from being struck, though she would not have been surprised to find a thin line of blood across her front had she the time to look down. She spun away, sliding to a halt on one foot, spraying sand.

      ‘Ah!’ Nona staggered, her heel felt as if a hot wire had sliced partway through it.

      Sister Iron came forward, pressing her attack. Nona defended with desperation, hobbling back before launching sideways on her good foot to win space. She rolled across the sand, biting down a scream as something cut into her just above the elbow. Coming to her feet she expected to find blood sheeting down her arm but the skin lay unmarked despite the agony.

      Nona got to her feet, wincing, sword raised, injured arm held close to her body. As Iron came in Nona saw it. Where the sand had been scuffed away almost to the stone she glimpsed something, a nearly invisible distortion running over the slab beneath. If she had time to defocus she knew her Path-sight would show a thread, lurid green no doubt, as so many of Joeli’s curse-threads were.

      As Sister Iron drew close Nona swept away the sand in front of her with one foot. It proved a useless endeavour: pressed to defend, she had no time to clear more ground or study the area exposed. Their swords met and met again, beating out a high-tempo tattoo. Sweat flew from the ends of Nona’s hair, sparkling droplets mired in the moment, unable to fall in the space between half a dozen strikes.

      Another pain-thread caught Nona’s foot and she fell backwards with a cry, turning a thrust and a swing as she dropped. Nona rolled through three more pain-threads evading Sister Iron stamping at her. Finally the nun backed off, perhaps remembering that the exercise was a test rather than murder.

      Nona stood slowly, meeting Sister Tallow’s puzzled frown.

      ‘It’s only pain.’ She muttered the words, forcing her hunched body to straighten, relaxing the tight muscles of her arms and legs. She had suffered worse. Thuran Tacsis had pressed his sigil-marked toy called the Harm against her. It had hurt more than a thousand pain-threads. Later she had glued it to his flesh. He hadn’t been found for over a day. They said he sat drooling upon his lord’s chair now, ruler of the Tacsis in name only. Why his remaining son, Lano, didn’t have him quietly killed nobody could say.

      ‘Only pain.’ Spoken loud enough for Sister Iron to take note. Nona thought of Joeli creeping out in the dead of night to lay her threads in the Blade Hall sands, each full of malice and carefully attuned just to Nona. It was a work of art really. Nona doubted there were six thread-workers in all the empire who could match it. Maybe not so many. A red anger rose through her, its heat burning through the agony that lanced from her invisible wounds. Lips curled back from teeth, a savage grin.

      Nona threw herself back across ground already trodden, the potency of the thread-traps there now spent. She attacked Sister Iron not with the calm efficiency Sister Tallow taught but with the honest and savage desire to do her opponent harm, acknowledging the beast that dwelt within her, the hot core of her that Tarkax Ice-Spear had seen. Passion lent her a strength that Sister Iron had to grit her own teeth to turn. Rage put an edge on a quickness that was already blinding, and Sister Iron was forced back for the first time, weaving her defence within the depth of her own serenity.

      Perhaps no battle so ugly had ever played out across the Blade Hall sands before. But the simple fact was that Sister Iron, the presumptive Mistress Blade, retreated before the sword of Nona Grey, her own hair wet with sweat now. Sister Iron’s own swordwork was now stretched to extravagant lengths, all within a packed handful of seconds that few possessed the vision to follow.

      Another thread snagged Nona’s foot. She hardly

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