by Bowes, K T
I patted my stomach to indicate hunger and heard Sorrel’s growl in sympathy. Limah’s eyes narrowed into a forbidding line. “You eat when you’ve spent more than a few minutes on your feet!” he snapped.
I exhaled in the absence of a groan and Sorrel wrinkled his nose. Endless days of training had worn my nerves to frayed tufts of painful sensation. The food hall where we trained sent tantalising scents to haunt us as workers set out platters on the tables surrounding our makeshift battleground. Wood scraped against the floor as they began to drag the tables and benches back into place for meal time. Sorrel’s tiny hand appeared in my eye line and I used it to haul myself upright. “I’m loving this,” he declared with enthusiasm. The sword hilt twirled in his right hand and he used his left to grasp the end of the blade and flex it along its length. “Marvellous,” he breathed.
Limah ran his top teeth along his lip before wiping his forehead with his sleeve. Pushing his right foot forward, he hefted his blade in his left hand and beckoned Sorrel with crooked fingers. I used the distraction to rest my palms against my knees and catch my breath. I thought I’d seen sword fighting, but nothing in the sneaky poking and dramatic feints prepared me for Limah’s teaching. He would decimate the pretentious palace boys before they’d finished their regal bows.
Sweat dripped along the bridge of my nose and onto the sand, creating dark divots in the dusty surface. I wiped it away and stood, grimacing against the sensation of my heart pounding in my chest. Limah charged Sorrel, sword brandished in front of his torso as a barrier. The clash of metal filled the airwaves as the skinny child blocked the heavy blow. With one hand on the hilt and the other gripping the end of his sword, his body bowed under the energy of Limah’s attack and his tiny knees bent. “Stand up!” Limah bellowed. “Hit at the same time as me. Time it. Now! Now! Now! Your energy displaces the flat of my sword and allows you to push it aside.” The narrowest of movements sent the boy dodging to his right in obedience as Limah slid the sharp edge of his blade along the flat of Sorrel’s and jabbed at his face. I watched as Limah’s muscles bunched beneath his shirt with the effort of not driving the blade to its conclusion. “Better!” he snapped. Tossing the hilt into his other hand, he jerked his free index finger at the jagged ridge across the right side of his face. “Protect your head unless you require a mirror image of this. The Krumphau or Crooked Strike is an unforgiving master.”
I shuddered and turned away. A memory of his freshly opened scar bleeding onto the hive floor dispelled my eager appetite. While Sorrel’s skills improved, mine had remained static for many days. The dull call in my chest which pulled me from slumber at Limah’s rough treatment and greeted the borrowed blade with excitement, had abandoned me. My fingers fluttered over the empty space in my chest and belied any sense of heroism. Not a queen. Not a soldier.
“Este!” Limah barked my name and I stiffened. I detected a softening in his face though his tone indicated otherwise. He hefted my blade from its undignified resting place and strode towards me, doubly armed and terrifying. I jerked away as he rolled the hilt of mine in his hand and presented it. He tapped the blade of his own against his calf. My fingers shook as I reached out, exhaustion and disappointment screwing my face into an ugly pout. I heard him sigh and looked up. He inclined his head low and shrouded his words from Sorrel. His perfect eyebrow lifted in conspiracy. “I’m surprised at you, Este. Will you let the skinny waif beat you at your chosen craft?”
Temper spiked in my breast and my jaw clenched until it hurt. The pounding of my heart obliterated all other sound. Limah backed away and readied himself, a mocking smirk lighting his face from lips to eyes. I summoned the last of my energy and concentrated on the grip of my hilt. Foreign and unwieldy, it conspired against me as my sweating fingers slid around its haft. Limah kept moving, his legs fluid and pacing as he waited for the flaming onslaught he fanned in my soul. I replaced his face with an image of Galveston’s. Dangerous and beautiful, exuding an arrogance I had once loved, I imprinted his handsome features over Limah’s battle scars. My lips parted into a soundless howl and I launched.
Fury deserted me as I saw the look of triumph cross Limah’s face. The image of Galveston faded, leaving only a sense of filth that I had allowed him to deceive me. Righteous injustice filled the gap and the contention of the unknown sword began its insistent tug in my chest. Empowered, I reclaimed something of my lost simile as compassion for Galveston’s other victims flooded my brain. The back of my sword clashed against Limah’s and I listened to the echo of his instructions as my feet danced. My sword moved with speed, slicing the air as it parried forward, back, forward, back, back. The flat of my blade aimed for the unguarded parts of Limah, busying him with my show of aggression while the deadly edges sought opportunity to harness the energy of his defence and slide into his flesh. His height and bulk conspired against him, allowing me to use my wiry speed to dodge free of his hacking for a moment of beautiful victory. It didn’t last. Using both hands to defend against his savage cuts, my fingers grew slick from their own blood as I lost grip on the end of the blade and heard it bend and flex under Limah’s returning barrage. “Edge for cutting and flat for defending!” he yelled into my face, his eyes wild as he chopped at the air in front of me. Again I halted his blow with a two handed stop, attempting to slide my blade right and gouge his bare chest. His open shirt and flapping braces robbed me, trapping the thrust, so it glanced off his skin. The force of his boot stamping on the end of my sword yanked my arm down so hard it almost dislocated. I let go and dropped to my knees, clutching my shoulder as a sickening numbness filled my head.
I heard Sorrel scream as Limah’s blade nicked my throat and the blood ran. The sandy floor welcomed me in.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Love and Hate
“He cut you!” Sorrel’s breath warmed my cheek as he leaned across. “I believe he hates you.”
I forced my left arm to move, sending my fingers to examine the sore place beneath my ear. It hurt less than the cuts on my finger pads and I sighed. My right shoulder ached when I moved it, but I sensed already that exhaustion put out my lights and not pain. I lay on my lumpy mattress and wondered who carried me there. Limah, I guessed and my heart softened towards him. The thought invoked a sense of safety associated with my childhood and his constant, silent overseeing.
“Hosta brought you broth, Este,” Sorrel said, his voice overloud in my painful head. “Limah said you stood on your feet long enough, but she thumped it on the cabinet as though she disagreed. I believe she hates you too.”
I closed my eyes and sought to conjure up the face of anyone in my memory who felt anything other than dislike for me. My thoughts turned to Bliss and I diverted them, doubtful of her love after Limah’s revelation. I provided little more than an escape route for her and Zinnia. It saddened me most because I knew I loved her and thought her actions stemmed from affection and not service. I adored my mother and respected Sonora. Limah promised her actions returned that sentiment. Who else was there?
Daunted by the lack of candidates, I chose to list those for whom I felt affection. My simile. Limah. The thought perplexed me with the latter. Perhaps need and reliance shadowed love closer than I realised. I shook my head and squeezed my eyes shut. Sorrel’s fingers stroked my cheek and when I looked up, his eyes lit with pleasure. “You can fight, Este. A bit more practice and chopping the Wasp Lord’s head off should prove easy.”
I rubbed my palms over my eyes, halting at the many stings from open cuts. I sighed and closed them from view, balling my fists despite the pain. Sorrel’s delicate nose crinkled. “Mine too,” he said, holding up his hands. “Do you think he’ll give us gauntlets tomorrow?”
I shook my head and heard my hair swish against the pillow. I respected Limah’s game, even if I despised it. Unclenching my painful fingers, I pointed to my chest. Sorrel’s brows knitted. “He’ll give them to you and not me?”
Screwing up my face, I shook my head. My right hand and a
rm traced the Zwerchhau flow of the Crosswise Strike before my index finger jabbed at the door. I started as Limah entered it. Facing him and then me, Sorrel leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You wish to kill Limah with the Zwerchhau?”
My exhale of frustration drew a snort of mirth from Limah as he strode toward us. “No, child. She’s aware when she meets Galveston for the last time, she may not have the advantage of armour. I need her to fight as competently in a dress as in male attire, with bare hands as adeptly as gloved.” Sorrel nodded and cast his eyes down at the floor. Limah tapped him on the shoulder. “Make more effort to understand her, Sorrel. Communication is your friend or enemy, but you choose which to make it.”
Sorrel nodded. Leaning forward, he kissed the top of my hand and skipped from the room. Limah raised an inquiring eyebrow. In response, I jabbed a finger at my ear and then toward the door. Limah smirked and reached for the bowl of cooling broth. “It’s my business to listen at doors, Estefania. My particular skill kept you safe many times, so don’t scorn it.” He nudged my thigh with his knee. “Get up and eat. You fought well today.”
I pushed myself to a sitting position, more questions in my mind than I could translate with my fingers. He handed me the bowl and then eased himself onto the end of the bed with a tired sigh. His dark eyes studied me as though reading my thoughts. Licking his lips, he bowed his head and paused before speaking. “Este, fighting skill mirrors that of life. Sometimes we must sacrifice the strength of a cut to hit faster than our opponent. You should concentrate on reading the fight better. A successful follow-up must always lurk behind a pre-emptive defence.”
I blew out my lips and Limah wrinkled his nose. “It will come, Este. But only with hard work and determination.” His smile hung on his lips, a wistfulness in the upward curve. “Like all the best things in life, it takes time and endurance. There are no quick winners.” He rose and I found myself thwarted. I wanted to know more, but his cryptic sentences denied me. He turned at the doorway, a hand on the frame. “And I don’t hate you, Este. The boy is wrong.”
My lost voice prevented me calling him back or demanding explanation of his elusive words. Frustration made me bang the mattress with my fist and the broth slopped lumpy vegetables onto my shirt.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Life Lessons
I know Limah enjoyed my silence. It represented all his dreams come true and he revelled in my frustration. I found other ways to communicate and learned to ignore his outright laughter at my attempts to make myself understood.
“What does this mean?” he snorted, waving his arms in mockery of my determined pointing. His gaze slid sideways towards the water jug and I knew he taunted me. The lace skirts bunched around my thighs and the bodice dug into my ribs. I acquiesced only because I trusted Limah’s word. I must prove ready for every eventuality.
His words returned in my memory and I forced my expression into one of annoyance, so familiar the muscles dropped into it with ease. Sometimes we must sacrifice the strength of a cut to hit faster than our opponent.
Limah took his gaze off me to savour Sorrel’s sycophantic cavorting. The boy grew irksome with his desire to impress our master. Ruddy cheeked and well fed, he rose each morning eager for battle. I desired even a fraction of his undisturbed slumber.
I twisted my blade in slow motion, hefting its weight in my right hand. Before Limah could assess my intent, the Strike of Wrath faced him and his eyes widened in realisation. Too close for a hasty defence, Limah resorted to an ill-timed shoulder barge and I dodged it with a quick movement to the left. Weeks of relentless training gave me a deftness of hand and I nicked the good side of his face as he sprawled into a nearby table. Sorrel’s lips formed into a horrified oh and I sheathed my sword with a sickening metallic ring. I kept the satisfaction from my face as I turned and stalked from the room, getting eye contact with neither male. I heard Sorrel’s boots pad across the sand to aid Limah and kept walking.
In the corridor I bent double, resting my palms on my thighs and feeling the vibration of Limah’s bird scaring machine throbbing through my soles. My fingers trembled as I wiped my top lip. Forcing out a breathy exhale, I moved my feet one in front of the other and stumbled toward my chamber. I expected success to carry more jubilation, but a numbness in my chest moved aside the momentary thrill of pleasure and replaced it with a heady void of nothing. Even the sword which called to me stayed silent, giving away nothing of its location or name. Victory turned to ash in my fingers and a persistent nagging in the back of my mind promised it always would. I’d desired more than anything to best Limah and had done it. Flailing and foolish, he’d crashed into the dining furniture without dignity, helped up by a spindly child of dubious origins. Success built on revenge tasted sour, its foundation crumbling into a litany of minor slights and irrelevant injuries.
I ripped off the female accoutrements which hid my male attire and sat on my bed in the dark chamber. Our training sessions in the food hall had given me a sobering view of a valley increasingly filled with snow drifts and ice. Relentless it fell, covering over a world which once awaited the kiss of spring. Blossoming sunshine after so much winter would spell disaster, unleashing a thaw and flooding what remained of our fragile existence. Doom sat heavy on my shoulders and I wondered at the hopeless battle before me. Halting the growing Wasp empire which encroached into our space meant founding a healthy colony of bees. Limah and Sonora believed this would usher summer back into her familiar timetable. I imagined the devastation of such a climate tip and threw myself back onto the mattress with a sigh. Doomed if I did and damned if I didn’t.
A coiled spring bent beneath my spine and I growled in frustration. The bed provided even less comfort as my stay progressed. Sick of waking on the floor with a mouthful of sand, I had reclaimed the lumpy mattress, only to find it had developed a broken spring at its centre.
The lack of sound apart from a puff of air irritated me more and I snapped upright with temper in my heart. I would not endure another night of tossing and turning. The tattered sheet tore beneath my frantic fingers as I pulled it from the bed and hurled it to the sandy floor. A neat cut in the mattress disgorged the curled metal of a spring and my fingers seized its smooth surface. Hesitating with the coil beneath my grip, I wondered whether to push it further in or wrench it out completely. My brow knitted as I contemplated the issue, deciding a hole with a missing spring represented as much of a problem as a raised one. So I leaned on it, attempting to close the gaps between the many circular rotations of the spring. It refused to budge, standing above its fellows as though superior to their uniformity. I poked a finger beneath the fabric of the mattress, searching for a reason why the spring wouldn’t depress.
Nothing felt broken or out of place, the joints between the coiled soldiers holding fast. No justification presented itself for the elevation of that single spring. Snatching up the nearest candle, I held it over the hole. Wax dribbled along the candle’s length and I winced as my clumsiness allowed it to drip onto the cloth. My fingers examined the edges of the tear, noting its neatness and lack of fraying. Not a tear then, but a cut. The fabric ripped further as I prised the edges apart and plunged my hand into the cavity. Spiteful metal edges grazed my fingers from between the springs but determination drove me on. The candle slipped in the holder and threatened to fall, dousing the mattress with hot wax and the scent of smoke. I lay it on the floor near my feet and used both hands to grope inside the widening hole. A tight space, it resisted my grappling and the springs trapped my fingers beneath their pincered hinges. I burrowed my left hand further, using the right to prise apart the narrow aperture. The pad of my index finger contacted something shiny and hard, the object buried beneath the lofty spring so it prevented it sitting flat amid the others. It moved beneath my jiggling but its smooth surface evaded any attempts to drag it free.
Frustrated, I withdrew my hand, the fingers smarting from the jagged ends of rough cut metal. I blew on them and contemplated my dile
mma. The candle flickered wildly with the air current from my movements and I shifted it further afield, missing the light it offered. The narrow mattress proved heavy as I flipped it over, dust billowing into my face as it landed on the hard pallet with a thud. Working out the placement of the raised spring proved the hardest feat. I used my sense of touch to great effect, combing the mattress for an object I felt must be metal. When I found it, my heart soared and it clunked against the spring at my interference. Keeping one hand over it to maintain contact, I cast my gaze around the chamber for something sharp to pierce the fabric and release my prize. Nothing.
The sword moved at my side with the tiniest of clinks against its sheath as though providing a reminder of its suitability. With an inhalation containing pure excitement, I released it from its housing and wielded the slicing edge. Limah spent hours showing Sorrel and me how to maintain our weapons. With a sharpening stone and leather strop, he kept us polishing and buffing until we fell asleep at our work. The merest touch of the blade to the fabric paid testimony to his fastidious instruction. The cloth burst apart with willingness and a round metal object tumbled onto the pallet with a clunk. My eager fingers seized it, letting the sword fall to the mattress where it delivered numerous accidental cuts.
Before I could enjoy my prize, footsteps thudded along the corridor outside my chamber.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Bee Queen's Champion
Limah’s training gifted me more than skill with a blade. It created a fleet of foot and deftness of hand I hadn’t noticed flourish. In mere seconds, the smooth brass object slipped into the deep pocket of my breeches, the mattress was flipped and the sheet thrown over it. I thudded onto its surface as Sorrel burst into the room without knocking. He strode toward the flickering candle and lifted it from the ground, holding it high to examine my face. “What are you doing?” he demanded. “You can’t walk out in the middle of a lesson.”