Third Daughter (The Dharian Affairs, Book One) by Susan Kaye Quinn Read Free Book Online

finest examples of their handicraft.
    Aniri pulled her leather fencing gloves up to her elbows, fastening the brass clasps in place, then selected the longest, most deadly scimitar. Its curved blade was perfectly balanced but still heavy. And definitely not for training. She unwrapped the scarf around her neck and let it pool on the floor—it would be sliced to ribbons if caught in the scimitar’s sweeping path.
    Her hair was bound in a braid behind her, and the rest of her fighting wear was suitably formfitting with no stray clothing that might be entangled in her swordplay. Rugged canvas breeches tucked into her leg wrappings at the knee, and she had strapped a woven brass chest protector over her high-necked fencing jacket. There was hardly an inch of her skin showing, yet the entire ensemble moved and breathed with her. She warmed up by twirling the scimitar on one side then the other. She crept across the stone pavers of the training room. Her thin, leather fighting boots made no sound as she snuck up on the motionless steam-powered automaton that would serve as her opponent.
    She slowly moved the point of the sword closer to the large metallic figure. It had a can for a head and arms of metal tubing, but it could be surprisingly quick once activated. She gently touched the tip of her sword to the brass button that sat over its heart and danced back as it came to life with a steaming hiss. It already held a large steel blade, nearly as hefty as hers. She gripped the scimitar in both hands as the machine raised its blade into a ready position.
    With a scream she reserved for the training room, Aniri whirled and slashed, bringing the full force of her blow to bear on the automaton. It quickly blocked, the ring of their blades piercing the air. She pulled back, took a balanced stance on the balls of her feet, and raised the blade over her head, striking again. The machine shifted quickly and met her blade with a blow she felt through to her bones. Twice more she jabbed and the machine parried. Slowly, the tension of the morning’s garden meeting with Prince Malik eased from her shoulders. Every earnest word of that discussion kept replaying in her mind, despite her best attempts to disregard the barbarian’s entreaties. Each stroke against her mechanical opponent beat back the words echoing in her head.
    Fencing shoes shuffled softly on the stone floor behind her. The person—probably Devesh—was still safely out of reach of her blade. She swung it around for another hacking slash at the automaton. This time she connected with its metal shoulder, and her blade bounced off, making her stumble. She grimaced, not wanting her final blow to be so ungraceful.
    “I hope that’s Prince Malik’s face you’re imagining, and not mine,” Devesh said.
    Aniri’s shoulders slumped, and she allowed the curved blade to sink slowly until the tip chinked on the floor. She wasn’t imagining Prince Malik or even her mother. The automaton was the perfect metaphorical opponent for the villain she faced—nameless, faceless, implacable in forcing her into a life she didn’t want.
    Devesh moved quickly to stand close to her. He gently grasped her sword hand, holding the blade away, while he slipped his other hand around her waist. His warm fingers found the one unprotected spot at the small of her back. She drew in a breath at his boldness, but then his lips were on hers—a quick kiss which nevertheless pulsed through her body to the tips of her fingers. He pulled away again with lightning speed. A quick check of the servants at the far end of the room showed no reaction.
    “You presume too much,” Aniri said when she regained her voice.
    Devesh grinned wickedly. “Only as much as you allow.” With infinite gentleness, he tugged the scimitar from her grasp. “I would be foolish to presume any more when you are so heavily armed.”
    He lifted the blade and examined the jeweled hilt. “I hope there’s no hidden meaning in the