Isole returned the next evening.
Then the evening after that.
By the fourth visit, neither of them acknowledged the second cup anymore. It appeared on the table before Isole sat down, filled from the same bitter pot, as ordinary as the chair Kest had once kept pushed against the wall.
Kest taught her three words each night.
She did it without being asked, repeating each sound until Isole found the proper shape, correcting emphasis with the patient severity of someone who had taught many stubborn students before her.
Isole suspected some of the fighters she had watched in the yard had once sat where she sat now, much younger and far less disciplined, repeating the same word until Kest decided they had earned the next one.
By the second visit, Isole stopped treating the lessons as research.
She looked forward to them.
The rest of the story came on the fourth night.
