‘Not like that,’ Jilali barked. ‘Did Julis not teach you anything useful? This is the grip I mean.’ She held up her fist and the short blade flashed its threat. ‘My knuckles are in line with the blade … thumb on top. On top! Where is yours?’ She pointed to the training knife Irenya held. ‘You are not cutting up an apple. If I hold a knife like that, I cannot control it. Even if I managed to wound my opponent, the jarring would force my hand down the hilt … on to the blade … fingers sliced to the bone … hand too bloodied to hold the thing.’
ThisOn topIrenya faced down her queasiness and the temptation to walk out. They were alone in the barn-like training room, its walls lined with hundreds of weapons, all of which Jilali knew how to use—and expertly. Alara had claimed illness. Irenya wish
