Mark Lawrence - Holy Sister

‘Good … one.’ Ara stumbled back, clutching her side, sword dropped to indicate surrender. ‘Ah.’ She hugged her ribs. A black line would show there tomorrow. ‘Did anyone ever tell you you look scary as hell when you fight for real?’

‘Never.’ Nona stuck her tongue out. ‘Are you all right?’ She moved forward to check Ara’s side, suddenly concerned. She set a gentle hand to Ara’s ribs.

‘Fine.’ Ara pushed her off. ‘I hope you don’t make faces that scary in other kinds of … battles.’

‘What do you—’

‘The late-night sort you might get into with Regol …’ Their eyes met, and for a moment Nona wondered if she saw something hidden there … something hurt? The look vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced with Ara’s impression of Nona’s worried expression.

Nona shoved Ara who fell, laughing, until she hit the sand and jolted her injured ribs. Nona was helping her up, still apologizing, when Sister Tallow entered the hall.

The abbess and sister superiors followed Sister Tallow out into the hall, turning to take their seats in the stands. Tallow approached Nona and Ara, her weathered face inscrutable. A nun Nona had never seen before dogged Mistress Blade’s heels. She looked a good twenty years younger than Tallow, tall, slim, skin the colour of old leather though smooth save for the scars on both her cheeks. The twin wounds might be ritual markings or perhaps their curious symmetry had arisen by chance. The newcomer fixed Nona with a piercing gaze. She had a beauty to her, but there was nothing soft about it, her cheekbones almost sharp enough to cut you if you slapped her.

‘Novice Arabella, you may leave.’ Sister Tallow nodded to the doors. The final blade-test never had any audience but the abbess and her sister superiors. Novices who attempted to watch through the windows had been whipped in the past, even expelled from the convent. Ara gave up her practice blade and ran off with a last encouraging glance.

Tallow waited between Nona and the unknown nun until the doors closed. Nona stood a hand taller than both women and was of heavier build. Some said she had gerant in her but if so it wasn’t more 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.