“The Empress is never wrong. I’m passable at hand-to-hand and projectile weapons.” I square my shoulders and step up into the sparring ring. He doesn’t want to waste time talking, huh? Fine. “Our cue will be?”
Judica chokes out a laugh.
Balthasar looks confused. “Your cue?”
“Melodics uses cues.” Edam’s eyebrows are raised. “But surely you know that sladius doesn’t.”
I will not blush. “I didn’t know that, but I won’t apologize for being trained traditionally. The Heir of Alamecha has been trained in melodics for six thousand years. You mentioned tradition as the reason for the sword.”
Judica practically growls. “You aren’t Heir.”
I shrug. She’s right, at least, as far as she knows. And I don’t want her to be wrong. “I’m sorry. I said the ‘Heir,’ but I didn’t mean the Heir so much as the children of the queen, as in anyone who is an heir.”
“Melodics suck,” Judica says. “Everyone tossed them as a training method over a century ago when the first Sword Master not trained in melodics won the Centennial Games. Even Inara wasn’t trained in melodics. Mother only indulges her nostalgia with you because you don’t matter.”
“Mom has a reason for everything she does.”
“Enough talking,” Balthasar says. “No musical cues, Chancery. Your mother instructed me to catch you up. Here we cross swords, sweep back and begin. On my mark.”
Mark, cue, semantics. Something starts them off. They’re just trying to be obnoxious.
Balthasar claps three times, and suddenly I’m bringing my sword up to block Judica, who’s swinging at me with an ecstatic grin and a maniacal glint in her eyes. I duck and dive her blade a time or two, but those moves back me into the edge of the dais quickly.
And she’s still slashing at me like a gas-powered weed whacker. I turn and block, the impact of her strikes shaking my entire arm. Since I received my first lesson at age five, I’ve never fought without musical cues, other than my match against Lark this morning. Thinking about my loss, Lyssa’s subsequent death, and Lark’s current imprisonment crushes any energy I had for this stupid exercise.
I hate every second of this.
I’m already sweating pretty badly when Judica slices my forearm wide open. Blood mixes with sweat and runs down my arm to drip on the mat. Red blotches stand out against the khaki colored mat like hibiscus blossoms.
“Yield?” Judica asks, grinning like a feral cat.
I step back against the wall for a moment and look down at the gash on my arm. The white of my bone gleams, distracting me, so I close my eyes and ignore the pain. I focus instead on the blood, the vessels, and the muscle tissue. I open my eyes and watch the miracle happen. I’ve always loved watching evian bodies in action, but healing my own injuries sucks. The distraction of the pain nearly eclipses the wonder. Even so, my muscles knit together, my skin regrows in front of my eyes and seconds later, my arm is still covered in blood, but is otherwise completely whole again.
I look up at my sister’s triumphant face and I say, “Yield to you?” I think about Lark and how Judica didn’t even care that her mother died. How she fully supports all the horrible rules we evians live by. How she hates Lark for being half-human. “Not today.”
She growls and hacks at me again. I clench my hand around the hilt of my huge sword and block. Several minutes later, I’m still on defense. I’m backing in tight circles while Judica thwacks away after me, occasionally nicking my hand, my shoulder, or my arm.
“Melodics,” Judica mutters. “Mother’s a moron, and you’re even worse.”
For the first time since beginning our session, anger overwhelms my sorrow. Judica may fight better than me in this barbarous way, obviously, but that’s not Mom’s fault. I’m angry with Mom for killing Lyssa and leaving Lark defenseless, but Mom didn’t have a choice. Mom always does the best she can. How dare Judica criticize her?
I feint left, which my twin sees coming, but when she brings her sword in a sweep toward me, I step in closer to her and slam the pommel of my sword into her face. I try not to shudder at the crunch from breaking her nose.
“Yield, sister?” I mock.
She spits blood in my face and knees me in the gut. I double over in pain, focusing on healing my bruised rib while she repairs her face. Seconds later, I’m standing again, sword ready.
“Why are you even here?” Judica whispers so quietly only I can hear. “Shouldn’t you be with Mom, gloating over your little party trick?”
I stumble back. “Actually, just this morning I begged Mom to let me leave and live with Alora. I still want that.”
I don’t know quite what I expected. Gratitude? In my wildest imagination, maybe even a hug, or a gentle smile? Judica never does what I expect, so I’m not sure why I thought she’d start now. Something I said got through to her, but not in the way I hoped.
“I should thank you, then.” Judica isn’t whispering now. She’s practically shouting. “Is that what you want? My undying gratitude?”
I’m in trouble. Judica was taunting me earlier, but she wasn’t angry, not really. She was having a bad day, sure. She was cranky, but she wasn’t angry. I’d been fighting a semi-pleasant Judica, or maybe even a nervous and unsure Judica, all without realizing it. Now, even through the blood smeared across the lower half of her face from where I broke her nose, it’s clear she’s pissed.
Suddenly I’m fending off an angry bee, and I keep getting stung. She slices my right arm and then before I can heal it, my left. And my cheek, my left thigh. Each injury drains me, but she doesn’t let up, not for a split second.
I successfully block a jab aimed at my right lung, but she’s so strong that the impact causes me to stumble backward. That’s when she takes her shot. She sideswipes me and kicks my knee cap. Pain from the shattered knee suffuses me as I crumple in a heap. I knew she was angry, but her next move is still a shock.
Her sword arcs downward at full speed, aimed at my exposed throat. Time slows, and I realize she’s going to kill me, here and now. Evians heal from most anything, but not severed heads.
Another sword stops her blade inches before it separates my head from my neck.
It’s not Balthasar’s sword.
Judica screams in Edam’s face. “How dare you!”
“This is a training session, Judica, not a duel. You’re not supposed to kill anyone.” Edam pushes back with his blade playfully and Judica steps back, but the glare she gives him is not forgiving.
He leans over me and offers me his hand. I knock it away because after that, I need to stand on my own. I inhale deeply and take the opportunity to heal all the slices and nicks my body hasn’t finished repairing. I wipe my hands, slicked with sweat and blood, on the remnants of my tattered jeans. I focus on my knee next, bringing the shards of bone together slowly and repairing the ligaments so it will hold my weight. While I heal, Judica cleans her blade dispassionately, not looking at all bothered that she nearly cleaved my head from my body.
Balthasar finally speaks, spluttering a little as he does. “I certainly hope you were planning to stop your blade, Judica. You certainly knew this was a training session.”
Judica smiles. “I guess we’ll never know.”
“What’s your game here?” Edam stares at Judica, and cocks his head to the side, probably listening like I am to her smooth, steady heartbeat. She’s completely calm, non-plussed. My blood runs cold. Mom wants me to take the throne from her? Or even worse, share it with her? She almost beheaded me, and she’s not even agitated.
Judica glares at Edam, a look I’m familiar with, and says, “I wanted her to see how unprepared she is for an actual fight.” She laughs and the sound makes the hairs on my arm stand on end. “Not that she needs the lesson from what I hear. Beaten by a half-human.” She spits on the ground.
“I think that’s enough sparring for today.” Edam grits his teeth and crosses his arms.
He and Judica are locked in some kind of
unspoken conversation. It upsets me in a way I’d rather not study.
Balthasar interrupts them, which I appreciate. “That’s not your call yet, my boy. You may instruct the rest of the men, but I’m still the Security Chief last I checked, which means I’m the only one who manages the Heir’s training.”
Edam blushes and inclines his head slightly. “My apologies, Sir.”
Balthasar’s steely gray eyes take in my state of bloodiness and soften just a hair. “Insubordinate or not, Edam’s right, Judica. I think you’d better call it a day.”
Except I can’t stop, not now, not after she’s made fun of everything Mom taught me, and then proven her words by practically ending me. Judica can’t get away with calling Mom old, outdated, and past her prime. And as much as I don’t want to be here—even Mom only wants me as Heir because some rock reacted to me—I need to improve, and if I walk away like I want to, I’ll never be anything but the victim everyone sees when they look at me.
Surely if Mom chose to train me in melodics she had a reason for it. There must be some value to my training and abilities.
“No.” My voice wavers and my stomach ties in knots, but I remain firm.
“No?” Judica scoffs. “You’re not done? That wasn’t painful enough for you? I didn’t realize you were a sadomasochist.”
I raise my sword arm and turn to Balthasar. “She hasn’t defeated me. We’ll go again. On your mark.”
This time, when he claps, I’m ready for it. I bring my sword arm back with as much enthusiasm as Judica. I was too busy the first time to listen for it, to feel the rhythm of the fight.
I feel it now.
When Judica attacks me, I hear triads, sharp, clear, and defined. I defend with a sweeping scale, ready for her. She may not know melodics, and we may be dancing without music, but she moves to her own song. Her melodic line’s choppy and confused. I breathe through my nose and monitor her movements until I sense the best melody for my attack. As I watch her jumping around, a pattern emerges and my avenue becomes clear. I begin with a simple run. A parry, a swipe, a jab. And then I show Judica just what our mom taught me. An arpeggio. An aria. Suddenly, she’s the one blocking, running, and backing up. I rage. I rail. She cowers, and I revel in it.
Melodics are dead? Eat my blade, Judica.
She almost does. I slide under her block and smash her toe with the heel of my boot. She winces and I slam the flat of my blade into her shoulder. She drops her sword and I kick it away.
“Do it,” she says.
“Do what?” I ask. “You’re unarmed. I’ve done it already. You’re finished.”
“You haven’t even drawn blood. We’re just getting started.” She shoves herself against my sword until the end pierces her skin and blood oozes out.
What is wrong with her? “Maybe for you this is the start, but I’m not that bloodthirsty.” I hurl my sword toward the corner of the ring, where it lands against hers with a clatter.
“You’re a coward.” Judica leans back and I notice the wound she inflicted on herself has already healed. I’ve never seen anyone heal so fast. “You’re never willing to hurt anyone, never willing to inflict even a little pain.”
“Pain’s overrated.”
Judica laughs. “Spoken like someone who doesn’t understand it.”
“And you’re an expert?”
Judica’s eyes flash. “More than you’ll ever understand. But here, let me offer you your first lesson.” My only warning is a flash of silver near her ankle before she rams the knife up to the hilt into my stomach.
I fall backward and land on my butt. Of course Judica keeps a concealed blade. I’m awash in pain now, but I have enough sense about me to know I need to pull the knife out before I can heal the damage. When I try to yank it out, Judica leaps above me, covering my hand with her own, and twisting the hilt. My vision blacks out and my body begins to shake.
“Enough.” This time it’s Balthasar who pulls Judica away.
Edam yanks the knife out of the gaping hamburger meat that used to resemble my stomach and lifts me up. He wraps an arm around me to keep me upright. “Are you okay?” he asks softly. “Did she puncture anything major? Should I call Job?” Pain rolls outward from my stomach in waves, but his hands on my shoulders still draw half my attention.
Judica snarls at me as Balthasar pulls her toward the back corner of the room. I ignore them and focus on my stomach, filling holes, repairing the torn and sliced bits. I push the pain back, one second at a time, and clench my fists until the worst recedes.
“I’m fine.” Despite my words, I don’t pull away from Edam and he doesn’t release me. He’s staring down at my face when I finally look up. I’m healed, but the process has drained me right down to my bones.
“I think I’m done for the day,” I mumble. I’m not sure I can stay on my feet without help.
“I was wrong,” Judica says.
I’m not expecting an apology. After years of trying, of hoping, of forgiving, I gave up completely on ever being the recipient of Judica’s remorse long ago. I should ignore her proclamation and walk out, but since I can’t walk, I turn toward her.
Besides, Judica has never admitted she’s wrong before, so her declaration piques my curiosity. “About what?”
“You’re not a coward,” she says.
“No?” I’m actually surprised. She never retracts insults. Maybe my comeback actually impressed her.
“No.” She smiles at me and something inside me I thought long dead surges.
Hope.
Is she sorry for what she did? Does she realize she went too far by stabbing me after our sparring ended? Maybe she regrets being so cold and cruel over the years. Maybe she wants me to forgive her. Maybe shreds of compassion exist in the inner parts of her heart. Perhaps there’s a shred of hope she might be willing to help me, to support me.
Her smile grows cold and I know. A split second before she speaks again, I realize nothing has changed.
“Cowardice can be overcome,” she says. “Cowards sometimes grow backbones. You’re not a coward, and you’ll never change. You’re weak, just like our father was, and you can’t fix that, no more than a housecat could age into a tiger. Even in utero, Mother knew I was the strong one. She knew you were too small, too kind, and too weak to rule Alamecha. Nothing will change that. Nothing.”
I just healed a broken knee, a gash on my arm that cut to the bone, and the damage from a knife being twisted inside my gut. Even so, her words hurt worse. It’s not even her hatred or contempt that sting. I’ve become so accustomed to those that they have no power over me now.
But.
What she said this time is true.
Mom chose Judica over me without hesitation or delay. The only explanation is that she saw something in me, even as a baby, that was lacking. In seventeen years, I’ve never heard a single soul express the sentiment that Mom might have killed Judica instead of me. It was always me she spared, and it was always me who was doomed to die. My innate deficiency is the one wound my perfect body can’t heal. Because if I hadn’t ever tried on her ring, even my own mother would still think I was too flawed to take her place.
And everyone knows that Enora’s instincts are never wrong.
9
By the time I stumble back to my room, I’m done with evian politics and my sister and rings and prophecies and everything else even remotely related to any of it. I collapse on my thick, champagne colored carpet and sob into Cookie’s fluffy coat. She doesn’t mind one bit. Which is exactly why I love my dog so much.
Maybe I am weak, and maybe I cry too often, but he never complains.
A light knock at the door connecting my room to Mom’s leaves me scrambling to sit up. Mom never waits long after her courtesy tap, so she catches me, puffy red eyes and all. Not that it matters. She could probably hear me sobbing though the walls connecting our rooms. Most evian walls are soundproofed heavily because of our sensitive hearing, but Mom wanted to be able to hear my heartbeat
at night. She says she can’t sleep without it.
Mom sits next to me on the floor and pulls me against her chest. “Ready to kill Lark?”
My breathing hitches, and her hand strokes my hair. “Relax. You’ll be pretending to kill Lark, and Frederick will testify he saw it. I’ll lead her out through one of the secret passages to freedom instead.”
“Wait, we have secret passages?” I wipe my cheeks and sit up straight. “How did I not know that?”
“Duh,” Mom says. “Because they wouldn’t be secret if everyone knew about them.”
I lift one eyebrow. “I know about the secret bunker.” I wonder how many other secrets my mom is hiding.
Mom shrugs. “Need to know.”
“Does that mean Judica—”
“Has no idea. True.”
I beam.
“Balth told me today didn’t go so well.”
I shake my head.
“Well, maybe you’ll feel better once Lark is safely on her way.”
Yes, maybe my spirits will be lifted when I watch my best friend escape through a tunnel to a world I’ll never join.
Mom’s eyebrows draw together. “I know it’s not what you had in mind when you woke up this morning.”
This morning I thought the world was safe. This morning I knew my place. What I wouldn’t give to go back in time to this morning. A single tear streaks down my face, but I wipe it away. Because crying won’t help Lark, but helping free her might. I stand up and nod at the air duct. “Is that the passageway?” The air whooshing through always seemed abnormally loud to me.
Mom laughs. “Not even close.” I signal for Cookie to stay in my room. Then I follow Mom through the door into her room and watch as she slides a portrait of me as a baby aside and presses her finger into a tiny scuffed spot in the wall. A bookcase that I’ve never seen shift even a hair slides silently to the right, opening to show a dim hallway that slopes steeply down.
Displaced (The Birthright Series Book 1) Page 10