shopkeeper stepped back to give me as much space as he could, which wasn't much. Luckily, tai chi is all about control over oneself and, when swords are involved, one's blade.
I barely heard the merchant's explanation of the benefits of this piece or that— Toledo steel here, Damascus there, replicas of swords belonging to sheikhs and knights. I was too busy listening to the swords themselves.
I tried a sword with too thick of a grip, then one with a basket hilt, like a rapier, which felt awkward to me. I tried one that turned out to be way too long, and another that weighed too much. Rhys said something about being right back, and I nodded, but mostly I was lifting swords, holding them over my head, spinning with them, thrusting them at full arm's length… trying to find my perfect extension.
For the first week or so after Lex's attack I'd avoided practicing, and not just because I'd wrenched my wrist in the fight. Every time I'd picked up my sword, I would remember exactly what it felt like to thrust a blade into another human being. Through skin. Into muscle, ligaments, bone. And yes, it
was
sickening. That's the point. It's not that I regretted doing it—those men had given me no other choice when they tried to kill someone I cared about. But I regretted having been in a situation that demanded it.
Then my
sifu
had suggested that I either choose to swim across the blood or to drown in it. That was when I'd reclaimed my practice, my extension. It didn't happen right away—but by now, I could lose myself in the slow dance of forms that is pure tai chi without the guilt.
Embracing the moon.
Black dragon whipping its tail.
Dusting into the wind.
I was halfway through a routine, stepping slowly from one movement to the next, before I realized this was it. The sword I held had great weight, great balance. It was the one I wanted, the one that wanted me. Lowering it, I saw that it had a slim blade with a stylish brass S hilt and, intriguingly, a pattern within the hand-beaten steel that reminded me of snake scales. Snakes are a universal goddess symbol, not just for Melusine or Eve or the Minoans. This was perfect.
Wiping my face on my sleeve, I turned to ask the shopkeeper the cost—and was surprised to see that sometime during the last couple of swords, he'd vanished.
How odd. Worse, my throat tightened in warning. Because of that, I had my blade up and ready as I turned toward the front of the shop—and stopped short.
The sharp tip of a scimitar hovered, a mere breath from my tardy throat.
The man who held the sword, swarthy and square-shouldered, was the man who'd helped us at the airport. He still wore the suit. But now, weirdly enough, he had a protective, Eye-of-Horus design painted in blue on his cheek.
"Well, witch," he said. "Let us see how good you are."
And he swung.
Had he just called me a
witch
?
Thank heavens for practice. If I'd had to actually think about anything at that moment, I may have ended up as shish kebab.
Instead, my new sword leaped upward almost before I knew I was moving it. The two blades collided with a steel clash that echoed through the
souk
.
One
steel clash.
That was all I needed.
Tai chi is all about passive resistance, resolving everything into its opposite. Softness against strength. Yielding and overcoming. To meet this man's force with more force would be foolish, him being so much bigger and clearly more aggressive than me. Instead, I met it with concession, sliding my blade around his.
He did the work of thrusting. His mistake, since my blade remained in the space he was thrusting against. The only reason it merely scratched his arm, instead of stabbing him, was my reluctance to have it yanked from my hand.
I'd drawn first blood, all the same.
He drew breath in a quick hiss. "What kind of fighting is that?"
"Maybe I fight like a girl," I said.
Warned
.
When he drew back to swing again, my blade continued to rest against his. When he sliced the air with
I barely heard the merchant's explanation of the benefits of this piece or that— Toledo steel here, Damascus there, replicas of swords belonging to sheikhs and knights. I was too busy listening to the swords themselves.
I tried a sword with too thick of a grip, then one with a basket hilt, like a rapier, which felt awkward to me. I tried one that turned out to be way too long, and another that weighed too much. Rhys said something about being right back, and I nodded, but mostly I was lifting swords, holding them over my head, spinning with them, thrusting them at full arm's length… trying to find my perfect extension.
For the first week or so after Lex's attack I'd avoided practicing, and not just because I'd wrenched my wrist in the fight. Every time I'd picked up my sword, I would remember exactly what it felt like to thrust a blade into another human being. Through skin. Into muscle, ligaments, bone. And yes, it
was
sickening. That's the point. It's not that I regretted doing it—those men had given me no other choice when they tried to kill someone I cared about. But I regretted having been in a situation that demanded it.
Then my
sifu
had suggested that I either choose to swim across the blood or to drown in it. That was when I'd reclaimed my practice, my extension. It didn't happen right away—but by now, I could lose myself in the slow dance of forms that is pure tai chi without the guilt.
Embracing the moon.
Black dragon whipping its tail.
Dusting into the wind.
I was halfway through a routine, stepping slowly from one movement to the next, before I realized this was it. The sword I held had great weight, great balance. It was the one I wanted, the one that wanted me. Lowering it, I saw that it had a slim blade with a stylish brass S hilt and, intriguingly, a pattern within the hand-beaten steel that reminded me of snake scales. Snakes are a universal goddess symbol, not just for Melusine or Eve or the Minoans. This was perfect.
Wiping my face on my sleeve, I turned to ask the shopkeeper the cost—and was surprised to see that sometime during the last couple of swords, he'd vanished.
How odd. Worse, my throat tightened in warning. Because of that, I had my blade up and ready as I turned toward the front of the shop—and stopped short.
The sharp tip of a scimitar hovered, a mere breath from my tardy throat.
The man who held the sword, swarthy and square-shouldered, was the man who'd helped us at the airport. He still wore the suit. But now, weirdly enough, he had a protective, Eye-of-Horus design painted in blue on his cheek.
"Well, witch," he said. "Let us see how good you are."
And he swung.
Had he just called me a
witch
?
Thank heavens for practice. If I'd had to actually think about anything at that moment, I may have ended up as shish kebab.
Instead, my new sword leaped upward almost before I knew I was moving it. The two blades collided with a steel clash that echoed through the
souk
.
One
steel clash.
That was all I needed.
Tai chi is all about passive resistance, resolving everything into its opposite. Softness against strength. Yielding and overcoming. To meet this man's force with more force would be foolish, him being so much bigger and clearly more aggressive than me. Instead, I met it with concession, sliding my blade around his.
He did the work of thrusting. His mistake, since my blade remained in the space he was thrusting against. The only reason it merely scratched his arm, instead of stabbing him, was my reluctance to have it yanked from my hand.
I'd drawn first blood, all the same.
He drew breath in a quick hiss. "What kind of fighting is that?"
"Maybe I fight like a girl," I said.
Warned
.
When he drew back to swing again, my blade continued to rest against his. When he sliced the air with
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