2. The Thief & The Liar
The Thief Cypress was an anomaly in that regard.
She suspected this was also why she did not have friends among the noble ladies.
Cypress stayed alert, ready for anything—even without moving from the chaise. Another might leap up and grab their sword, but if she waited, she could learn more—like what the intruder wanted. She still had the advantage, since they didn’t know she was there.
Only moments later, the intruder appeared between the slit in the canvas, crouched low over their knees.
Cypress swallowed her smirk, then gasped in mock fright. “Oh!” She said, pressing the book to her chest with a hastily painted, shocked expression across her face. Cypress had seen the ladies-in-waiting make similar gestures when something particularly scandalous was said.
The intruder paused, turning a hooded head toward Cypress. She pressed herself deeper into the lounge.
The person stood and took a few strides toward Cypress.
The tip of their hood barely brushed the support beams holding up the canvas.
Dark boots and gloves. A similarly colored shirt.
Tailored pants of fine cloth. A black cape with embroidery.
Not the garb of a beggar from the nearby village, emboldened by the throne’s riches.
The male before her was accustomed to comfort.
No, the thief before her was accustomed to some comforts– and was likely skilled with the sword at their hip.
“Don’t–don’t come any closer,” Cypress said with a wobble, scooting back on the chaise. “Wh-what do you want?”
If Cypress’s twenty-eight name days had taught her anything, it was that menfolk couldn’t help themselves when there was a damsel to save, and they saw every woman as one. Cypress was extremely adept at exploiting that miscalculation.
“I won’t harm ye, Lass. Stay out of my way,” the thief said, raising his hands in surrender as he stepped into the light.
A few days' stubble framed a strong jaw, plump lips, and a hooked nose clearly broken more than once.
There was a small hoop of gold piercing his nostril.
Black cloth masked his eyes—a piercing, pale gray-blue.
And, a stray dark lock was flopped over his brow.
Cypress scrambled into a standing position, closer to her sword. “What do you want?” She asked again, pressing one hand to her middle, again imitating the ladies at court.
“I’m just looking for something. And I can see you scheming inside that pretty head of yours, Lass. Stay away from that blade, I don’t want ye to hurt yourself,” The thief said, eyes scanning the room as if searching for a specific item, his thick, lilting accent rising and falling.
Cypress mirrored the movement, getting that much closer to her sword. “The Prince is not here,” She said, trying to determine what the thief was looking for.
There was gold and a handful of jewels—gifts from the Prince’s court.
Yet, the furniture and cloth alone could easily feed a family for a moon cycle with what they would fetch at the textile markets.
If the thief was after gold and jewels, all he would need to do is lift it from the pockets of nobility that walked as if they owned the grass's right to grow.
The Prince's tent was a rash target, unless he was looking for something specific.
“Don’t concern yourself, Lass; let's not ruin that dress, hmm?” The thief coaxed, rifling through drawers and emptying them onto the floor as Cypress inched toward the sword.
Cypress could likely beat him without it, but she did like this dress.
The thief upended a table, sending it crashing to the ground. Despite herself, Cypress jumped at the noise.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. If I just shout guard, you’ll be trapped,” Cypress tried, her fingers just inches away from the sword at her side.
“Then do it, Lass. Let’s see if you can scream before I silence that pretty mouth,” The thief said, grinning at her with his head tilted to the side.
Cypress curled her lip, disgust coloring her tone as she said, “I’d like to see you try.”
Then, she grabbed her blade, raising it in the air between them as the thief upended another small table, sweeping his hand through the items now on the floor.
For a thief, he didn’t seem very… stealthy. Cypress would have thought stealth was a top priority for a thief.
“Oh, come now, Lass. Put the blade down, and let’s be friendly,” The thief said, then grinned as he pulled his sword–a much bigger great sword than the one she preferred.
“Why, because your sword is bigger?” Cypress asked, raising her eyebrows suggestively.
“Aye, Lass. Put the sword down, I don’t have time to teach you how to use the thing properly,” he said, using the pommel of the sword to crack open a barrel.
A small amount of wine splashed over the floor and rug, filling the air with the tangy, fruity scent.
Only days ago, the barrel had been full to the brim.
Cypress laughed, swinging the sword sloppily to keep his illusion alive. “Oh, darling,” she purred. The thief paused, glancing at her. “I've been training since I was four.”
Before her words finished, Cypress shifted her grip and attacked.
She feinted left to draw his guard, then slashed right.
The blade ripped his waist fabric but barely scratched him.The thief brought his sword down, and she parried, dancing away and further into the open area of the tent. She wanted more room to maneuver.
The man stood nearly head and shoulders over Cypress, though she was not concerned.
Cypress had fought bigger men than he and had grown up cutting her teeth on the blood and tears of men who thought they were better than she, only for the equipment between their legs. The thief would be no different.
“Where are ye dancing off to, Lass. I thought you wanted to fight,” the thief taunted, moving toward her, though his gaze still swept the space behind her, looking for something.
Cypress needed to find out what the thief was searching for.
“Not very gentlemanly to chase a Lady around a table, is it?” Cypress snarked back, launching another attack.
Their blades sang as the thief parried, gazing at Cypress through the space above where the blades met. “Who says I’m a gentleman? And you, Lass, are no Lady.”
Cypress swung her blade, slashing across the thief's stomach.
The thief leaped backward with a shout, a new rip in his shirt. “Aye! Watch it, Lass.”
“The embroidery on your cape, the fine leather you wear. You may not be a Lord, but you’re no vagabond, either.” Cypress stated, barely out of breath as she pressed the attack.
“Aye, so we’re both liars then,” the thief muttered, blocking her attacks with the flat of his blade, then made a slash toward her side. Cypress twisted her blade, the thief’s sword glancing off, only to cut down the length of her skirts.
Cypress gasped, shock taking over as the fabric ripped from her hip bone to her hem. “You didn’t!”
“I did,” The thief taunted, settling back into a fighting stance, drinking in the sight of her now bare, muscular thigh.
“You’ll regret that.”
“I doubt it,” the thief retorted, and charged, swinging his much heavier blade in a sweeping arc above his head.
Rather than even thinking of blocking or parrying, as there was a good chance of her blade snapping under the pressure if she caught the blow on the edge, Cypress rolled to the side, springing back up and immediately attacked.
The thief swept her first strike away easily, though he wasn’t quick enough to block the second strike she aimed at his leg, or the pommel strike to his jaw. The edge of Cypress’ sword was now dripping red.
“Are you ready to give up?” Cypress taunted, unrelenting.
The thief didn’t respond, instead turning his head to the side to spit out a mouthful of blood. Cypress grinned when he turned back to her and raised his sword.
Again, Cypress pressed the advantage she had over him, even as slight as it was. The thief moved his blade easily in time with her attacks. The pair were decently matched, even with his height and heavier sword.
Cypress thrived in the clash of blades, dancing in to slash at his arms, legs—anywhere her agile sword might reach.
“Why would I give up when I have a Lady all flushed and panting for me?” The thief said, grabbing her wrist to pull her in closer as their blades crossed again, even leaning his neck out between the swords.
He smelled like the clear, icy river water, moss, and pine trees. A scar crept over the bridge of his nose, slightly more pale than the warm sienna tone of his skin.
“But only one of us is decent with a sword,” Cypress shot back, hooking her foot behind his, sending the thief crashing to the ground with a shove.
Before he was able to recover, Cypress stepped on his wrist, releasing his grip on the sword. Then, with her other foot, she stepped on the thief’s chest, pressing him to the ground with her sword pointed at his throat.
“Who are you?” Cypress demanded, chest rising and falling in time with the thief’s under her boot.
“Nobody.”
Cypress gritted her teeth. “What are you looking for?”
“The moon on a string,” The thief shot back, blue-gray eyes staring back at her through the mask.
Cypress shifted her blade, slicing through the fabric, leaving only a small welt across his forehead where the tip of her sword grazed his skin. The thief grabbed her ankle, gripping it tight.
“Answer me, thief,” Cypress demanded, her sword once again pointed at his neck.
“I told you, I’m nobody. An errant wind over the hillside. Let me go, Lass, and it’ll be like I was never here at all.”