Evening breezes cut through Larson's ragged tunic, and he shivered. Gaelinar freed his katana and rested its tip on the sand. "Hero, you are a fledgling. At first, an eagle flaps its wings awkwardly and achieves nothing. Eventually, it understands. You are an eaglet without the luxury of time. You must soar and hunt before learning to fly. You will know this kata as nothing you have known before. Guide your sword with your spirit as well as your arm. When you find the way, it will become a part of you. Begin."

Larson shifted from foot to foot, seeking a comfortable stance. He lowered the sword, mimicking Gaelinar, and made a cut toward and past his right leg. Valvitnir jerked back, as if of its own volition. Larson froze. Slowly, he turned an accusatory glance toward Gaelinar who stood patiently waiting for Larson to finish. Puzzled, the elf repeated the attempt, and again the sword pulled to the same position. He gripped the hilt tighter and tried again. Though he struggled against it, the sword still adjusted.

" Allerum!" the Kensei instructed. "You needn't crush your sword. It is not your enemy. Relax. You must control your strokes. Don't swing past and return your blade. Stop the cut nearer your leg. Now, continue."

Valvitnir gleamed red-blue in the last dying rays of the sun. Larson recommenced. Apparently, whatever the sword did was correct. There are too many odd things in this world to question. Is a sentient sword less likely than dragons or magic? Its abilities and motives could be determined later. Now, he must practice.

Whatever had controlled the sword released it. Larson executed the same strokes repeatedly, and all Gaelinar ever said was, "Again." The heat inspired by movement felt pleasant against the chill breeze, but it was night and time to join Silme and Brendor at the inn.

The practice went on until Larson's exertion no longer kept him warm from frigid winds. Silme and Brendor have probably already gone to sleep, Larson told himself. And I'm stuck freezing my ass off with some maniac who thinks I'm still in boot camp." Larson's patience wore thin as his tunic as the lesson dragged interminably onward.