Joe tightened his arm, put his whole body into his parry and bind—and Tarsen’s sword flew out of his hand to land on the hard-packed dirt of the hideout’s main room. “Hey!” Tarsen’s protest was midway between a laugh and a yell. Joe dropped his point and grinned. “Nice one.” Blackeye whacked her blade on Joe’s shoulder. “Do it again.” Joe didn’t think he could—but he gripped his sword anew as Tarsen dove after his own blade. They dueled for a few minutes more, and as usual Joe lost. But at least he’d finally gotten a touch, a real one, after three solid weeks of practice. The others cheered for him—all except for Kevriac, that is. Joe had noticed as the days slid by how the small, blond magic worker avoided him. Not obviously. He just always seemed to sit on the other side of the room, and though he’d answer politely enough if Joe talked to him, he never addressed Joe first. Yet he’d stay around and watch if Tarsen and Joe were practicing, his thin face difficult to read.
