by F. C. Reed
Marchand took a seat, evoking a volley of repulsed looks from Sky Marshal Sesanji. “The girl is your biggest threat, after the commander general here. Why not let her kill herself in the black? Not that she will, but if she does, that’s one less thing for you to worry about, then you can get on with… whatever it is you plan to do.”
“Enough,” she said, jumping to her feet and slamming a fist on the table. “I won’t tolerate these ridiculous accusations,” Sky Marshal Sesanji snarled. “You are not a part of this council. And since it is—
“I founded this council, Sky Marshal,” Marchand reminded her. “Way back. Even before you were suckling at your mother’s teat and pissing in your nappies.” He stared back at her. “I am always a part of this council. I am this council.”
Sky Marshal Sesanji bit her lip to assist in the effort it took to hold her tongue. Following a tense moment, she relaxed her shoulders. She was done being mangled and embarrassed. Instead of further jousting with Marchand, she rose from her seat and headed out the door without another word.
Once she left, Marchand stood and took her seat. “Please, continue,” he said. He then shot a quick glance at General Strann, who, nearly imperceptibly, nodded her head in thanks for his timely interruption.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Several weeks later, Marchand sent word for Amalia to meet with him to begin the next training session. She practiced long and hard at keeping her opponents at a safe distance and guarding her sphere of influence, just like she learned. She grew to become very adept at the defensive skill.
Her opponents, mostly other student soldiers, had to work hard at breaking through the invisible barrier, but there soon arose a minor dilemma. She didn’t quite know what to do if her opponent breached her sphere of influence. She also didn’t know what to do if her opponent attempted to attack her and failed at the attempt. So she assumed that to be her next lesson. Finally, all the bruised shins and forearms from executing blocks might give way to attack strategies. However, that probably meant bruised knuckles instead.
“Come here,” Marchand beckoned partially with his cane. Hooked over one arm was a covered basket which he set on the floor next to him. Amalia strode towards him, twisting and stretching her shoulders. They were, as the last time, alone.
“That’s close enough,” he nodded after she closed the distance. Leaning over, he uncovered the basket. Marchand pulled out a white sphere-like item small enough to palm easily. With a quick whip of his wrist, he hurled the white sphere at her. She only had a split second to turn away before it smashed into her shoulder. The slimy, gooey mess splattered her face and flecked into her hair. She turned back toward him with a fury, already succumbing to his antics.
“What the hell are you—
She barely had enough time to attempt a retort before another white sphere sped at her face. She shielded herself with her hands upraised, and the sphere smashed against her palm, covering her with more of the goo.
“What are you doing?” Amalia shouted as Marchand bent down and grabbed another out of the basket.
“I’m throwing eggs at you,” he replied with a coy smile.
“Why?” Amalia demanded as she crouched. An egg crashed into her head, just above her ear. Another broke against her knee.
“Why?” Marchand asked. “Because it pleases me. That’s why.”
No, it’s because you’re an ass, Amalia thought. She massaged her temple, dulling the sting at the point of impact.
Marchand wrenched his arm back, preparing to throw, then paused. “No. That’s not why. But it does please me, Serradon.” He watched her grit her teeth at the mention of the insulting reference. “Stop whining. I hear it’s good for the skin. Keeps it youthful,” he said.
Amalia had a mind to leave. She was in no mood for his childish ways. It seemed, however, that most people she talked to put a lot of faith in his teaching practices. And she guessed he didn’t get to be the armsmaster by throwing eggs at his students. So she resolved herself to tolerating him yet again.
“You’re pouting, Serradon,” he said with a yellowed toothy grin. He really was enjoying this. “I hope I haven’t upset you.”
Yep. He was definitely enjoying this.
“Get to the point,” Amalia said as she brushed at the shells and goop on her arms. It hardened quickly, forming a crusty, yellowish film, and the smell made her grimace even more.
“There is no point,” Marchand shrugged. “Only a lesson.”
“You’re throwing eggs at me. How am I—
Another egg crashed into her elbow as she shielded her face again. “Would you please—
And another egg broke across her midsection.
“Would I do what?” Marchand said. “Would I rather like tossing knives instead?” he said, chucking another egg at her. “Perhaps I might at some point. But not now. I’m not so cruel as all that.”
“Stop!” Amalia yelled.
Marchand raised his eyebrows and studied her for a moment. Then he lowered his head and sighed. “Why do you waste your time with a stubborn, arrogant, willful brat, Marchand,” he said, moreso to himself. “She does not want to learn.”
“Wait. I want to learn.” Amalia’s voice came softer. “It’s just that you don’t tell me what I am supposed to do.”
“Why in green hells would I do that?” His eyes flashed up at her, fixed in a hard gaze. “It is you who are to lead your soldiers on the field. You don’t get a time-out. No one will be there to tell you what to do. If that is the case, then I fear we were mistaken about you.” He paused for a long moment while Amalia looked over her hands and arms. She would not meet his gaze. “Now, what is your task in this training exercise?”
Amalia thought about it, too intimidated to answer. Finally, she said, “I can’t let the eggs hit me?”
Marchand shook his head slowly. Although she assumed his hands were empty, he quickly drew back and whipped another egg at her.
Amalia held up her hands and turned her face away. Again the egg exploded against her palm.
“Why did that egg break, Serradon?” he asked.
“Because it hit my hand,” she answered.
Marchand shook his head again. “Because you resisted against it. How likely are you to succeed when an action deemed a failure is repeated, but each time you are expecting something different? That, girl, is thought to be the very essence of madness bordering on insanity. It is also the definition of practice.”
Amalia frowned. “So I have to catch the egg? Keep it from breaking?” She felt a moment of accomplishment when Marchand smiled.
“Yes. Take its power away from it. Pull the force and energy from an attack like pulling a worm from an apple. Pull too gently, and you’ll be at it all day. Pull too abruptly, and you’ll rip the thing in half, infusing your apple with a bit of unwanted protein.”
“That’s gross.” Amalia took a moment to chide herself for not figuring out the task without him having to tell her. She vowed to beat him to his own lesson next time.
“But before you can even hope to do that, you must relax. You’re far too tense, girl.”
“I think I’m pretty relaxed,” she said, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, flecks of eggshell plopping to the floor.
“Not nearly enough. Even when you walk, you’re too tense. Let your muscles be like water. In a fight, rigidity leads to having your sword knocked away, or having you jostled from your khydrid, or having you die. It takes power and energy to resist. Conservation of your energy is key to your survival. More soldiers die because of their fatigue than not.”
Amalia nodded in understanding.
“Battles and wars and fighting are sloppy, nasty, unpredictable things. Little bursts of chaos. The surest way to keep from being consumed by the chaos is to embrace it. Move through it like the wind through a thick forest, around the falling leaves, and around the trunks of trees alike. Single man combat is not much different from one army fighting against another. Remem
ber that.”
Amalia nodded again. “I think I see your point.” She thought back to Thanial’s attacks on her, and how difficult it was to keep a solid grip on her training sword, perhaps because she was too rigid, but probably because she had no idea what she was doing. That was another matter.
“When injured, outnumbered, surrounded, outmatched, all these times, especially in these times, maintaining that ability to absorb the power and force of an attack will become your greatest asset. An Achilles’ heel is made of those who seek to resist. Absorb and redirect, yes. Resist and die, no.”
“That’s fine, but how am I supposed to do that?” she asked.
“By matching speed, balancing power output, absorbing the shock, and deep, steady breaths.”
“Easy for you to say,” Amalia mumbled.
“You don’t think so?” he said, leaning on his cane once more. “I’ll make a deal with you. If you can keep just one egg from breaking, I will let you throw it at me, and I will show you how it is done.”
Amalia eyed him with a skeptical glare. He must be up to some trick, or so she thought. She nodded slowly at his proposal anyway, hoping to have the chance to hit the old man with an egg. It would not make up for the years of subtle torture, but it sure would make her feel good.
“Okay. Go. Go.” He shooed her with a flick of his hand to get her back at a distance. As soon as she turned, two stinging jolts of pain burst over her neck and lower back in a crunchy splatter. She spun back and glared at Marchand.
“Never, for any reason, ever turn your back on your opponent. Otherwise he may throw eggs at the back of your head. If that’s his intent, you’d like to see him throw. Gives you time to dodge.”
“I wasn’t ready.”
“There’s no such thing as not being ready. No time-outs,” Marchand snapped as he pounded the end of his cane into the ground. “You are always ready. You must be. That doesn’t mean you must always be tense, wound around your core like a spring. No. That means to prepare your mind for the inevitable moment where you will be taken by surprise. I hope by then you will have enough fortitude about you that you’ll not soil your trousers when something with teeth as long as your fingers jumps out of a bush at you.”
His hand flashed out and this time, Amalia tried to absorb the impact of the egg by pulling her hand away as it approached. It still smashed into bits and pieces.
After several more minutes, a dozen more eggs, and a crunchy, sticky, and slimy floor, she finally did it. The egg barely made a sound as she seamlessly scooped it from the air. Excited, she turned and held it out, only to have it decimated by two eggs crashing into her hand and arm in rapid succession. Her glee morphed again into frustration.
“Humph,” Marchand sniffed. “Looks like that one broke on you.”
Amalia bared her teeth in a snarl. She wanted to kick him in his wrinkled old face, but after training with him, she doubted if that were even possible. Instead, all she could do was glare at him with that ever burning desire to flog him with something heavy.
“I caught it,” she said through clenched teeth. “Without it breaking. You saw me do it. I don’t care that it’s broken now, but according to the deal, if I caught an egg without breaking, then you would—
She stopped mid-sentence.
Marchand smiled. “Yes, then I would show you how to do the very thing you have just done. You really should be able to pick up on those little slights, Serradon. I don’t find you stupid. However, you are easy enough to fool. And I think the possibility of throwing an egg at me distracted you. Let that be a lesson as well.”
He reached into the basket, fumbling around for another egg. His face came away after a moment, disappointed. “It appears that our training is concluded on account of my having no more eggs to break across your little face. A pity. I rather enjoyed that.” He gathered his basket and turned toward the back. “Now clean up your mess,” he called over his shoulder. “Thanial, you can help her. And at some point, you will come back here with a weapon, Serradon.”
Amalia whipped around, her face already heating up. Thanial leaned against the back wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He waved at her.
“What are you doing here,” she asked, trying to sound annoyed, but could not hide the curiosity and the slightest bit of giddiness. She began scraping the shells and goop into a pile with her foot.
“I came to watch you.” Thanial joined her in cleaning up the mess.
Amalia said nothing for a time. She liked his response. Actually, she liked it a lot, but she couldn’t help curling her lip at the memory of her last post-training session when a cocky, possessive blond haired diva ruined the whole week for her. Even now, the memory left a sour taste in her mouth. For the moment, she indulged him, and in return, enjoyed his full attention. “You came to watch me? You seem to do that a lot,” Amalia said, grinning. “I should start calling you Pervy McPerverton.”
Thanial frowned. “What does that mean?”
She didn’t answer. Rather, she didn’t feel like explaining. Instead, she asked, “Where’s your girlfriend?” She didn’t really care to know so much as she wanted to breach the subject.
“She’s not my girlfriend.” Thanial looked away, and then down at his feet.
“Oh. So what is she then? Because by the looks of it, one of you is really confused about the relationship you have,” Amalia said. And why the hell am I so pissed right now?
Thanial sighed. “She thinks she is unmistakably betrothed to me, but our arranged marriage is not set in stone.”
“Arranged marriage, huh?” That stung. Even though Amalia assumed they shared something like a partnership or maybe Mirell being his fiancee, to hear him say it still made her grit her teeth. She wanted him to look her in the eye, but only wound up scrutinizing the top of his head. “Arranged marriages are the stuff of kings and queens.”
“Given that I am the heir to the primacy, I must, at some point—
“Wait a second,” Amalia stopped him with a wave of her hand. “You mean to tell me that the primus is your father?”
“Yes,” he admitted.
“Well, this just keeps getting better and better,” she huffed. “Why the hell does nobody tell me these things?”
“Perhaps these things aren’t so important as you might think,” Thanial said.
She glared at him. “My old psychiatrist I’ve been seeing for the last five years also trains warriors in an alternate universe, apparently. You are some sort of prince. My new best friend is an undercover, I don’t know, ninja. My grandmother is a hardened war veteran and all-around badass, so I hear, and I have the unfortunate destiny of having to take over all the duties and responsibilities of said badass, and you’re saying it’s not as important as I think? So why not just tell me if it’s so goddamn unimportant?”
Thanial shrugged. “Just never came up, I guess. Wait. You said your grandmother is who?”
She continued the momentary charge through her own flailing thoughts, oblivious of Thanial’s replies. “And you’re set to marry a crazy, stuck up, superficial barbie doll. Didn’t bother telling me that either.”
“It also never came up. What’s a barbie doll?” Thanial tried to hide his bemusement behind his hand as Amalia stomped around waving her arms.
“Like hell it didn’t come up,” she shot back. “It came up like a bad burp. More than once.” That flared the anger inside of Amalia, along with his smugness and nonchalant shoulder shrugging. The convoluted, murky mess of a relationship they shared meant a lot to her, but apparently not so much to him.
“There has been no one to court that interests me, so i was betrothed to Mirell when I turned sixteen. I was not given a choice when it happened. I didn’t much care for the idea or for her, but like I said, I couldn’t refuse her without providing for a suitable replacement.”
“Ugh, you make it sound like you’re returning a toaster because it doesn’t toast bread to your perfection or something.” Amalia flexed the muscl
es in her jaw. “I’m not a damn toaster.”
Thanial just cocked his head at her. “Does that bother you at all? I hear there’s something similar. Divorce, it’s called, I believe.”
“That’s different,” Amalia said, jabbing a finger at him.
After a moment, he said, “Well, she’s very persuasive and very aggressive, as you already know. And you must pardon me, but did you say that General Strann is your grandmother? I was not aware she had children. In fact—
“And that’s what keeps you from saying no to her? The fact that she’s persuasive and aggressive?” Amalia asked bitterly. She didn’t want him to say anything. Being mad at him was better than pitying him or hearing his point of view.
Her stomach twisted into fitful knots. She felt like a fool. The flirting, the surprise visits, the eyes that seemed to focus on her, the gentle caresses, his fingertips gliding over her skin, all of it was destined for Mirell St. Castigan, when she wanted so badly for it to be her.
She wanted to hit him and kiss him at the same time. She wanted to fight for him, steal him away and save him from a life of marital slavery and servitude to Mirell, and most of all, save him from her soul draining nag. She wanted to make excuses for why he did not come clean when they met, as if she deserved the truth. She wanted all those things, but said nothing more as she returned to cleaning the training hall floor.
They cleaned the area in silence for a long moment before Thanial said, “I’m not completely bound to her. If I choose someone of my own accord, that is.”
She looked up, perhaps a little too abruptly, but recovered quickly. She didn’t want to seem intrigued or desperate or optimistic by his comments. A smile turning up one corner of his mouth.
“Well, I hope you find someone of your own accord,” she said in a tone too harsh for her own liking. “Mirell seems… difficult.”
Thanial only nodded. “Perhaps I already have,” he replied in little more than a whisper, averting his eyes from her. “Yet I don’t know how the other feels about me. I would like to take her somewhere special first.”