The Pagan Night Read Online Free PDF Page B

anything, but slid the long blade of the broadsword into its sheath and hung it over his shoulder. Then he glanced up. His mother had already disappeared from the balustrade, leaving Ian’s sister and her friends alone. Doubtless the duchess of Houndhallow was on her way to the training field, to have words with Sir Dugan.
    Best to be gone before that happened.
    “I do not love this blade, Sir Dugan. It’s too large, and too clumsy. Next time I will practice with the dueling steel, I think.”
    “That is the Suhdrin style, my lord. You are Tenerran born.”
    “And what do you mean by that?”
    “Just what I said,” Sir Dugan answered. He sheathed his sword and grimaced. “That sword is the blade your father carried into battle, and his father before him, going back to Black Kirk of the tribe of hounds. It may not fit your hand, but it fits your blood.”
    “These are not the days of Black Kirk, sir,” Ian countered. “Times have changed.”
    “As I am constantly reminded, my lord,” Dugan said, sounding tired.
    “Tomorrow we will practice with the dueling steel,” Ian said.
    “Yes, my lord,” Dugan answered. “Now be on your way. The high elector will be here. Eventually.”
    “And my mother will be looking for you. Best we both make ourselves scarce.”
    “I will not run from my battle,” Dugan answered, a sharp smile on his face. “Though your mother is a harder foe than the high elector, I’d imagine. Go on. Find your books. Leave the sword in the armory. Tomorrow we’ll see if we can make the dueling steel into a real weapon, and not just a nobleman’s toy.”
    Ian snorted and hefted the heavy sword higher on his shoulder, then left the field. When he looked back, Sir Dugan was collecting the pieces of the target dummy and muttering to himself.
    * * *
    Ian was unbinding the locks of his hair from the leather strap that kept it out of his eyes, shaking out the few thin braids that he had earned, when his mother swept out of a corridor and fell on him. Her blond hair, unusual in Tenerran blood, flowed around her head like a torch. She was much angrier than even Ian expected.
    “What were you thinking?” she said sharply, and he thought she might strike him. “What in the hells were you thinking?”
    “Shouldn’t you be yelling at Sir Dugan?” Ian asked. “After all, he’s the one who attacked me.”
    “Attacked you? Attacked? You idiot, you could have killed him. How would that have looked, with your sister watching, and the high elector on our doorstep? And look at your hand!”
    “I was trying to get a quick practice in before the high elector arrived,” Ian replied, a hint of anger in his voice. “Just because the church is visiting…”
    “Hush,” Sorcha Blakley answered. “You need to get that temper of yours under control, child. What would your father say to Dugan’s family if you had put that damn sword through his gut, rather than into the log? Hmm?”
    “Oh, I think Dugan was in little enough danger from me,” Ian said. “Besides, that was the point of the exercise, wasn’t it?”
    “Little enough danger? Gods, what an idiot you can be.” Sorcha grabbed the sword belt and twisted it off her son’s shoulder, lifting it with ease. “This is not a dummy blade, child.”
    “I am well aware what sort of blade it is, Mother.”
    “Are you?” Sorcha clattered the tip of the sheath to the ground and grabbed her son’s hand. With a yank she freed his hand from the chain mitt and then drew four inches of blade from the scabbard. Before Ian could react, she laid the meat of his palm against the blade. His flesh parted like fine silk before shears, and blood washed across the steel.
    Ian yelped and snatched his hand back.
    “What in hells is wrong with you?” he cried out. Sorcha sheathed the sword and then, stepping forward, slapped Ian across the face.
    “It’s blood, child. Tenerran blood.” She grabbed his wrist and held the wound in front of his face. “Become