The girl’s red hair had been tied back so neatly that it emerged from the top of her mesh helmet like a plume. It made her look like a knight. She wore what I could only describe as a gambeson, though it was nothing like the dusty padded marshmallow they had tied around me earlier. Hers was white, thinner, and fitted closely to her body. Somehow, it also looked more protective. The padding followed the shape of her shoulders instead of trying to create an entirely new person around them. She sat low in her stance. At first, I thought she was relaxed. Then I looked more closely and saw the tension loaded into her knees. Her front foot looked as though it could have been a weapon by itself, poised to spring forward and strike. Her smallsword remained parallel to the floor, its point aimed directly at her opponent. Her elbow stayed tucked behind the hilt, as though she were trying to hide her entire body behind that tiny handguard. Aside from the slight bounce created by the tension in her legs, she barely moved. Her opponent could not have looked more different. He launched himself toward her, stretching his sword arm as far as it could go in an attempt to touch her. His point stopped just short. The red-haired girl darted forward and touched him before he could recover. “Point,” the assistant called. They returned to their positions. He attacked again. Again, he barely missed. Again, she struck him as he withdrew. At first, I did not understand what was happening. It simply looked as though her opponent had misjudged the distance. But it happened a second time. And a third. Each attack failed by almost nothing. A few inches at most. Close enough that I kept expecting the next attempt to land. The red-haired girl never seemed surprised when it did not. On his next attempt, the boy lunged much farther than before. His front foot shot forward, and his rear leg straightened until he appeared to have used every inch of reach his body possessed. I thought I understood his plan. The first attacks had deliberately fallen short. He wanted her to become comfortable with a false idea of his range. Then, once she believed herself safe, he would use his full reach and catch her by surprise. It was a good plan. Apparently, she had already thought of it. The girl did not move her feet. Her sword moved instead. The points met. Hers found the inside line and knocked his just far enough aside. He continued forward. Her arm straightened. The boy stepped face-first into her point. The practice blade bowed beneath the impact. His helmet absorbed the rest, snapping his head backward while the momentum of his lunge carried his body forward another half step. She had barely struck him. He had done most of that himself. Thank God for protective equipment. With a real blade, that would have been nasty. “Point,” the assistant called. The boy recovered and touched one hand to the front of his helmet, possibly checking that his face was still inside it. Another student took his place. I continued watching as the red-haired girl sparred several more opponents. Most of the matches ended in nearly the same way. She and her opponent moved back and forth while maintaining almost exactly the same distance from each other. Then someone attacked. Sometimes it was her. Sometimes it was them. Sometimes they both seemed to move at once. It did not matter. Her blade found its mark. Theirs fell short, passed beside her, or was knocked away before reaching her. She was quite short. Nearly everyone she faced was taller than her, and several possessed a considerable advantage in reach. It didn't help. Against one of the taller students, she suddenly galloped forward with two quick steps. Her point touched his chest before his weapon had finished moving. When he tried to answer, she turned his blade aside, struck him again, and retreated beyond his reach. The entire exchange took less time than it took me to understand the first part. Another student attacked her twice in quick succession. She remained where she was, deflected the first thrust, and answered with one of her own. When he tried to continue, she struck him again and forced him backward. “Point,” the assistant said. Then, after a pause, “Again.” The student looked as though he would have preferred the assistant not keep count. Sometimes the girl stood at a distance that seemed deliberately uncomfortable. Her opponent would look at her. Look at the space between them. Then attack. She would knock the blade aside and place her own point exactly where theirs should have been. It did not matter whether she moved first, second, or at the same time. She always touched them. They always missed. Professor Bahadur had asked why they were losing. At first, I had thought she knew their range. Now I understood that she was doing something more precise than that. She knew the boundary between safe and dangerous so well that she could stand almost directly upon it. Her opponents believed they were close enough to reach her, because she wanted them to believe it. Then they committed themselves and discovered that the final inch belonged to her. She was not faster than everyone she faced. She simply began each exchange from a position where their first mistake had already happened. I knew what I was watching was impressive. And yet, it was almost making me sleepy. Not bored, exactly. The constant motion of her feet, the slight hopping, skipping rhythm. It was strangely hypnotic. She drifted forward and backward without ever appearing to hurry. After a while, the cadence began to feel inevitable. I found myself becoming lulled by it. Maybe that was why she did it. Maybe the plan was to bore everyone until they walked onto her sword. It appeared to be working. A sudden crash of wooden weapons drew my attention toward the other side of the hall. Another student stood there in a mesh helmet, though his was built differently from hers. A thick metal brace ran vertically down its center, crossed by several horizontal bands. Articulated plates hung from the back, protecting his neck and shoulders. His chest guard had clearly been made for his larger frame. I recognized him before he turned fully toward me. Mamoru. Of course he had custom armor. He held a practice spear and swept it through broad arcs, forcing his opponent to remain at a distance. Between those wide movements came sudden thrusts so fast that the spearhead seemed to jump forward. His opponent wore a thick gambeson similar to mine, although his was much cleaner and obviously expensive. The padding had been fitted to his body, the seams were reinforced with leather, and a crest had been embroidered over the chest. Not very camouflaged. The rich students apparently found a way to make even getting hit look prestigious. His weapon matched the rest of him. The practice longsword was enormous, nearly as tall as the boy carrying it. The boy himself was slightly larger than Mamoru, but even his oversized sword could not match the reach of the simple spear. Mamoru thrust. The swordsman knocked the point aside and advanced. Mamoru withdrew before the longsword could reach him. They reset their distance. The swordsman rushed forward, swinging the longsword wildly. At least, I thought he was swinging wildly. Then I noticed the pattern. The blade traveled in a continuous figure-eight in front of him. Each diagonal cut flowed into the next, weaving a moving barrier between him and the spear. He was not merely trying to hit Mamoru. He was trying to catch the spear whenever it entered his range. If Mamoru thrust, the sword would knock it aside. If Mamoru waited too long, the longsword would reach him instead. The swordsman was forcing him to choose. Mamoru circled to his right. The larger boy followed, never allowing the figure-eight to break. The longsword passed beside his shoulder, cut across his body, and rose again from the opposite side. Mamoru’s spearpoint drifted from the boy’s chest to his hands, then back toward his face. The boy continued forward. Mamoru stabbed. The longsword caught the shaft and struck it away. The boy did not allow the weapons to separate. He kept his blade pressed against the spear and advanced behind it, preventing Mamoru from simply drawing the point back into line. For the first time, he crossed the distance. The longsword rose toward Mamoru’s neck. As if it was eager to decapitate Mamoru. Mamoru released the spear. For half a second, I thought it had been knocked from his hands. Then he stepped forward. He seized the front of the swordsman’s gambeson and pulled them chest to chest. The longsword began to descend, but Mamoru pressed the reinforced side of his helmet against the boy’s right arm, trapping it between their bodies. There was no room for the blade to move. The swordsman tried to pull away. His gambeson moved in Mamoru’s grip. So did the boy inside it. Mamoru stepped outside his opponent’s lead leg and turned his hips. The back of his leg swept through the other boy’s support. The swordsman crashed onto the dirt. The match immediately became less elegant. The red-haired girl’s exchanges had looked like the pinnacle of civility, polishing violence into something presentable, like an entertaining puzzle. This looked like two people who knew the brutality of violence and not only didn't shy away from it, but loved it. I could not look away. The swordsman clung to the hilt as Mamoru followed him down. Mamoru shoved the weapon arm aside and wrapped his other arm around the boy’s neck. The boy tried to roll. Mamoru moved with him, keeping his weight across the boy’s chest and shoulder. The gambeson bunched beneath his fist. The longsword shifted between them. For a moment, neither controlled it. Then Mamoru pulled the boy away from the weapon, wrenched it free, and placed the practice edge against the opening beneath his helmet. “Yield,” the assistant ordered. The swordsman went still. Mamoru released him at once and rose. The fight had not been nearly as clean as the red-haired girl’s matches. It had not looked effortless. It had been a mess of grips, pressure, shifting weight, and whatever ugly little opportunities appeared once the distance disappeared. It was also the first match that left me sitting on the edge of the bench. Mamoru offered the fallen boy a hand. The boy accepted it with obvious reluctance. I barely noticed. My attention remained on Mamoru’s other hand. The one that had gripped the front of the gambeson. I had spent our entire match trying to strike through Mamoru’s defense. Every punch, kick, and knee had asked the same question. Could I hurt him before his magic hardened the place I attacked? The answer had been once, but never again before or after it. But the swordsman’s armor had not protected him from being moved. If anything, it had made Mamoru’s job easier. Bare skin could slip from someone’s fingers. Loose clothing could be gathered. A fitted gambeson provided handles attached to the entire body. Armor might be painful to strike. It looked remarkably easy to grab. Of course, Mamoru had just demonstrated that grabbing him would introduce an entirely new collection of problems. He clearly knew how to fight from that distance. Trying the same thing against him might end with me getting thrown onto my head again. Still, it was a different question that mattered. Professor Aurelia’s lesson returned to me. What was the subject? What was true about it? What result did I intend? Mamoru’s defense prevented injury. At least, that was what I had observed. I had treated that as though it meant he could not be affected at all. Those were not the same statement. He could harden his body against a strike. Could he prevent someone from controlling his clothing? Could he keep his balance while defending several points at once? Could the magic stop his body from being redirected even if no one tried to injure him? I did not know. That was much better than knowing I could not punch him hard enough. I stood so quickly that my injured shin protested. Pain flashed through my leg, and I immediately sat halfway back down before catching myself. Right. Injured. My hand still ached as well. I probably needed several more days before attempting anything serious. That did not mean I had to wait before training. I did not need Mamoru yet. I needed something wearing armor. Preferably something that would not become offended when I grabbed it repeatedly and threw it onto the floor. The academy had to possess practice dummies. If it did not, I could stuff one of those faded gambesons with straw. Judging by the smell, nobody would notice the difference. Across the hall, Mamoru retrieved his spear. The red-haired girl touched another opponent and retreated before his blade came anywhere near her. She controlled the space between herself and her opponent so precisely that no one could reach her. Mamoru surrendered that space, entered the one place where the longer weapon became useless, and turned his opponent’s armor into a weakness. Professor Bahadur had said classification told you which questions to begin with. Apparently, losing did too. I had spent our first match learning that I could not hurt Mamoru. For the next one, I would learn how to move him.

Chapter 27