Ascendant: Chronicles of the Red Lion

by F. C. Reed

  He shook his hand in her face as his eyes went wide, taking in her answer. “I never thought I’d say this on a first training day, but you’re absolutely right.”

  Amalia took a step back, clearly stunned at his admission.

  “And here I thought you had the IQ of a chamber pot,” he chuckled. “That’s twice I was mistaken today.”

  “What’s a chamber pot?” Amalia asked.

  Marchand rolled his eyes. “Don’t ruin the moment, girl.” He scratched at his chin thoughtfully. “So what does going back to my original position do for the moment?”

  Amalia stared, visibly at a loss for words.

  Marchand sighed and shook his head. “If I am to attack, I must be in a position to do so. I must be like the tree-dwelling corsival.”

  “A tree-dwelling what?”

  “Ah, what do you call them?” Marchand frowned before blurting, “Snakes. I must be like the snakes.”

  Amalia nodded and grinned, thinking about several ways to put that into a joke.

  “Pay attention,” he snapped. “When you attack or defend and then reset, it puts you in a much better position to attack.”

  “I see. Like a snake resets after he strikes. He has to, in order to strike again. But that’s about attacking, isn’t it?” Amalia asked.

  “I suppose it is.” Marchand scratched at his chin. “Bah, don’t overthink it. You’ve got the right idea. Reset, reset, reset,” he repeated while slapping one hand on top of the other. “Always prepare yourself to attack.”

  “Makes sense,” Amalia said thoughtfully.

  “Good.” Marchand turned slowly and walked away. “I am done.”

  “Wait, what?” Amalia said. “It’s only been, like, ten minutes.”

  “I will send for you when I’m ready to continue,” Marchand said over his shoulder. “Right now, I’m off to take a nap.”

  Amalia threw her hands up in frustration as she watched him disappear behind a door at the far end of the room. She whirled around, ready to storm out, but a lone figure stood across from her.

  “I hear he calls you Serradon,” the young man smiled. Amalia took a step back as he stepped forward. Her stomach knotted. “You know what serradon means, don’t you?”

  “Thanial?” she squeaked in a whisper, ignoring his original question.

  Thanial stepped even closer. He was wearing a long sleeve green shirt that fit snug across his chest and accented the triangle shape of his shoulders and waist. A pair of brown supple leather pants met the pair of shiny laced boots at his knees.

  Amalia sucked in a breath quietly as he neared her. She found that she had a hard time pulling her gaze away from the gray-green eyes that shone above his playful grin, and the way his dark brown hair fell around his lightly freckled face, just past his ears. Last she saw him, he was clean-shaven, but now, a hint of reddish-brown stubble evenly coated his chin, cheeks, and upper lip.

  “I’m here to train with you,” he said, answering her unasked question. “It’s what the old man wants.”

  Amalia blinked. “But he told me I’m done for the day.”

  “No, he told you he was done for the day.”

  “And you’re his, what, helper?” Amalia asked.

  Thanial sighed, and his gaze drifted to the floor. “He is no doubt teaching me a much neglected lesson. At least that’s what he told me.”

  “What lesson is that?” Amalia’s voice fell off as Thanial moved even closer.

  “Marchand has a very eccentric quality to him,” Thanial said.

  “Oh, don’t I know it,” Amalia said.

  “Did you know he insisted on instructing you personally? Normally student soldiers are assigned to specific masters of combat, and he hasn’t taken on a student for a long time. But when you came along, he fell all over himself to make sure he was the one to train you, and he doesn’t train just anybody. I was his last.”

  Amalia was only half listening. She was enjoying the fact that he was even talking to her. His voice mesmerized her, the way he smiled at her, and those lips of his, but she mostly kept her composure. She didn’t want to appear to be a fan-girl with a crush, so ignoring the flutters of giddiness inside her stomach was a must.

  “So if your training is finished, what would he need to teach you?”

  “At first I didn’t know, but after thinking about it, I would guess that my lesson is one of humility.”

  Amalia raised her eyebrows. “Really?”

  Thanial nodded. “It is the one thing that he has failed to teach me, and the one thing that I have failed to master. And you,” he said, stepping closer. They stood only inches apart now. “You have revealed to me every sense of the word in a single swing of a training glaive.”

  Thanial took her hand in his. It buzzed and tingled, sending a fleeting sensation up Amalia’s arm that she could not place. He slowly lifted her arm and extended it out in front of her. Uncurling her fingers, he held her hand up by lightly placing his fingers on the underside of her palm.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “What would you say if I said, flirting with you,” he said with a wink. He took a moment to look up and down the length of her arm. He gently touched her forearm and bicep in several spots. Then he positioned himself in front of her, frowning as if concentrating, and rested his chest against the tip of her outstretched fingers.

  “I’d say, get serious, or get lost,” she lied. There was something about his presence that she absolutely did not mind. She felt he knew that without her saying or doing anything. It felt like this was where the both of them should be, doing exactly what they were doing, right then and right there.

  Thanial glanced up at her, rounding out his bottom lip in a mocking pout. “Well in that case, I’m not flirting. I’m determining your sphere of influence and also studying your musculature.”

  “My sphere of who?”

  He moved around her, stopping to lift her arm at the elbow when she thought to lower it. From behind her, he lifted her other arm in the same fashion and whispered, “Imagine a perfect circle around you, the diameter of which is the length of your outstretched arms. This is your sphere of influence. Nothing should enter from beyond this imaginary barrier, or you will find yourself on the defensive.”

  “I see,” she said. Not so much a sphere as it is a cylinder, but whatever. She kept that sentiment to herself to save the awkward nerd comment for another time, as there was bound to be one. Grimacing, she struggled to hold up her arms as her shoulders burned, determined not to drop them now. “Sphere. That makes sense. But for a moment there, I thought you might try to—

  The breath left her lips in a hiss as he slid his hand along the length of her arm, encouraging her to lower it, and walked around to her front, where he held both her hands in his. She felt an undeniable connection, not just a budding emotional one, but a physical one. Both her hands, as they moved closer to his, ached with a hunger; an incompleteness to them until her palms pressed against his, or her fingertips danced at the ends of his fingertips. Two wires that came alive with energy when they touched. Never before now had she ever felt anything so absurdly curious, and so wonderful, and so right.

  Then she realized that she was holding his hands as much as he held hers, and it had been far longer than just a few seconds. Heat rose into her neck and face, and she gingerly slid her hands free and returned them to her sides, abashed, and yet intrigued over what just happened. For untying whatever tied them together for those brief, incredible moments, she reprimanded herself as a fool.

  Thanial straightened and placed his hands behind his back, as if to limit himself from that point on. His brow furrowed, and he cast his eyes about as if in thought. Then he composed himself and took a breath.

  “I’m sure you remember our first encounter,” he said. She couldn’t tell if he was just as mystified about what just happened as she was, but he kept on providing instruction as if it didn’t. “Anytime I moved, I reset my stance afterward. That is
the old man’s lesson for you today.”

  Amalia nodded. She thought back, recalling his return to that relaxed position with his arms by his sides.

  “Not all fighters follow this doctrine,” he continued. “The old man, for instance, all but disregards the entire thing by inviting, and even encouraging his opponent into his sphere, where he will turn their momentum and their attacks against them. Master Marchand is unique and unusual when it comes to combat.”

  “Yeah. Learned the hard way,” Amalia nodded, rubbing a hip that was sure to bruise by morning.

  “As for our exhibition, when you attacked me, I parried you to keep you out of my sphere of influence. And when I attacked you, I breached your sphere of influence, allowing me to close in and strike easily.”

  “What about the first strike when you knocked the sword out of my hand?”

  “Oh, yes. That.” He scratches slowly at his chin, the barely visible stubble emitting a raspy cadence. “That was meant to embarrass and intimidate you,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Amalia raised her eyebrows. “Well, it worked.”

  “Indeed,” Thanial smiled. “And then there’s the small matter of you cutting me in half.”

  Amalia’s cheeks went hot again. “Lucky, I guess,” she shrugged.

  “I don’t believe in such things as luck,” Thanial replied. “I underestimated you. That was my first error. Obviously you are an extremely skilled fighter. The second error was not covering my entire sphere of influence from top to bottom. Brilliant that you could take advantage of that, your primary attack originating from below my waist. And for the first time in a long time, I am taught a lesson in humility.” He studied her for a moment. “Who was your master trainer?”

  Amalia shook her head. “I didn’t have any training. I told you, I got lucky.”

  “Well, you must have had some instruction,” Thanial insisted. “You beat me, and that’s not very likely without training. If the legend of the red lioness rings true, then I humbly accept that defeat.”

  “I learned everything I know from lacrosse, I guess,” she shrugged again.

  “Well, I should like to meet this Master Lacrosse of yours some day.”

  Amalia laughed. “No, it’s not a person. It’s the—

  “There you are,” a shrill voice blasted from the entrance. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  A young woman, perhaps just a handful of years older than Amalia, walked in with a purpose. Her curly blond hair bounced with each approaching step. Her wide, unusually light brown, and nearly yellow eyes seemed to twinkle as they fell upon Thanial. Their roundness gave her a child-like quality, although she was no child. She rushed up to him with outstretched arms and wrapped herself around him, much to his dismay.

  Her body appeared tightly squeezed into a white shirt with yellow stripes along the sleeves. A pair of cotton yellow pants covered her legs, supported by matching suspenders. Not that she needed them, on account of her clothes being so form fitting that they bore the appearance of having been painted on. A silver steel toe tipped each of her boots. Her pink lips poked out in a mocking pout and contrasted on her fair skin almost perfectly.

  “I was worried sick about you. You weren’t at the morning meal and you know how fussy I get when I don’t get to see you first thing in the morning.” She said as she stroked his face with both hands and brushed his hair away from his eyes.

  Thanial looked agitated and uncomfortable, from what Amalia could see. He attempted to pull away from her, but only succeeded in pushing her hands away from him. They found their way back repeatedly, still fussing with his hair or his collar.

  She flashed her gaze at Amalia. It was a powerful gaze, unnerving and penetratingly cold. Amalia shifted, having seen that same glare several times before. There was only one other person Amalia knew whose eyes pierced into her by making that same face, and that particular person’s eyes were an amber yellow color too.

  Having grown tired of trying to detach himself from her, Thanial settled on letting her rest the entire length of her body against his side. One of her hands wrapped itself around his shoulders while the other around his waist.

  Amalia noted the clenched muscles in his jaw, and the stiff way in which he tolerated her proximity.

  “Who’s this, my love?” the young woman asked, gesturing to Amalia with her chin.

  Thanial grit his teeth as he pried her hands from around him, probably for the fifth or sixth time. “Quit playing the fool. You know who this is.”

  “Oh, so you’re the one everyone’s been talking about.” The woman looked Amalia up and down. “You’re awful skinny,” she said with an air of disgust, but still with a hint of a smile playing across her lips. “Don’t you think she’s skinny, my love?” the woman turned to Thanial for a reply.

  Amalia raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms, not knowing if she was more insulted by being referred to as skinny or by hearing this girl refer to Thanial as ‘my love.’

  “Mirell, stop it,” he said to her.

  “Stop what?” she replied in as innocent a voice as she could manage.

  “You must excuse me,” Thanial said to Amalia. “I need some fresh air. Don’t think I can watch this.” Thanial gave Mirell a hard, bitter stare, turned, and walked to the exit. “Duelists rules, Mirell,” he said over his shoulder.

  “Well,” she said as she situated her fists on her hips. “I wonder what he’s so grumpy about. He’s not usually like this, you know.” She gave Amalia another glance. “Mirell St. Castigan. I suppose it’s nice to meet you.” She held out a hand. “Serradon, is it?”

  Amalia flinched as she bit back the bitterness that was already growing inside of her for this Mirell St. Castigan woman.

  “Amalia Anders,” she corrected as she took Mirell’s hand in her own and squeezed it hard. She delighted in seeing Mirell’s eyes widen momentarily and her face twist in discomfort, if only for an instant.

  Mirell tried to smile through her grimace as she pulled her hand away. She looked at it, then brushed it off with her other hand before casually wiping it on her pants, as if the contact stained her hand.

  “Amalia,” Mirell nodded, trying out the name with a hand on her chin. “Hmm. What a wonderfully strange name. Sounds like something I’d name a sickly cow. I guess it doesn’t matter. Anyway, I’ll get to the point: I don’t appreciate you spending time with my Thanial alone.”

  Amalia cocked an eyebrow. “Your Thanial?” She almost couldn’t believe what she was hearing, but she might have guessed, given how Mirell clung to him like a strip of yellow velcro.

  Thanks to Christina Cross, Amalia had no sympathy, empathy, patience, or compassion for bullies. Of all the buttons to push, Mirell found and pushed the bully one. She felt her teeth baring down on one another as she studied Mirell’s perfect porcelain-like face. She hoped Mirell would continue taunting, so she’d have a reason to mash her under her thumb. Amalia, however, soon decided against doing something she might regret.

  “I don’t have time for this,” Amalia said as she strode for the door. “Someone should have told you that outfit you’re wearing makes you look like a pencil,” she said over her shoulder. “And pencils are easy enough to break.”

  “Thanks for your understanding and cooperation. You’ve been a real doll. I’ll be sure that Thanial understands these terms as well. You needn’t bother letting him know,” she called after Amalia. “Oh, and Serradon? One last thing, and I’ll leave you to your… whatever it is you’re doing.”

  Amalia stopped and turned at the door, more out of curiosity than anything else.

  Mirell smiled when she had Amalia’s attention. “You should also know that this pencil has a core of lead. That’s the only warning I will give you.”

  She stared hard at Amalia, who returned an equally hard stare. Amalia was not about to submit as the weaker of the two. She could definitely tell this Mirell girl was serious and intense, and she meant to show no fear.

 
“Okay, you can go now,” Mirell said with an exaggerated smile, the malicious stare quickly vanishing behind a set of perfect, icy white teeth.

  Amalia shook her head, the anger inside of her rising to a dangerous new high. She decided that she didn’t much enjoy being dismissed, least of all by this blond headed bitch. She also had to resign herself to the fact that she just made an enemy without doing a single thing. This meaningless drama reminded her a lot of high school, except this was not high school. She spun on her heels and marched toward Mirell, ready and set to test that lead core theory.

  Mirell grinned and stood watching her approach with fists still on her hips.

  “Hey!” a voice shattered the tension, stopping Amalia in her tracks. “What the green hells are you still doing in my training hall? No one fights or trains here without my permission,” Marchand bellowed from his door. “Get out of here. Both of you. And take your gods-be-damned pride with you. If you want to beat each other senseless, do it outside, preferably under my balcony so I can watch.”

  They both left, one after the other, a little less bloated with pride; less willing to fight. Once they were outside, Mirell held out her hand. “You’ve got balls for a girl. I’ll give you that much,” she said. “For a moment there, I thought you had enough of them to strike at me.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re just balls.” Amalia took her hand in a firm shake. “If not for the old man—

  Mirell snatched Amalia close and stared into her eyes. “If not for the old man, you’d be lying in a pool of your own blood,” she countered evenly. “Even now I could break your wrist, ankle, and knee in the time it takes for you to reach up and touch your own nose.” She squeezed Amalia’s hand, hard enough for her to grimace this time. “But perhaps another day,” she said, her amber yellow eyes twinkling. “This is neither the time nor the place.”

  “Perhaps,” Amalia echoed.

  Mirell scared her, she soon decided, not in the bully way, but in the crazy psychopath way. Not that she was fooled by Mirell’s attempts at throwing people off by her cheerful demeanor and her girlish looks. Amalia was more concerned about her intimidation and her fierceness, if only just a little. There was a darkness there, an evil hidden in the depths of Mirell St. Castigan, and she just may have seen a small portion of it. She watched Mirell disappear into the bustle of people moving up and down the street.