Meeting Master Aquil Maros

1587-12-23
Bonona, Piazza della Virtù

The morning after the duel the piazza still hummed. The young noble wore a neat bandage on his arm and thanked Aquil Maros in front of everyone. Blood on stone, courtesy in the air, no bitterness.

I stepped forward with my hat in hand and my lute across my back. I told him of Merryen’s death, the forest hermit, and the wish that had sent me south. Maros listened without a word. When I finished he set a hand on my shoulder and said that a student of Merryen was welcome. He looked me over, a bard’s fingers and a fencer’s stance, and smiled. “You carry two arts. We will teach them to move together.”

His manner was not the hermit’s blunt edge or Merryen’s bright surge. He stood as if a line ran from heel to crown. Even his smallest gesture had ease the locals call sprezzatura. I felt slow beside him. He nodded, told me to return at dawn, and I believed that grace could cut as cleanly as steel.