A/N: I am bored so am posting a random chapter from my rewrite. Probably won't make complete sense to you as this is chapter 8. There's not much purpose to me posting this beyond showing y'all how different the rewrite is and to prove that I'm still writing! As background, Sam is still in Haywood at this point in the story, and not yet disguised as a dude. Denya, who is mentioned but does not appear, is a key supporting character - think of her as a female, fantasy version of Obi Wan Kenobi. Or Yoda. With quite a bit more sass. As for Sam, prior to the start of this chapter, she just kicked some serious a$$ and saved the day.
Night was coming on as they made their way from the heart of Haywood to the west end of the city by the castle. A cool wind pressed at their backs, signaling the end of the summer months and the beginning of the autumn season. Autumn already. Sometimes Sam felt like time was slipping away from her—the purpose she was tethered to had begun to unravel and lose meaning. But today . . . for the first time in months, she felt useful. She’d drawn more attention to herself than she would have liked, but let the consequences be damned.
“Do you think Master Hamon will notice I used his sword?” she asked Will as they closed the last distance to the castle.
“Yes,” he said frankly. “But I’ll vouch that you had good cause.”
“Don’t bother. Master Hamon hates excuses, particularly when they’re from me. Better I just take the punishment.”
“Master Hamon is a fool.”
“Will!”
His freckled cheeks colored. “Not about everything. A fool when it comes to you.” He twisted in his saddle and looked at her with unabashed admiration. “You’re amazing, Sam. Maybe a touch insane, but amazing.”
A blush crept up her neck; compliments made her awkward. “Insane?”
He grinned. “Only a touch.” The smile slipped from his ruddy face. “Sometimes I think I’m jealous of you.”
“Of me?”
He nodded. “Before I met you, I thought I was decent with a sword. I still think I’m decent. But you . . . watching you fight is like poetry. I won’t ever be that good. I know it, and so does Master Hamon. I think it makes him mad.”
“Why would it make him mad?”
Will leaned back in his saddle and looked up at the fading sky. “Because all that talent is wasted on you.”
Sam winced at the truth in his words. “I still hope…” What did she hope for? Again, she felt time slipping from her grasp. She was no closer to avenging her mother’s death than she had been two years ago. She was still waiting for something. Another demon attack, perhaps, or something more. The unfinished sentence was left dangling between them.
Once the horses had been returned to the stables, Sam bid Will goodnight and then spent the next hour oiling and waxing Master Hamon’s sword before delivering it to the armory.To her, the blade looked unblemished, but Master Hamon was obsessively attentive to his weapons. He would notice even the slightest scratch, and if he did, he’d have questions. Strictly speaking, she wasn’t supposed to use weapons outside the castle grounds.
As it turned out, Master Hamon did not need to examine the sword to guess at Sam’s capers; by the time she showed up for the next morning’s practice, he’d already heard. Sam shouldn’t have been surprised—in Haywood, gossip traveled as fast and as far as their horses.
“What were you thinking?” he yelled. “You’re no knight, to take up arms in some stranger’s name!”
Sam almost never spoke back to the blademaster, but now she was angry. She planted her hands on hips and met Master Hamon’s livid gaze. “That stranger was assaulted. Should I have left him there to die?”
