A week well into to their journey to Gin, Manama had quaintly noticed Cirin’s general lack of trust and approached him on the manor in Manama like fashion.

Ofcourse Cirin had been tired due to Azhar’s training and of course it was on his one break that Manama approached him. But there whilst he was ruefully recovering, a wading Manama simply told him.

Manama tinks ya find it hard ta trust uddas. Dough trust be a compoundin’ ting. Ya neva truly lose it and ya gain mo and mo as time go by. If ya be mistrustin’, it just mean ya gotta spend mo time wit dat person. Every person be a different trustah.

It didn’t take two more people to join their company til Cirin found the exception. He reviled in Taba’s smug mug as she watched him do lap after lap.

Truly, she was the perfect weapon against him. She not only broke arms, but also minds.

“Two mo laps.” Waved a yawning Azhar.

“Ya said dat a lap ago.” Cried Cirin between breaths.

Azhar lazily waved, audacious enough to lay fully back.

Cirin halted then. He flicked his hand at the sitting Taba.

“Why dun ya make her run to?”

“Eh mouse?”

“Well ya said she’d be fightin me.”

“Why ya be so anxious ta fight a girl, mouse?” Azhar rolled over, “Besides ya da one wantin ta protect da prince not her.”

“But-”

“Save ya complaints fa latta.” Butted Azhar with a final wave, “I got da night watch so I intend ta rest when I can. Ya betta be finished ya rounds when I wake, mouse.”

“Dis olda variant of ya speaks da truth.” Nodded Taba. She lifted her hand and gestured Cirin to move, “Now run.”

“Ya probably afraid ta fight me.” Quipped Cirin.

“Afraid? Me? I need only drop a boulda on ya little head while ya sleep.”

Cirin smiled slyly. It seemed Taba was unawares to his keen sense of surrounding. “Won’t work on me.”

Taba bobbed her head as if she conceded that one point, “Your right. Ya skull be too tick.”

Cirin stomped his way to Taba. Stopping only an arm’s length from the girl, he leaned his head low.

“Ya must have realised dat when I got ya wit dat heabutt.”

Taba stifled a smile. Mocking as always, “Ah da usual harassment. Just when ya masta looks da udda way ya show ya true colors.”

“I’d wish ya stop showing yours fa once.”

“My charming presence need not be quenched.”

“Charming?” scoffed Cirin, “I’d hardly call dat charming. I dun know what magical spell ya placed on Toftof and even da old mon, but I won’t fall fa it. Ya make one misstep,” Cirin took a brief glance at Azhar, who was now well a ways into his slumber, “And I’ll tell dem everyting.”

Victory at last. Taba’s silence made him sure of that. He played her derisive grin back at her as he straightened his posture. Just the thought of her flinching with fear as he held that one unsurmountable piece of leverage against her sported him the willpower to run two more laps up and down the river bed. Three even!

He had been stretching his arm with his back to Taba when her impossible words reached him once more.

“If ya wonderin’ what spell I used, it was probably da same one I used on you da night before we left Gin.”

Cirin froze up.

“Oh but we bot know dat wasn’t some magical spell. You were simply ashamed of yaself fa leaving something as refined as myself alone in da hall. But dat couldn’t possibly mean, oh.” Her voice took a wicked turn, “You’re hopelessly in love wit me aren’t ya?”

Cirin reared his head over his shoulder and slowly made the complete turn to Taba.

He swayed his free hand over his mouth, and little by little began an insatiable chuckle. That chuckle grew and grew until he had to pry his hand from his mouth to support his belly.

“You?” He splurged, “Ya can’t be serious. Whateva made ya tink dat, now dat has ta be a magical spell mon.”

Taba shot up, her face reddening at the mention.

“Let me be clear.” Said Cirin as he sated his own laughter, “I offered ya dat room dat night cause I felt bad fa accusing ya of wantin ta kill Sol. But love? You?” Cirin shook his head, “I tought you were a boy before Caterine said uddawise, and even afta I spoke ma wit ya, ya became da one person I consider to do da furdest ting from love.”

Taba’s hands were balled. “Watch ya tongue peasant.”

“And you watch ya’s, noble.”

Taba snapped her head to the side and puffed, “How abouts we settle dis den. Ya said yaself dat ya wanted ta fight me.”

“dat be da most reasonable ting ya suggested.”

“Ya dun like me, and I most certainly do not like you. We duel. Two weeks from now when ya arm be healed and ready, we’ll settle dis in a single fight til one of us backs out.”

“And da prize?” asked Cirin.

Taba lowered her chin, a devious smile smeared across her face, “Da loser must leave da company.”

Cirin cracked his knuckles. “You’re on.” He wagered.

The next day passed with scarcely a word between the two. Only odd glares at each other as if to confirm their prior bet. Then, when the sun fell into the distant mountains and the company set up camp, Cirin immediately began running. His run was always the first and last exercise the old mon had him do, yet now it was more than a mere excersize. It was an obstacle he had to clear as soon as possible if he were to train to the maximum of his ability.

Azhar arrived by the riverbed as Cirin cleared his second to last lap.

“One mo!” cried Cirin has he bounded to the set end of his lap. From where he ran he saw the old mon nodding at him, approvingly.

Cirin was sure that this day he’d impress him. He passed in Azhar, picking up pace the moment he saw Azhar.

Within seconds he reached the end of the lap and turned heel to reach the where Azhar was resting. His feet came to a slow as his eyes failed to find the man.

He glanced away from the riverbed and there he saw him walking away with her. Cirin scowled, what did Taba want with Azhar?

He caught his breath at the end point and slowly he made his way to where Taba had taken his master.

They were speaking behind one of the few contorted trees that were native to the grasslands. Cirin crept close.

“I can’t train ya, Princess.”

“Why not?” shot a flustered Taba.

“Da mouse.” Said Azhar, “I made a promise ta train him. Only him. I dun know why ya want ta even tink about fightin’. It ain’t a happy ting.”

“I want ta be stronger dan him.”

“Fightin’ be one ting, winning is anudda. Strength won’t secure ya victories, princess. Smarts and planin’ will.” Advised the old mon.

Taba remained looking down, holding onto a silence as she no doubt realised her mistake.

“Look.” Started Azhar, “If ya want, I can see if Toftof will train ya.”

“No.” sprang Taba, “I’ll train myself.”

Cirin kept his back to the tree. From where he lurked he could barely make out the smiling face of Azhar.

“Dun underestimate him, Princess. Once he gets bot his arms he’ll be much stronger dan he eva was.”

Cirin found himself smiling after that. Maybe the old mon did acknowledge him, but only to others? Either way, Cirin thought as he balled his fists, he felt the need to defeat this magical upstart now more than ever.

“I’ll beat him.” Proclaimed Taba.

“Den get to it.”

Cirin leapt from the tree then, and carefully snuck his way to the far side of the riverbed.

When Azhar got back, he found a panting Cirin running up to him from the other end of the river.

“I did anudda lap.” Gasped Cirin.

Azhar crossed him arms, “So ya finally got serious, mouse?”

“Ya promised me a new blade if I did, remember?”

Azhar shook his head, “Oi, dun become a debt collecta on me, eh? Draw dat rusted ting fa now, I tink I’ll teach ya someting useful today.”

For just that night by the rushing river, the clank of blades could be heard among the chirp of crickets. A spot amongst an infinite dark, their camp glistened against the restless waters.

“We practised five different techniques mon! All fa counterin’ !” roared Cirin. He was standing up as he said so, his audience, the meager collection of Sol and Catherine.

Sol, as always, seemed incredulously consumed by whatever Cirin said.

“Show us! Show us!” he pleaded bouncing about.

Cirin flashed his blade and held a head of himself.

“Say ya attack me like dis.” He jabbed his blade in an upwards motion. “Den I counter like dis.” His extended arm snapped back immediately and turned the blade on its side. “I let my blade slide unda my mon’s deflected one and…”

Cirin paused mid step. He straightened his back and cleared his throat, “Well I’d den use my udda hand.”

“Does it still hurt?” prompted Catherine leaning forward with her head perched on the tips of her knuckles.

Cirin shook his head, “Not at all.” He admitted. “But…”

“You can’t take it off, huh?”

“Why not?” started Sol.

The master of countering shrugged, “Someting about being doubly sure. Manama insisted on it.”

“Well then I insist on it to.” Nodded Catherine.

“What about ya, imp?” queried Cirin.

“Good as before!” announced the boy as he struggled to stand up.

“Humpf. Liar.” Laughed Cirin.

“By the way Cirin, I haven’t seen Taba lately, do you know what she’s been up to?” asked Catherine, “I’ve yet to question her about her ties to Barra.”

“How would I know?” snapped Cirin. Truthfully, he wanted nothing to do with her. Though he’d also rather not disclose the promised fight he was to have with her. No doubt Catherine would interfere the moment she heard about that.

“She’s been running!” brimmed Sol.

That prompted a simultaneous response from both Cirin and Catheirne.

“Running?”

Sol nodded vigorously, “Every night now since.” He patted his chin, “A week ago?”

Cirin sat down. He had been a fool to think she wouldn’t train as well.

“Why would she do that I wonder?” Pondered Catherine aloud, “Especially that girl of all people. I know nobles. Even if the very king asked them to run, they’d merely get a servant to do it ten times over.”

Cirin slumped further, his head lowering more and more as Catherine went on.

“Perhaps I should ask her.” Concluded the girl.

“No!” started Cirin.

Both Sol and Catherine stared at him. Realising the folly in his loudness, he slumped even further.

Sol seemed genuinely confused, but Catherine’s face all but asked ‘why?’.

“I…” teetered Cirin, “I said I could run fa longa den she eva could since… since she saw me running da udda day and mocked me saying I ran outta breath too easily.”

Catherine seemed appeased by that as she fixed her posture to one leaning back.

“That does sound like her.” She conceded, “Stupid girl.” She puffed, “To think she was a black neck. Though I will admit her magic is considerable.”

“Can you do what she does?” stood up Sol.

Catherine shook her head, “Magic’s isn’t that simply my prince.” She glanced at Cirin with a smile, “You could say it’s very much a reflection on swordplay. There are many types of magic.” She said holding up a finger for emphasis, “And many ways to use it.”

“Azhar said someting similar a while back.” Laughed Cirin.

Perhaps the old mon knew more than how to lecture after all.

Though that became less and less apparent as the days passed by and Azhar, as Azhar tended to do, made Cirin victim to as many senseless words as there were beads of sweat on the crest of Cirin’s forehead.

“Visualize ya blade at all times.” Remarked the man, “When ya walk, when ya sleep, even when do ya daily exercise.”

The man seized his endless pacing as the boy finished yet another push up.

“Dat’s enough.”

Cirin lowered himself and slowly sat back on his heels, to which his master ventured his way to Cirin’s left side and kneeled to the dirtied cast.

“How abouts we take dis off, eh?”

Cirin blinked, “Ya sure?”

“Aye, I talked it ova wit Mana.”

Cirin wrestled the casting off as if it were an unopened present.

The moment he did, he glanced squarely at his side and jostled his shoulder. His face went a lit.

“Dere’s no pain.” He said a loud. “Hah!” He leapt his feet and immediately withdrew his rusted blade with his left. Yet the moment he did so, he could not help but glare at his empty right hand. He tossed his blade to his right, then to his left.

Azhar had his eyes locked on the boy, “Mouse I-”

“Old mon, I can try dose counterin’ techniques now!”

Azhar smiled simply to this, “Indeed ya can. Say, ya tink ya need anudda blade for dat arm?”

Cirin seemed engulfed by strange reappearance of his arm, “Sorry old mon.” he started, “I need ta show dis ta someone.”

“I’ll go wit ya.”

Cirin shook his head, “No stay here, I’ll be only a minute.”

Cirin paced his way passed the small clots of grassland. There were more trees around their camp spot that night and the once daunting river had become little more than a trickling creek. The mountains had grown considerably since the first they spotted them. At times they proved so large, that they’d block out the sun.

According to Manama they’d reach those monsters within a day.

The boy simmered to a trot once he heard the grunts echoing behind a double trunked tree. They were undoubtedly Taba’s. Cirin snuck by the trees and spied on her.

It seemed she had found the perfect spot to train, despite the brevity of their stay. It was a moonlit enclave surrounded by bramble trees. Here, a variety of desert flowers bloomed in the edges of the enclave while a pack snake sized boulder lived in it’s midst with Taba besides it. She had been swinging a blade over and over there, each of her grunts telling of a swing.

Cirin stepped in and the crunch of grass alerted Taba to his presence. That was when a rock the sized of knife implanted itself in the nearest trunk to Cirin.

“Oh, it’s you degenerate.”

Cirin held his left arm high, “It’s healed.” He declared.

“Wait.” Prompted taba, “I’m not ready yet, we agreed on two weeks rememba?”

“I rememba. Just felt it fitting ta show da one who broke my arm how well it healed.”

Taba tossed her head to the side, “Humpf.”

Cirin’s eyes trailed to Taba’s flawless bronze blade, “Where did ya get dat?”

“Ya dun rememba?” Taba seemed more surprised than insulted. That was a first.

She snapped her fingers and the blade disintegrated. She snapped again and the blade reformed. Cirin found himself perfectly still as she did that. He only realised he hadn’t reached for his blade once he saw the blade form.

“Dis be what I’ll beat ya wit.” Taunted Taba.

Cirin postured his arm across his chest, “And dis be what I’ll beat ya wit.”

“Ya ill-equipped illiterate, ya dun even have two blades.”

Cirin opened his mouth to speak, yet gawked as the words escaped him. How had he not thought of that before?

“Here.” Said Taba as she snapped her fingers again, “Try dis.”

A blade, identical to Taba’s, appeared before Cirin and promptly plummeted.

Cirin reached for it, already at awe by how pristine it was. He lifted it with ease. It was as light as training blade.

“I’ll let ya use dat fa now, but one condition.”

Cirin immediately regretted wielding the cursed blade.

“Show me ya stance.” She incited.

Cirin’s ruby eyes danced above, while a sly slit played his mouth. Every night now since Gin after Azhar left him to his own devices, Cirin practiced one thing. He held the light blade ahead of him. Admittedly he had only practiced half of it until now. He lowered his body and took up a wide footing. To think Taba would be the first witness to it. He reached for his rusted blade with his right.

“With pleasure.” He said before pulling that last blade out and holding it above him.

He fealt the voice in his grinning as he did that. This was it. This was his destined stance. One passed on to him by not only parentage, but also an unbeknownst benefactor. His eyes balanced on Taba as he searched for obviously awe struck reaction.

Her response? Giggling.

“Dat’s it?” she scoffed. She held a hand up to her mouth to stop herself from laughing more, “Dat’s what you’ll fight me wit?”

Cirin lowered his blades, “Yes it is.” He said bluntly.

Taba snapped her fingers and the blade in Cirin’s left burst into dust.

“I’ll give ya a blade when ya show me ya real stance.” She said waving behind her as she returned to her swings.

Cirin’s right eye twitched. He was sure his nerves were bulging. Every time he talked to Taba, he found himself even more convinced on getting rid of her. In a way, seeing her proved fundamental to his training. He breathed hard as he stowed his blade on his back. He’d show her the true strength of that stance, even if he had to wait another week to do so.

Though holding that anger proved futile. That was apparent the next evening when Azhar found the boy furiously chipping away at a dry branch tree with his right hand, stopping only momentarily to switch the blade to another hand as he continued the slaughter.

The boy’s words were a mess of ‘Die’s and ‘Taba’s.

“I take it ya named dis tree ‘Taba’ and ya be da least entusiastic fan of dry branches.” Azhar shrugged, “Or da most.”

Azhar’s voice quelled his thrashing immediately. Cirin sheathed his blade as he turned to the man.

“Old mon, ya neva supposed ta insult annuda man’s stance, right?” asked Cirin.

“Naturally. Dat be very disrespectful. Did dis tree named Taba, disrespect ya stance by any chance?”

“No.” conceded Cirin, “but it be more sensible dan choppin away at da ting dat did.”

Cirin’s eyes fell upon the burlap wrapped object in Azhar’s hand then. It was the same one from Gin.

“Old mon, is dat?”

Azhar held up the object and began undressing it, “I’m not sure if dis be da best time ta give dis ta ya,” He revealed a blackleather hilt as he slid the burlap passed it, “Especially afta hearin ya current gripe, but I was meanin ta give it ta ya since yestaday.” He swept the rest of the sack away and a gallant blade glinted before him, “Didn’t get a chance sa here. Take it.”

He presented the blade to Cirin, who looked at Azhar and then at the weapon.

He reached for it with both hands, entranced by its silver sheen. It wasn’t a long sword, nor was it wide. It had a simple diamond shaped crest embedded within the base metal while the tip played a simple curve.

The moment he had both his hands underneath the thing, Azhar let go and Cirin jolted forwards. It was heavy. It was the exact opposite of Taba’s creation.

“I could only get one fa now. Consida it a gift fa ya effort and” he stressed, “Fa ya continued effort.”

Azhar insisted he’d practice stances after that, making the boy continually wield that stance till he at no way erred from whatever image the old mon had in his head. The stance itself was just a duller version of the one he had seen in his dreams.

This stance required Cirin’s arms be held back more with a considerable bend for defence. Cirin got it wrong for all but one attempt that night, but for that one attempt he could tell it gave Azhar immense gratification.

Azhar refused to reveal why despite how much seeing the man smile bothered the boy.

When Cirin returned back to the camp, he found all but Taba and Catherine there sitting sharing obscure stories. He did not need to glance there way to know they were staring at the blade resting on his shoulder.

“Ah, so he finally gave ya it.” Began Manama.

Toftof bobbed his head, “A little big fa ya, but if ya be anyting like ya fadda ya should grow into it.”

“Da imp? Saying anyting be big fa anyone? Hah.”

“Oi.” Snapped Toftof to Azhar’s mocking voice.

Sol rushed to the boy, as soon as he was a limping distance away.

“Do you like it?” he asked eagerly.

Cirin’s hidden specs bounced between each of the three adults and landed on Sol. He let the blade fall to the side.

“Ya all knew?”

Their gangling shadows danced about as fools behind them. Their knowing smiles grew menacing under lucid glow of the campfire.

“Ofcourse we knew.” Entered the one voice he had expected.

Catherine swayed by Cirin with a touch on his shoulder as she found a seat beside Sol and Manama.

“I picked it out with Azhar!” claimed Sol.

“Aye, da prince was a lot of help back den.” Admitted the old mon as he stretched out by the fire.

Toftof seemed a little angsty as stared on at the blade, “Did ya name it?”

Cirin contorted his features. He studied the glinting thing, “Name it?” he asked a loud, “Why would a blade need a name?”

Azhar awoke to that, “Exactly!” he claimed, “Even outta da trio of da Bazaar only Etro was neva mad enough ta name a weapon.”

“Nonsense. Look at my knuckles, eh.” Toftof held up his right, “Dis one be named Gunk. And dis.” He held his right, “Bah.”

“Don’t ask.” Pleaded Azhar.

“Why did you name it that?” proded Catherine.

Azhar took no pleasure in Catherine’s ignorance, choosing instead to express his utmost dissatisfaction in the form a toss and turn in his makeshift bed. No doubt his eyes were rolling to.

Toftof’s immediate chuckle pried a further sigh from the old mon.

“Dey be da first sounds I heard when I used dem, respectively of course.” He explained.

“Oh shut it.” Yawned Azhar.

Toftof insistence returned to the blade, “So, what ya going ta name it?”

Cirin held the blade up. It was dazzling. He had never been one to struggle on the finer parts of life, but this, this was an exception among exceptions. The diamond fuller reflected his features minutely. While the guard consisted of twin bronze extremities that curled to make a half circle each. Its hilt, black leathered and rubbery with a diamond shaped pommel resting coolly at its end. The more he locked eyes with it the more he realised how right Toftof was and the man was not often right. This sword deserved a name.

“I’ll call it Trust.” Decided Cirin.

“You sure ya dun mean ‘thrust’?” quipped Toftof.

“Manama say not all weapons need stupid names.” The gypsy sauntered her eyes to Cirin, “Sometimes a name be needing ta mean someting.”

Catherine bit her lip and shook her head, adding, “I’d say a weapon is a weapon no matter what you name it. A device that’s sole purpose is to kill should not be named.”

“A man can kill anudda, yet we choose ta name him.” Retorted Manama.

“Ah, but that isn’t his sole purpose.” Pointed out Catherine.

Toftof devious giggles briefly ensnared the attention of the women, “Ya be right about dat.” Snickered the man.

Manama’s beads rustled as the gypsy tossed her head about, “Manama disagrees.”

Catherine pressed her brows together and tossed her head to the gypsy, as she was already passed Toftof’s remark, much to the imp’s displeasure, “How so?” she prodded.

By now Cirin had found a seat by the fire, he had his eyes fixated on the two women as his new blade entertained the prince who eagerly gawked at it.

Manama reached in her coat, revealing layers upon layers as she snuck out a small pouch. She spun open the pouch and tossed the contents into the flame.

Nothing happened at first, but as the gypsy spoke on, the color of the flame started to shift.

“Murda as ya call it in da nordern lands ain’t as simple as ya tink here. A weapon need not kill, but it is still consida’d a weapon. So, by dat logic a man is a weapon as well.”

The flames flickered green then blue and finally settled to the usual orange, “Well then so is a spoon if used right, even a bar of soap.” Argued Catherine.

Manama’s finger swayed like a ticking clock, “Ya be wrong dere, girl. A man used by anudda ta kill is a weapon. In our lands, it is da one who hires dat man ta kill who is da murderer not da killa himself.”

Footsteps and then a voice as young as Cirin’s.

“Da murder would neva happen witout da man who carries it out.”

“Taba.” Noted Catherine, “Where have you been?”

Taba’s eyes swayed momentarily in Cirin’s direction as she answered, “I wanted ta try someting before we made da mountains tommara. A little trainin ya could say.”

“You’ve been training awfully hard. Has something happened?”

There was a silence.

“No.” she answered to crackle of flames. “What is dat?”

Cirin followed her gaze to the rising flame. He blinked. How had he not noticed it?

There in the fire played a scene of several women, dressed quite like Manama in her long and numerous layers, sitting by a series of long arches and talking.

Manama smiled. The black in her eyes glimmered with the fiery marionettes.

“Manama say dat murda, dough not always, often happens fa a reason.”

Cirin sat up as the next flicker in the fire revealed a miniature man run into the enclave of women and one by swing at them. The style he used, though hard to make out in the crackling flames, seemed eerily familiar. The flames of the women would spark to life one moment and the next vanish in a blaze.

“Is… is that man killing them?” choked Catherine.

Toftof jumped to his feet as he finally realised what the commotion pertained to, “Oi Mana, is this?”

Manama’s silence as the grisly scene played out made Cirin thrust his head in Sol’s direction. Thankfully the prince had not be aroused from the blade to witness the slaughter.

“Mana- Manama stop dis.” Urged Toftof. “Mana!”

Azhar stirred and Manama blew into the fire. The scene vanished in a blaze as Azhar sat up from his slumber. Groggily yawning, he glanced about himself.

“What can a man do ta sleep around here? Toftof.” He said rearing his head to the man in question, “How many times must I insist ya shut up in a single day?”

Toftof sat down with his eyes careful and stern on Manama. Despite his famous title, ‘the Liar’, Toftof rarely held the truth from the company. Yet somehow this was different.

“Manama be teasin me about da length of pack snakes. Da dang wench wouldn’t stop when I asked.” Lied the liar.

Azhar played a face at Manama and immediately slumped back into his slumber.

Cirin asked before the others, “What was dat?”

Toftof lowered his head. When he couldn’t get the answer from Toftof he turned to the only other person who knew. She shrugged with a simple smile on her face.

“Dat my boy, dat be a weapon doing his job.”