by Ronie Kendig
Almost immediately, Aselan’s punch came at him.
Haegan snapped his wrist, blocking the strike with his forearm. Which was bruised and aching. But he blocked.
“Good,” Aselan said—even as he struck again.
Haegan blocked with his left. Then his right. Right again.
“Feet.” The reed cracked against his shin again.
Haegan grunted. His legs collapsed.
Aselan lowered his hands. Stepped back. Not a drip of sweat on his tunic. “Take some water, thin-blood. Ye need it.”
His long hair plastered to his face and dripping sweat like a trickling creek, Haegan moved to the table where a pitcher of water waited. Palms on the wood, he lowered himself—with a series of groans and grunts—to the bench. His arm trembled when he lifted the pitcher. He gulped several cups between panted breaths. Wiped his brow using his tunic, which seemed more like a wet dishrag than clothing.
“The ring!”
“Oochak!” muttered several Legiera, who grouped up.
Watching the men form a circle in the middle of the room, Haegan frowned. That did not look good.
“Come, thin-blood.” Byrin was grinning far too much.
One of the more scrawny men emerged from a small room with a handful of reeds. He handed them out to the Legiera.
“Prince,” Aselan said, pointing with the reed to the center of the ring.
Exhaustion riddling his bones, Haegan climbed to his feet and shuffled to the perimeter.
Hand on Haegan’s back, Aselan guided him into the center. “This be where ye learn to go light on yer feet.”
After a furtive look around the group of mountain men, Haegan knew this would not end well. Or soon enough.
“Keep moving,” Aselan said, even as a stick slapped his right calf. It stung and he hopped to the side.
“Eyes out, hands up,” Aselan ordered even as another strike nailed his shin.
He’d go to bed welted this night. The strikes weren’t hard enough to break skin, but they were enough to serve as punishment for not being light or quick enough on his feet.
“Dance, thin-blood,” Teelh taunted.
A particularly well-placed blow buckled Haegan’s knees.
“Hold,” Aselan said as Haegan went to the ground.
Panting, groping for a breath that did not hurt, he braced himself on the cold stone floor. Then pushed up.
“Ye asked for training,” Byrin chuckled.
“Aye.” Haegan drew a ragged breath. “But not a flogging.”
“In a fight, there is little difference,” Teelh said.
Aselan motioned with the reed for Haegan to stand. And despite the agony roiling through Haegan’s limbs and body, he saw in Aselan’s face something he had not anticipated—respect. There was no gloating. No demoralizing pleasure in beating Haegan. Each of these men had been in this ring at one time. They had endured. They had fought. They had learned.
So would he. Swallowing hard, Haegan came up. And the dance began again.
• • •
Nivar Hold, Ybienn
Clacks and shouts rose from the training yard. On the settee in the yellow sitting room, Thiel dug her fingernails into her palm as she sat poised, back straight, chin lifted. Hands resting in her lap, she smiled. At least, she thought she did. Her face had gone numb hours ago.
Mother chatted with Lady Lumira and Peani. Silks. Flowers. Ribbons. Attendants. Sleighs. Everything for the wedding and celebration ball afterward. The family dinner. The nobility event in the great hall. The ceremony beneath the Tri-Tipped Flame and arch. Every detail attended to, laughed over.
And I merely want a sword. Cadeif had trained her to always have a blade ready. It would explain the cold steel strapped to her thigh even now. Her gaze drifted to where it lay, hidden beneath the satin and brocade gown.
A particularly loud clack jarred Thiel. She twitched, the urge great to rush to the window and see who was sparring. Her gaze drifted to the windows. Was it Tokar? He had been livid with the way Tili had challenged and pushed him. Or perhaps Praegur, who had become especially adept at swordplay. Even Laertes was never far behind the others, though half their size. The Nivari had taken a liking to the lad, adopting him like an unofficial mascot.
“Kiethiel?”
At her mother’s prompt, Thiel blinked. “Mm?” She turned to discover the other three ladies watching her. No—worse. They were waiting. For an answer. To what?
Awkward silence was broken by taunting laughs.
Her mother straightened more. “I’m sure yer invitation, Peani, to have Kiethiel stand out fer the wedding was a shock.”
Stand out? The wedding—binding. “Of course,” Thiel whispered, shoving breathlessness into her words, then a silly laugh that made even her cringe as she worked to cover her blunder. “That is normally reserved for family.”
Peani blushed prettily, looking between the mothers in a way that told Thiel the point had already been made. “Aye, but as I have no sister . . .”
“It is an honor,” Thiel’s mother said, her words firm.
Right. Honor. But strange. To stand out. “Whatever ye would wish,” Thiel conceded.
“In earnest?” Peani asked. “It would mean a great deal.”
Clack. Augh! Shouts vied for her attention. A particularly raucous shout plucked at her attention. That sounded like her brother.
Answer. Answer Peani. “Then—then it is decided.”
“Marvelous.” Her mother’s stern expression lurked behind a thin veil as she rose and rang the bell for a servant. “Since that that’s settled, let us be going. Mistress Raechter will never grant mercy if we keep her waiting. She’s so eager to meet ye, Peani.”
As the others rose to don their coats, Thiel slipped over to the window. As she had suspected, Tili sparred with Tokar. But a surprise addition to the training yard was Relig. He might be a decent fighter, but he preferred books and diplomacy.
“Never did I dream I could marry one so handsome.”
Thiel resisted the urge to roll her eyes at Peani’s declaration. Instead, she turned and smiled, searching her face for falsity. For evidence that the thing more attractive to Peani was not her brother’s “handsomeness” but his position as second in line to the throne of Ybienn and the Northlands. But she saw utter devotion in the girl’s eyes. “Ye truly love him.”
Blue-green orbs widened. “Of course.” With that Peani swirled and returned to their mothers and Atelaria. Back in the yard, she saw Laertes skirting the perimeter, fending off an attack by a Nivari. The men had been kind to her young friend, and she was glad to have him in a safe place. To allow him to be reared with respect and mentors strong in mind and body.
Puffs of smoke shot up through the trees to the right. Thiel glanced there, realizing Drracien and her father must be training together. Haegan should be there as well. Learning how to harness what was within him.
“Shall we?”
Thiel turned back and saw the queen’s guards waiting at the doors with the men of the Watch. Including Yedriseth. His expression smoothed as he looked at her, and he gave a slight nod.
Altogether, they made a sizeable group as they headed out to the home of Councilman Raechter, whose wife had invited the women of the hold to a private gathering. Even as the sleighs pulled into the grand estate on the outskirts of Ybienn, the number of other sleighs and coaches warned that this was no small assembly.
An hour later, immersed in ribbons, perfumes, and gossip, Thiel rubbed at her temple.
“Fare ye well, Princess?” Sir Yedriseth asked, making one of his many rounds through the parlors, which were half the size of Nivar Hold’s, but still quite elegant, with mirrors and gilt trim.
“Aye,” she said with sigh, lowering her arm and stretching her spine.
“Ye stand on the perimeter and not with the ladies.”
“Am I under yer protection now?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow at his boldness.
“A wise guardian is awar
e of more than his charge.”
“True enough,” she said, watching as the councilman wandered past a particular group of young ladies for the fourth time. She supposed it was because of her mother that he was even present at a ladies’ party. The queen stood across the room, a cup of tea balanced on its saucer in one hand. Her gaze, too, was on the councilman, and judging from the disapproving look, Thiel suspected her mother found his presence more an impropriety than an honor.
“Yer host seems fond of the ladies.”
Thiel hesitated, but refused to play into his hand. It annoyed her in one respect that Yedriseth had come from Langeria and already noticed a weakness in a Ybiennese leader—the man seemed to stray easily from his wife. Find comfort with younger women. Or girls, in this case.
“One would wonder, Sir Yedriseth, why ye are within and not guarding outside as the Nivari do.”
“The Nivari are not outside,” he countered.
Another truth. They remained quietly in the shadows, bordering the interior but unobtrusive. It was her way of trying to hint—
“Of course, yer intention was to put me in my place, I suppose.”
If her point was taken, why did he remain beside her? She gave him a sidelong glance.
He smirked. “Well put, Princess.” With a curt bow of his head, he backed up and returned to his duties.
“Isn’t he dreamy?” came the giggling voice of her cousin, Atelaria. “What did he say to you?”
“Nothing of value.” Thiel’s gaze once more hit the councilman, who was eyeing eighteen-year-old Seraecene, daughter of another council member. Wouldn’t that put things to riot. She’d have to mention this to her mother.
“I think he favors you,” Atelaria said with a sigh. “Why do they all favor you?”
“Because I could not care less if they do.” She smiled at her cousin. “Ye should care less, Atelaria. Then they’ll be falling over ye.”
“You toy with me,” Atelaria pouted.
Thiel laughed. “It was cruel of me to do so. I beg yer mercy.”
Atelaria nodded, victorious. “I would ask one favor, cousin.” She had well maneuvered that situation into her own favor. “Introduce me to your friend.”
“Which friend?”
“The handsome one—Tokar.”
• • •
He stood there on the other side, out of reach, separated from Haegan by a chasm of roaring fire. Bruised. Bloodied. Blackened by fire and death.
“Father!”
Footsteps—strangely loud in his ears—crept from the shadows. His heart raced, watching as the deeper darkness crawled toward his father, who stood, oblivious to the threat and danger. “Father—move! Go! Run!”
But his father stayed. Stood. Stared.
“No.”
A form came at Haegan. A strange coldness enveloped him. A vice cuffed his throat.
In a heartbeat, Haegan’s eyes shot open. Reality wrestled with the fog of sleep. Warned him of danger. He blinked. A dream?
No!
A figure towered over him. Hooded. Strangling him!
Haegan gripped the forearms with still-bandaged hands, choking. He thrashed, flooded with panic and dread.
“Ye are dead, thin-blood. Dead.”
The hands fell away and the man removed the hood. Byrin’s salted hair lay askew as he looked down at Haegan with a mixture of disappointment and something else. Pity? He backed up as the cacique stepped into the room.
Aselan stood over him. “Ye must learn to fight from the ground. Being pinned is the surest way to end up dead.” He turned and started for the door. “Get up. Dress. Meet us in the hall.”
Rubbing his throat and shaking off the terror of being choked—now he understood why Aselan had insisted he wear the sangeen to bed—Haegan peeled himself from the pelts. Agony tore at every muscle and sinew, reminding him of the last eight days of torture. Training.
Legs slung over the bed, he sat for a moment. Let the weight of sleep drain away. Who did he jest? This wasn’t merely sleep. It was utter exhaustion. But even in his dreams, he’d detected the threat. His subconscious had heard Byrin entering. But the dreams—the terrors had stymied his ability to sort fact from fiction. He must conquer these dreams. He must be rid of them.
Dressed and dragged to the hall, Haegan stood before the Legiera. There was not a piece of his body or mind that did not sag beneath the weariness.
“It is in these days—where exhaustion threatens to overrule—that ye must fight harder. Lose to the exhaustion, consider yer life forfeit.”
Haegan nodded. Knew it to be truth. But would that he could just sleep . . . for another day.
Without warning, his leg kicked up and his head flew backward. By the time the pain in his skull registered, he lay on the floor. Aselan had laid him out flat. Groaning, he cringed. Closed his eyes.
“One of the most dangerous positions is to be on the ground, beneath yer attacker.”
Pain bled through every pore of his body, but he forced his eyes open.
Aselan knelt at his side now. “If ye are pinned, ye want to be unpinned. Flip the tactic.” He planted his hands on Haegan’s throat and gripped firmly. “How do ye get free?”
Haegan gripped Aselan’s arms.
“Aye—but do not push up. Pull apart.”
Haegan tried. Couldn’t. His arms were too tired.
Aselan pointed to his own throat. “Grip me.” Once Haegan held Aselan by the throat, the cacique showed him a maneuver. “Grip the wrists and pull outward. Even if yer attacker is five times larger, ye pull on one arm. Anything to break the grip, so ye can breathe. Like so.” He showed Haegan the move. “Once ye’ve done that, slide yer fist through the opening in the arms, straight through and push the hard part of yer wrist and forearm into their neck.” Even as he spoke, he did the move.
Pressure against the side of Haegan’s throat forced him to turn away.
“Once ye have leverage, keep going until ye can either get free or flip the positions.” Aselan patted his own chest. “Do it.”
Gripping Aselan’s strong forearms, Haegan struggled to be stronger.
“C’mon, thin-blood. I’m killin’ ye.”
Haegan gritted his teeth. Pried.
“Do one arm, then.”
Shifting the tactic, Haegan used both hands on one wrist and managed to shift the pressure.
“Aye, now fast—through the arms with yer fist and arm.”
Haegan punched his fist through the gap and planted his forearm against Aselan’s neck.
“Push, twig, push!”
With a meaty grunt, he pushed. And Aselan was forced aside.
Exultant, Haegan sagged. But Aselan began again. And again, until Haegan wanted to cry. He had nothing left.
But at that point, Byrin stepped in. Or rather—he dropped in. Right on top of Haegan. Forearm and bicep squeezing Haegan’s neck.
“Twist the lower half of yer torso out from under him.”
Haegan struggled.
“Do it! Scoot hard. No matter how absurd it might feel.”
With trembling limbs, Haegan struggled out from beneath the thick-chested Byrin.
Hours—or was it days?—went by. Haegan grew more exhausted. Less capable of thinking, he slowly realized his movements were growing clumsy yet automatic. By the time he sat on his dais that night, numb from head to toe, he could no longer count the hours they’d spent training. Everything hurt. At least, he was sure it would if he could feel anything.
“Are you well?”
He looked up, startled to find Kaelyria in a wheeled chair in the doorway. The sight of her brought a smile to his lips. “I’m alive,” he said wearily. He gestured to the chair. “That’s a clever contraption.”
“Someone—a Drigo—named Coeff made it for me.” She shrugged, then frowned, looking at him more closely. “You are covered in bruises.”
“Aye.” Even breathing felt like it took spectacular effort. But he’d seen the disappointment in Aselan’
s expression when they’d broken for the day. “I’m slow.”
“You always were.” The teasing in her voice had always been there.
Haegan snorted. “I’ve laid in a bed for ten years and now I am tasked with being Abiassa’s champion—and yet, I cannot defeat even one of these Legiera.”
“Must you defeat them?” She rolled farther into the room and spun around so her chair was against the wall, facing the door, but she laid her hand on his.
“No, I must live. And that is what he is teaching me. But he is twice the man I am with ten times the strength and agility.” Haegan sagged beneath the realization. “I have never been enough, sister. And I fear I never will be.”
“You are called by Abiassa not because you are the mightiest or the strongest, but because you are willing.”
Aaesh entered with a tray of replenishment
Haegan frowned at her. “I’m not willing.”
Aaesh arched her eyebrow. “No? Who is training, nearly killing himself to be better, stronger?”
Haegan sighed. “I am training because Seultrie needs a strong leader.”
“Seultrie has fallen, brother. You speak of a battle that has already been lost.” Kaelyria squeezed his hand.
Aaesh stood before him, hands clasped. “Yer sister speaks well. The battle is not for the city or even the Nine. It is for the world. It is with Sirdar’s agent, Poired. It is within ye, born out of yer abiatasso.”
“Even that training is incomplete.”
Kaelyria frowned at him. “What training?”
“Wielding,” he said to the side. “You had years of training with Father and the Citadel. I’ve had none, save what King Thurig provided at Gwogh’s behest—”
“Thurig?” Kaelyria jolted.
“Aye, I spent time in Nivar Hold before what happened in Seultrie. What good it did me—” Haegan shrugged. “I have little control over it.”
“Do ye think the Lady so foolish?” Amusement bled through Aaesh’s words. “She can grant ye the abiatasso and fill it with Her fire, but She cannot guide ye?” She motioned around the cave. “Or place ye where ye can learn?”
Haegan frowned at Aaesh. “The confrontation with Poired is coming. There is no time to learn.”