Leksen hadn’t come upstairs after being paid.
Dread made the cheese Kerestel had eaten congeal unpleasantly in his gut. She wouldn’t, would she? I mean, she’d have to be crazy—
He already knew that was true. But this went far beyond that.
Marwen and Tareth were laughing with Rolier, embroidering on his suggestion. Loye, at least, was keeping out of it. But that only went so far, and all at once, Kerestel’s uneasiness resolved into fury—on Sen’s behalf.
“Look,” he said abruptly, cutting through the laughter. “What she’s doing would kill any of us. You realize that? She gets up early, stays up late, and practices every minute she’s got. The Grandmaster saw something in her—call it whatever you like. That’s why he let her in. But the truth is that she’s working herself halfway to death to make sure she deserves it. So go ahead and mock her, but don’t ever forget that she’s fighting harder to stay here than any of us.”
It produced an awkward silence. What had he expected—for Rolier to hang his head and say, I’m sorry, I was wrong? It wasn’t that easy. None of them knew what to do with her, not anymore. They mocked her, and she ignored them, living inside her own head and body rather than the world around her. They hurt her, and she accepted the pain. They shunned her, and she just went on learning—even from Leksen, it seemed. What in the Goddess’s many names was driving her?
Talon was.
Kerestel sucked a quick breath through his teeth, forgetting the other trainees entirely. It didn’t explain Sen herself, and what she was doing here... but it might explain the madness. Talon’s demands on Sen were impossibly high, more than anyone could hope to meet—and unfortunately, he was one of the few people at Silverfire who could tell the Grandmaster that a trainee ought to go. If he said Sen wasn’t meeting his standards....
Surely the Grandmaster would come see for himself. He wouldn’t just take Talon’s word for it.
But that word would carry a lot of weight. If Sen came under the Grandmaster’s scrutiny like that, the slightest flaw could damn her.
Rolier said something, breaking his reverie. Kerestel didn’t catch it, but he suspected that was a good thing. “Enough of this,” he said, getting up and opening the door. “I need sleep.” Rolier went out, grumbling, and the others followed.
When Kerestel went to collect the food for Sen, he found one of Loye’s apples under the pillow.
* * *
“Faster!” Talon roared, from his vantage point off to the side. “Move from the hips, not from the feet—Warrior’s teeth, girl, our ten-year-olds understand that much!”
Sen clenched her teeth on the reply she wanted to make. She could do speed; she could do good form; the problem was doing them both at once. And Talon knew it. “Forget it,” he said in disgust, when the trainees reached the wall and pivoted to repeat in the other direction. “You aren’t ready for this yet. Go to the far end and do stationary roundhouses until you can do them right.”
Past the other trainees, who would snigger as she went by. Sen had spent half her evening practice last night on stationary roundhouse kicks, until her hip muscles gave out. Hip muscles she barely even had, because Dancers learned to turn their legs out, not in. She snarled inwardly. It doesn’t bloody matter what Dancers learn, you sniveling idiot! You’re a Hunter!
Or trying to be. Banking the fire of her anger, Sen replied, “I can do this, sir.”
“Can you.” The sudden chill in Talon’s voice made her tense. “Well. Since the little Dancer knows better than her master, let’s have her prove that to us.” He scanned the line of trainees. “Rolier. Get out here. You too, milady.”
She could hardly refuse. Warily, Sen came out into the middle of the floor.
“Blocks and kicks only,” Talon said. “No punches, no grappling. Rolier, if you fail this, you’ll muck out the stables for a week.”
Rolier’s face hardened. He hadn’t attacked her since the trainees noticed the dye growing out of her hair—nobody had—but Talon had just given him permission. And his long legs made him one of the better kick-fighters in her year, though not as good on other things.
“Begin,” Talon said.
Range, Sen thought. He has it, you don’t. But she had speed. She retreated, circled, waited for her opening. Rolier snapped a quick double kick at her, front shifting into roundhouse; she leapt back to avoid it. Back and forth, neither quite managing to land a proper blow on the other.
Talon’s voice cut through her focus. “Running away won’t win a fight! You’re going to have to stand your ground at some point, girl!”
She didn’t need him to tell her that. Sparring with Leksen had begun to give her some understanding of this Dance, beyond the instinctive guesses of that test against Kerestel; she knew the back-and-forth flow of defense and attack, retreat and advance. Today she was off that rhythm, and badly so. Still not good enough—never good enough— Sen threw a combination at Rolier, but his long legs were good for retreating, too; she was too far out of range, so she surged forward—
The boards felt blessedly cool against her cheek. From somewhere far up above, she heard a voice say snidely, “Thanks, witch-brat! I would have missed, if you hadn’t walked right into it.”
“Hold your tongue, Rolier, or I’ll tie it in a knot.” Feet appeared next to Sen’s eyes. She sat up hastily, and Talon crouched down beside her.
He inspected her jaw with a quick, professional hand, then grunted. “Not broken. Follow my finger.” Sen forced her eyes to track his hand, even though the edges of her vision were wavering. “Mmm. Not so good. Off to the infirmary with you.”
Shame heated her face, adding to the sweat and the spreading fire where Rolier’s foot had struck her head. Sen scrambled upright, shifting her balance to hide a moment of unsteadiness. “I’m fine.”
She could imagine the expressions on all the other trainees’ faces. Laughing, no doubt, though they knew better than to make a sound. Talon’s attention didn’t flicker from her. “Arguing again, trainee?”
His eyes were narrowed. Sen didn’t flinch from them. Those eyes, not Rolier, were her enemy; they saw every flaw. Talon’s eyes, and his cutting voice, which flayed apart her body and exposed every weakness, everything holding her back from the perfection of the Warrior. The only way to win was to make that voice fall silent.
Which she couldn’t do from the infirmary. Sen lifted her chin. “I feel capable of continuing. Sir.”
The master held her gaze a moment longer, then sighed. “Fine. Get back in line, and show me you can do it right.”
* * *
But she didn’t, of course; with her head aching from that kick, she could barely tell what she was doing, to the point where Talon didn’t even bother correcting her. The rest of the day’s lessons were just as bad: she stumbled her way through a recitation of the recent history of Askavya, confused cow parsley with hemlock, and fell asleep during a lecture on the alliances and activities of the Silk Consortium in Verdosa. When evening came, she couldn’t even force herself to go out and practice with Leksen.
She sat on the floor of her room, staring into the corner; then, out of grim habit, she began to stretch. Her greater flexibility didn’t give her much of an advantage in fighting, but stretching was the only thing that kept her muscles from seizing up beyond recall. Mornings were the worst; she slept like a corpse, and all those dead hours left her stiff and aching, barely able to move. But the pain was useful: without it, she might sleep too late. And she couldn’t afford to waste time.
Her thigh cramped suddenly; she massaged the knot, hissing at the pain, until it relaxed. Tears threatened again, until she snarled them away. Crying was useless. What would Talon say if he saw it?
He’d call you a weakling and a child, and he’d be right.
Her weights lay on the room’s one chair, a mute reminder of her contemptible weakness. Sen eyed them, her jaw set. How long since you added any? Try it with more. She put an extra ingot in each bag, slung the pa
ir over her shoulders, then jumped up and grabbed a rafter. Her body felt like dead meat, and her arms howled at the weight. Fire washed over her side; she was afraid Leksen had cracked one of her ribs yesterday. Never cracked a rib before. Toes, yes. Need to find a better way to bind them. I could have hit Rolier once or twice, I think, if I hadn’t been afraid of hurting my foot. That fear had cost her a chance to silence the voice. Talon’s voice, or the one inside her head; the difference hardly mattered.
She tried to drag herself upward, and got nowhere. Can’t. I can’t do it.
A strained, furious noise clawed its way up her throat. Yes, you can. Or are you so Void-damned pathetic you can’t even make your muscles obey you? No wonder you’re a failure. Where’s your spine, you stupid worm?
Anger gave her strength. Slowly, ever so slowly, she pulled herself up to the rafter. One. Back down, carefully. Up again. Two. Her lips pulled back in a snarl. Three.
Then her arms gave out, and her grip failed at the sudden drop. She slammed into the floor and lay there, panting, trying desperately not to cry.
The weights dug into her side; she couldn’t muster the will to move them. Tears poured free, despite her clenched teeth. She had to get up, to keep going; it was a full hour before she could allow herself to sleep. But she couldn’t make herself move.
Warrior, why am I here? What was I thinking, leaving the Temple? This felt right, or so I thought. It doesn’t feel right anymore. It hurts. Goddess, it hurts. She tried to call back her fury, but failed. All she could feel was pain, and exhaustion that went deeper than bone. I have to get up. I can’t afford to stop now.
Warrior, please, help me. I can’t do this anymore.
A strangled howl escaped her. The Warrior would spit on you, if she were here. If you can’t even make yourself move, you don’t deserve to serve her.
One painful inch at a time, Sen pushed herself upright. The floor where she’d fallen was slick with sweat; she was careful in standing, knowing her body couldn’t take much more abuse tonight. She needed to rest.
In an hour. In an hour you can sleep—if you’ve earned your rest by then.
* * *
Talon’s shouts hit Kerestel like throwing knives, and they weren’t even directed at him. “Where are your muscles? Did you leave them in bed again? Or maybe you just don’t have any; there certainly hasn’t been any sign of them yet. Warrior, girl, are you dead? Nobody alive could possibly have missed that block!”
Kerestel cringed, but Seniade’s dead eyes didn’t so much as flicker. There was hardly anything inside them today, just exhaustion, and a grim bleakness somewhere between determination and apathy. He advanced, reluctantly, not wanting to press her. On good days, sparring was a joy, a friendly competition. This felt more like kicking a beaten dog.
Talon noticed his reluctance. “Oh, for the love of the Bride—she isn’t going to learn anything, Kerestel, if you go soft, too! Get in there and hit her!”
He bit down on the insides of his cheeks, a bad habit that had gotten him a mouthful of blood more than once. Not today, though; not with Sen looking that dead. Then inspiration struck. Go ahead and yell. You’ve only got the one tongue, Talon; if I give you reasons to shout at me, you’ll leave her alone.
It worked—and he even got a reaction from Sen, too, when he began leaving openings for her, committing uncharacteristic errors. And a characteristic one: remembering their first sparring match, he pulled out that old combination, over-turning on the roundhouse kick. Her counter-attack this time was a lot more successful.
But Talon didn’t appreciate it. “Slow, too Void-damned slow. You’re asleep on your feet, girl. Naptime is at night, in your own bed; you should try it once or twice.”
Each word built a protective fury in Kerestel’s gut. She wasn’t slow, damn it. She was just as fast as anybody there. Which, okay, was slow for her—but that didn’t mean she deserved Talon’s scorn.
It didn’t help that when he’d broken into Sen’s room to leave another gift of food for her, he’d found the last delivery all but untouched. Thinking of that twisted his worry and anger tighter, until it rooted him to the spot at the end of practice. The other trainees filed out; Talon went to the back corner and drank a large cup of water. Must be thirsty work, being that cruel.
The master put the cup down and saw Kerestel still waiting. “What do you want?”
Kerestel blurted it out, before common sense could persuade him not to. “Sir—you’re not being fair to Sen.”
One eyebrow rose at the nickname. “Oh?”
“You yell at her ten times as often as you do at any of us. You’re always insulting her, criticizing her—you never say anything about what she’s doing right. And then when she fixes one flaw, you just move on to a new one. Warrior’s teeth—she never makes the same mistake twice, but you won’t admit it. You treat her like she’s hopeless, and she isn’t!”
Talon came forward slowly, placing his feet with deliberation, like someone approaching a potential opponent. “What is she?”
Kerestel lifted his chin. He’d started this; he might as well finish it. “She’s somebody who could be a good Hunter, if only you’d help her.”
“A good Hunter.” Talon paused, studying him. This was more like the master he used to know: sharp eyes that evaluated strength as well as weakness. Talon had never behaved like such a monster before Sen showed up. Hard, yes; cruel, no. “You think that’s my job? To help you be good Hunters?”
The question nearly rendered him speechless. “Isn’t it?”
Talon shook his head. “My job is to make you the best you can possibly be. And you’re wrong. Seniade won’t be a good Hunter. She’ll be brilliant.”
That did rob him of words.
“I’ve seen it in her,” Talon said distantly. His eyes were still on Kerestel, but his vision had gone elsewhere. “The potential. More than just the component pieces, the moves and the speed and so on; she can bring it all together in a way most of us will never touch. You haven’t seen it, because she isn’t there yet. Not with what I’ve taught her. But she will be, someday. I’ll make sure of that.”
Kerestel wet his lips. This had not gone at all like he expected. But he hadn’t forgotten where the conversation began. “The way you’re treating her, though—”
Talon laughed. “Would break you, little boy. But everybody has their hooks, their levers you can push on to make them move. There’s no faster way to make that girl do something than tell her she can’t. I know what I’m doing.”
He might think so. But Kerestel had spent this morning staring into Sen’s dead eyes, and Talon hadn’t. “She’ll kill herself trying to satisfy you, sir. Did you know Leksen is sparring with her?” He waved the choice of word away. “He’s beating up on her, and she thinks she’s learning from him. Maybe she is. But it isn’t sane, and it isn’t good for her.”
“Leksen.” Talon spoke the name like a curse. “One of these days he’ll be out on his ear, but until then—we aren’t in the habit of coddling our trainees. Seniade’s still in one piece, so if she wants the extra practice, I’m not going to stop her.”
Kerestel had originally opened his mouth thinking this would end in disaster for him. It hadn’t—but it wasn’t helping Sen much, either. Okay, so Talon wasn’t going to throw her out; that was a relief. He hadn’t managed to change the master’s mind, though.
And he wasn’t going to. Talon straightened and said, “Enough. You spoke your mind, boy, and good for you. I’m glad to know at least two people in your year have spines. But you’re not going to tell me how to do my job. We’re done here.”
Arguing would bring about the disaster he’d feared before. Kerestel saluted and ran to his next lesson. Didn’t convince him. Any chance of convincing Sen?
He was afraid he knew the answer to that.
* * *
Move, you stupid bitch!
Sen rolled just in time to avoid Leksen’s descending foot. It almost caught her in the face; he wa
s getting sloppy, forgetting their deal. He wasn’t allowed to do anything that would interfere with her ability to train. Bruises were no problem; she could even live with wrenched joints and that cracked rib. Pain seemed a distant thing these days, on the other side of the wall of glass that separated her mind from the physical world. But if he gave her a concussion, it was all over.
Her roll brought her to her feet, but she staggered with dizziness. Lunch had come back up right after she ate it, even though she limited herself to rice and a boiled egg. It was all she could keep down lately, and now even that was too much.
Get your mind back on the fight, little girl, before Leksen paints the ground with your blood.
She never even saw the kick coming. It slammed her into a tree, and from there she collapsed to the ground. Groaning, she rolled onto her side. Leksen was there, putting one foot on her left knee, leaning just a fraction of his weight on it. Pain screamed up her leg, but she swallowed it. I’m not giving him the Void-damned satisfaction of watching me cry.
“That was pathetic, even for you,” he remarked.
She shoved his foot off and pushed herself into a sitting position. “So now you care about me learning?”
“Just wondering if I should go on wasting my time with you. Where were you last night, anyway? Crying in your room?”
The jab was accurate, but lacked force. He was nothing compared to Talon, or her own voice whipping herself onward. He was outside the wall of glass. She was alone inside it with her body, her imperfection, and her hope of the Warrior.
“I figured you needed the break.” Sen considered using the tree he’d kicked her into to pull herself to her feet. You can make it on your own. Come on. She gathered her legs under her and stood, biting her lips as she tested her weight on the uncertain knee.
Once it was secure, she looked up, in time to catch Leksen watching her with disturbingly avid eyes. He enjoyed this, she knew; that was the basis of their bargain. But it sickened her. If she had any reasonable alternative—
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