"She caught a man from an impossible distance today. I saw it myself," Blackthorn said. "And she's killed all those men on the fort ramparts in the days before."
"She did indeed," Oliver said. "And yet, Nila hates combat. She ought not to be here."
"She does?" Blackthorn could not hide her surprise, even behind her usual mask. "Why is she… ah. That is why."
Oliver made no attempt to reply. It seemed that Blackthorn already understood.
"Who is she?" Blackthorn asked. "If she were at the Academy, she would be Professor Yoreholder's favourite. Her talent is the strangest thing."
"She is many things, but in the eyes of the nobility, I suppose she could be reduced to a mere peasant," Oliver said, letting the words hang in the air. "Then, Judas as well carries the same label, yet he has proved himself most useful. All those men of mine, they're either peasants, or ex-slaves. So you see, Lady Blackthorn, you need not fear Nila. She has been condemned already by her station."
A silence hung, as Lady Blackthorn struggled to process what she was hearing.
"How could they be..?" Lady Blackthorn said. "It doesn't make any sense… They've too much talent."
"There was a time when I was that," Oliver said, very nearly spilling the truth. His eyes twinkled gold, as he put it out there, without illuminating the full reality. Lady Blackthorn's head twitched like a marionette. It was the most emotion he'd ever seen out of her. She was positively stunned.
"Not at all…" Lady Blackthorn said. "Even if you were unknown, you were still a noble."
"I wasn't in the eyes of those around me," Oliver said. "I was a peasant through and through, and yet here I am."
"I don't understand. How can you of all people be like that?" Lady Blackthorn said. "You, who defy reason… Who exceeds even our best swordsmen. I don't understand it. I can't understand it. You're lying to me, Ser Patrick."
"You're a strong woman, Lasha," Oliver said, gently ignoring her accusation. "Your abilities with the sword are in no way inferior to Nila's. You both stand on the same precipice. However, the weight of the difficulties that empower your training are different. Nila learned to hunt out of desperation, with her very life on the line.
I do not doubt your own resolve in learning the sword – I've seen first-hand your desperate passion to forge a path for yourself, but the weight of her experiences give Nila an edge. That you match her without them, it is a matter that I don't truly understand."
There was a long silence. So long, that it seemed as if Lasha would not speak again. Oliver returned to studying his map, tracing his fingers across it, as if they might find something that he had missed.
"If that were the case, why are all the peasantry not strong?" Blackthorn asked. She seemed to get his point.
"It is merely one ingredient among many," Oliver said without looking up. "The nobility no doubt have their own ways of pushing themselves forward. At the very least, you're able to devote more time to your training."
"'You?'" Lasha said, picking up on what he said. "You're always doing that. You speak of the nobility as though you don't belong to it… I see now. So that is why. You consider yourself a peasant, despite the titles you hold… but why?"
Oliver looked up, and smiled at her. She'd hit upon the heart of the matter. He leaned back in his chair, and its wood creaked, and it strained against his weight. "Why indeed..? Perhaps, because, there is a pride that even the downtrodden have. I feel that pride of the peasantry fiercely.
It speaks to me, more than the haughtiness of nobility does."
"I feel as if… after the longest time, I am finally understanding something," Lasha said, steadying herself with the slightest touch against the table's edge. "And you – I understand you more than I ever could. That strange quality that your sword has, something different from every sword instructor I've ever sparred, different from my father… I see now… I see, and I understand.
So when your sword swings out to the side, and you almost seem reckless in your attack, you mean it in a way that no one else does. You never feint such a blow, because that recklessness is dear to you. In the same way, when you wear that expression on your face, and make an effort to appear at peace, you are most distressed."
Oliver had been tilting his head, and almost nodding with her as she discussed the sword, but as soon as she attempted to reason with his psychology, he jerked as if someone had thrown cold water on his face. He'd thought he was doing his job well enough, but now, even Blackthorn saw through him.
"It's the same expression you made after you fought with Princess Asabel," Lasha said. "I'd thought that, like my father, the death of a few men would not weigh much on you. I… have misjudged. I should not have come here tonight. I should have left you well enough alone."
It almost seemed as though she was gathering herself to leave. Oliver, instead, shook his head. "No. I am pleased we have spoken, Blackthorn. I did not realize you were quite so upset. I am pleased that you saw it solved, before it could affect the state of the battlefield."
"So strange," Blackthorn said. It was as though she wasn't hearing him. She was merely studying him. "Is this what you are, Ser Patrick? All these different, strange things. How can you kill with such coolness, when you mourn even men that you were not close to so deeply?"
Oliver tapped his finger against the table, and let loose a bitter smile. "I am glad that you've seen some sort of understanding, but do not lay a man's soul bare upon the table."
"Ah," Blackthorn put her hand to her mouth at the rebuke, finally realizing what she was doing. In the end, she bowed her head. "I forced you to teach me, but to think you would teach me so much. I wish to train now, Ser. I believe I might finally understand what it is that I was lacking."