by K. A. Linde
“Let me go after her one more time.”
“No, it’s too soon.”
Isa narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. “I can do this.”
He let the tension stretch between them. She hated this moment. The time where she felt as if she had to beg for her chance. She had never failed before. Not like this. And she would prove herself once and for all. Then, she would claim that money and leave Kinkadia and her father and her life as an assassin far, far behind.
“Fine,” he said, a cool smile gracing his thin lips. “If I don’t end her first.”
35
The Weapons Training
Dawn came before she knew it. And strangely, the now six-mile run felt more invigorating than she remembered. She still didn’t exactly enjoy it, but by the end, she felt renewed, like she’d really accomplished something.
She downed the waterskin once they were back to the mountain. Her legs felt like jelly, and her heart was still racing.
“That was your fastest time,” Fordham said, taking a sip from his own waterskin.
“Yeah?”
He nodded. “I think you’re ready for weapons.”
She straightened. “Seriously?”
“After what you did in Clare’s headquarters,” he said with a raised eyebrow.
She ducked her chin. They hadn’t talked about what had happened when they escaped that place. She didn’t know what to say. Well, mostly, she’d taken her anger about it out on Dozan.
“Are you ever going to tell me what that was?”
Kerrigan shrugged. “I don’t know what it was.”
“Our magic was dampened by whatever drug Clare had used, and somehow, you managed to knock out everyone in that house. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Yeah.”
“Have you ever done that before?”
She sighed. “Yes. Once before. I don’t know what it is. Some kind of energy blast? Some defense mechanism that my body produces when I’m in danger? I’m honestly not sure.”
“Were you in danger last time it happened?”
“I was… well, I almost died in the protests five years ago.”
“Protests?” he asked in confusion.
She forgot sometimes that he wasn’t from here. “Five years ago, a human won the dragon tournament.”
“Cyrene,” he said simply. “I met her.”
She startled. “You did?”
“Yes, she came through the House of Shadows in the final tournament.”
“Oh, right,” she said, remembering that. “Anyway, after she won, the Red Masks rose into power quickly. They rioted. They burned churches. They sent their minions into the streets to kill humans and half-Fae and sympathizers. It was a bleak time. And I was out one night and attacked by Red Masks. I kind of… exploded, like I did the other night.”
“Hmm,” Fordham said thoughtfully. “It sounds like you need someone to train you in this ability.”
“How can someone train me if I don’t even know what it is? And how would I find someone to even help?”
He considered it for a minute. “Let me think on it. That power is dangerous. You need to be able to control it.”
“Like your black smoke?” she asked carefully.
He sent her an appraising look. “Yes. Just so.”
“Are you ever going to tell me about what it actually does?”
“Perhaps,” he said with a sly smirk. “But for the time being, we’re going to need to find a place to weapons train where the other competitors can’t find us.”
Kerrigan huffed that he wouldn’t tell her about the smoke. But eventually gave up. He’d tell her in his own time. “Actually, I know just the place.”
Twenty minutes later, she locked the door to the House of Dragons training room. “This work?”
“Yeah. This is perfect. What is this?”
“It’s for the House of Dragons. I spent a lot of time in here for weapons training, but the Dragon Blessed get this month off studies for the tournament. So, we won’t be disturbed.”
It made her heart ache even just bringing him here. This wasn’t her life anymore. And even though she’d had so many good memories in this room, they were all tainted in sadness now. At least she had sent off letters to Darby and Hadrian like she had promised Clover she would do. They deserved to know what she did about Lyam’s murder.
Fordham shucked his cloak off and slung it on a hook at the wall. He walked the length of the weapons trove, testing the weight of a few of the swords before putting them back. Then, he withdrew two practice swords and tossed one to her.
“Not even with steel?” She pouted.
“In battle,” he began, ignoring her question, “there are only two options: kill or be killed. There is no point where you can decide to spare your enemy. That will only lead to retaliation and your eventual death.”
He brought his sword up and began to step through paces. She nodded and matched him. Right foot, then left. Side to side. Back and forth. An easy, gentle movement that she was familiar with.
“You spared Valero.”
He held his wooden sword low, swooping gracefully through the next movement. “He’s out of the tournament. That was the point of the challenge.”
“So, I have to learn to destroy my mercy?” she asked, mirroring him.
“You must learn to do the opposite of what your opponent expects. The best thing to do would be to learn your enemy, know them better than they know themselves, and exploit their weaknesses.”
Fordham lunged forward. She gasped and took a step back, bringing her sword up and barely blocking him. But he was lightning fast, and he’d feinted. The length of his sword slapped hard against her ribs. She doubled over and coughed.
“You favor your left side,” he said simply. “I know that because I know you.”
“Okay,” she croaked, rising to her feet again. “Know your enemy. Got it. But how can I do that if I don’t know my opponent?”
Fordham picked back up where he’d left off, and she reluctantly followed him. Though she was more on guard this time. This was a lesson, not basic footwork.
“If you don’t know your opponent,” he told her, “then you rely on your training. You must understand how others fight, all the potential ways they could attack you, have a mental dictionary of ways that an opponent could hurt you. Then, you train every one of those mistakes out of you.”
Kerrigan slid into the next movement, considering what he’d said. “You’re going to train my mistakes out of me?”
“Yes and no. I’m going to train every mistake out of you. So that when an assassin comes at you again, you aren’t surprised when they jump out of the shadows.” He finished the last sequence and let the sword drop to his side.
This time, when he attacked, she was ready.
Fordham still beat her every single time they sparred. It was beyond frustrating since she had thought that she was pretty good with a sword before this. He was just that much better.
By the third day, she thought she was finally making a bit of improvement. Not that she could win against him, but she wasn’t losing quite as fast. This was the opposite of how she had been taught. Her teachers had all shown her how to fight. Fordham was training her in all the ways not to fight. Explaining the ways others fought and twisting it around to show how to break down the movements and counter, how to win. It was exhausting, both physically and mentally.
Especially because Fordham refused to let either of them go through healing.
“The pain makes you stronger,” he told her after she asked him again if she could go get a quick healing.
“Right now, it makes me feel terrible.”
“You won’t always be in a position where you can get healing. You might have to deal with injuries. Healing makes it so that you don’t have any way to handle pain. If you’ve never been hurt before, then the shock of it will be a stumbling block.”
“Is that what you mean by battlefield healing? How
you were able to pop your shoulder back into place in the tournament and fight through broken ribs?”
His eyes went far away. “Yes. That was not the worst that I’d ever endured.”
Kerrigan frowned. She didn’t like when he was withdrawn. As if he were imagining a not-too-distant past where he had suffered many horrors.
He blinked, and it was gone. “In a battle, magic is reserved for fighting. It drains you too quickly to use magic to heal. You learn to fix what you can and deal with anything else.”
“Okay,” she muttered. “No healing.”
“You are getting stronger,” he told her, taking the practice sword and replacing it. “That is all for today.”
Kerrigan took another sip of water and considered how to ask him the next question. She’d decided yesterday that she wanted to do this. She wasn’t sure how Fordham would react. But still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he needed this.
“What are your plans tonight?” she asked him, still facing away to hide her blush.
“Plans?” He sounded suspicious. “Do you have a new lead?”
“Unfortunately, no. But… do you want to go into the city with me?”
“Does this involve torture?”
She laughed, finally turning. “Some people might say so. Though I think you’d like it.”
Now, he looked even more suspicious. “What is it?”
“A surprise.”
“I don’t like surprises,” he told her.
“You’ll like this one, princeling.” She grinned. “Meet me at the entrance in an hour. Wear normal clothes.”
He frowned. “What’s normal?”
“Something less… princely.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” His eyes were searching hers. “Am I going to regret this later?”
She stepped backward, toward the exit of the House of Dragons’ training room. “Depends. Can’t you anticipate my next move? Isn’t that what you’ve been training me on?”
“That’s precisely why I am skeptical.”
“Live on the wild side with me,” she said with a wink and then swiftly exited the room, her heart pounding in her chest.
She’d done it. She’d actually asked him out.
36
The Artisan Village
“This is the Artisan Village,” Kerrigan informed Fordham an hour later as they walked casually through Kinkadia.
As promised, he’d worn something resembling normal clothing. He’d replaced the black-and-silver princeling garb with an all-black shirt and pants. His cloak was wool and not silk. At a glance, he looked shockingly… human. But then he’d tilt his chin up just so, and she’d see that he couldn’t completely hide who he was, even under cotton and wool and linen.
“There’s an opera house just there. They have quarterly ballets as well. And there”—she pointed out another street—“they call that Painters Row, as it mirrors the aristocratic row on the eastern side of the valley, but it’s just for artists—drawing, painting, sculpting.”
Fordham drowned in the sights like a man dying of thirst in the desert. His eyes took in everything as they made their way through the village, but he never said a word.
“Over there is where my friend Parris lives. He’s a fashion designer. Very up-and-coming. Only works with the wealthy, but we met years ago when he was in the House of Dragons. So, he still designs for me.”
They passed Parris’s shop with fashionable dresses in the windows.
“He was a Dragon Blessed?” Fordham finally asked.
“Yes. He was scooped up by a woman in Sayair who saw his talent. They trained together for a few years, and then she helped him open up his own boutique in the village.”
“And that’s what you could do?”
She swiftly shook her head. “Oh, no, I have no real talent like that. Plus, I really don’t know what I’m going to do about a tribe. I haven’t heard from Ellerby, and I’ve been so focused on this assassin and Lyam’s murder and training.” She sighed. “I just don’t know what to do.”
“You’ll find someone. You seem to charm everyone you meet.”
She laughed. “Hardly. Most people find me too outspoken. I’m not particularly ladylike.”
“Overrated,” he said.
And she smiled, turning her face away from him. “Well, a problem for another day. We’re here.”
“Here?” he asked and looked up at the location they’d stopped in front of.
“Carmine’s Books.” It was the largest bookstore in the village complete with a large sitting area and stage. Musicians performed on the small stage, and parties were housed inside the store. It was something magical—to be surrounded by books on all sides for an evening.
A sign out front read: One Night Only—A Magical Poetry Experience Unlike Any Other.
Fordham eyes glued to the sign. “You didn’t…”
“Didn’t what?”
But Fordham seemed to have lost all words.
“Tickets,” a man said at the door.
Kerrigan produced her two tickets and passed them to the man, and then she all but dragged Fordham inside. The interior of the bookshop was warm and homey. Candlelight flickered around the room in protected glass cases. Wooden chairs were set up before the stage, which had just one stool and a herringbone wood backdrop. They were offered drinks, which they took, and then found seats in the middle of the room.
“What is this?” Fordham whispered.
“A poetry reading.”
His eyes were warm. The gray almost silver in the candlelight. He placed his hand over hers. Sparks flared at the smallest touch, and she had to make sure that she was still breathing.
“You did this for me?”
She swallowed and nodded. “I saw that you like to write. I thought… that you should see that Kinkadia has something to offer other than fighting. It has art and culture and music. It has poetry.”
Fordham was speechless. She had known him to grow silent when he was irritated or disdainful, but this was altogether different. This was like watching the moon try to capture the sun—hopeful, endless, and impossible.
Kerrigan just smiled at him and withdrew her hand. Fordham still sat in stunned anticipation as the musicians ceased their playing and a woman walked onstage. Carmine gestured exuberantly, sinking into her ample hip, her golden-brown skin almost glowing. And then the reading began.
The poets’ verses varied wildly. Most spoke about love and lust and death. They were evocative and endearing. The poets’ voices filled with emotion, dripping with enthusiasm. A few were downright erotic. Her cheeks tinted pink at the mere suggestion of what their words implied.
But the best and the most dangerous was the final poet—a young human woman dressed entirely in black and holding a candle before her face.
Red.
The color of blood.
The color of life.
The color of death.
Masks.
To shield the guilty.
To wield the darkness.
To field the hate.
A worm writhing in the dirt
does not know how it can be hurt.
But it can feel the impending doom
as the boot so ever looms.
A spark is the light of the first
who knows what it is to thirst
for a world that will burst into flame
and not burn it down as a game.
Now is the time to rise up
against the boot that would smother our heat.
Now is the time to fill your cup.
To tell the game masters, we will not be beat.
Red.
The blood of our people.
The life of our children.
The death of our existence.
Masks.
The guilty.
The darkness.
The hate.
A hush fell over the crowd as she finished. Then, a soft round of applause followed her exit.
Carmi
ne stepped back onto the stage, wiping tears from her eyes. “Thank you, Neslie. That concludes our evening performances. Feel free to mingle. We have music and refreshments.”
Fordham looked to Kerrigan. “That was pointed.”
Kerrigan frowned. “Indeed.”
She had known that the Red Masks were at the Dragon Blessed ceremony, that they were in her vision, but she hadn’t seen them since. But if poets were writing about them and reading about them, then they must be gathering forces again. She shuddered at the thought.
“We should go,” Fordham said, reading her mood.
“Yes, I think so.”
Darkness had truly fallen in the village, but no one would be the wiser. Street performers had come out to dance and sing and play music. Taverns were open, and customers sprawled out onto the steps. A dance had started in the intersection to Painters Row. Merriment was had all around.
“I never knew anything like this existed,” Fordham admitted as they passed row after row of dancers.
“Is the House of Shadows so different? No dancing? No music?”
His eyes grew distant. “There is music and dancing, but it’s not like this. We have been closed off in our world for a thousand years. No one leaves, and only humans dare to cross our borders—and most do it by accident. We have made our own city our own realm.”
“That sounds isolating,” she admitted. Though she did not ask the question she wanted to know—how exactly had he gotten out?
“It likely helps that the majority of us do not know any different,” he admitted. “They have not seen the streets full like this. They do not know the joy of running for miles in any direction. They have not been permitted life.”
“That’s terrible. The stories… they make the House of Shadows seem like… like monsters. But this sounds like a horror that should not be bestowed on anyone. To be so isolated would be true torture.”