Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
T hea paused at the crest on the land. There was nowhere to hide and so she simply sat on the damp grass and watched him in full view.
The Warsword had shucked off his outer layers and wore a sweat-drenched undershirt as he trained, powerful muscles bunching beneath the wet fabric. The black ink on his right hand trailed up his forearm and bicep, disappearing under his shirt.
He slashed his two mighty swords through the air in a blur of steel, cutting down imaginary opponents.
Thea had seen no one move like he did. Each strike, each parry, each feint was a step in a deadly dance, each movement blended with lethal grace, discipline and strength beyond her comprehension.
Not even Esyllt, the weapons master, can fight like that.
Again, Thea wondered who had schooled the warrior in the art of combat, for it was an art when he did it.
As arrogant as he was, there was no denying Hawthorne’s predatory prowess, his unparalleled skill.
Someone more than a weapons master had honed those abilities – and the Furies themselves had gifted him power upon completion of the Great Rite.
Clouds formed before Thea’s face as she exhaled, wondering what it would be like to see Hawthorne in the heart of a proper battle. She could almost picture it: the warrior clad in his black armour, blood spattered across his handsome face as he carved through enemy after enemy —
‘Do you think it wise, spying on a Warsword, Alchemist?’ He didn’t break his focus from his sparring.
‘Here I was thinking we’d started getting along,’ she said, unable to suppress her grin as a fresh blush tipped his cheeks. ‘Besides, it’s not spying if I’m in plain sight. Why don’t you teach me some of your drills?’
‘No.’ It came out as a growl. ‘Haven’t I made myself clear?’
‘Haven’t I?’ Thea countered. ‘I want to learn, and who better to learn from than you?’
‘I wasn’t offering.’
‘What do you have to lose?’
‘You mean besides my time?’
‘Didn’t seem like you minded spending time with me this morning.’
He glowered. ‘Not another word.’
But his irritation only fuelled Thea’s amusement. ‘Come now, we’ve shared so much already,’ she teased. ‘Why not share a few of your tricks? After all, Warswords used to have apprentices —’
‘ Used to ,’ he snapped. ‘A tradition that has thankfully been dropped.’
She could feel the tension rolling off him in waves as he went through another set of movements.
She tried to commit each twirl of the blade to memory, wishing she’d brought parchment and a pen to take notes.
This was like no other training session she’d witnessed.
There was a fluidity to every strike, every shift from foot to foot.
He was a master in every respect of the word.
‘Vernich would have killed you by now.’ Hawthorne dropped into a powerful lunge, following through with a well-placed thrust of his second blade.
Thea found the words did not surprise her. Vernich the Bloodletter… The name said it all. ‘You’re not Vernich.’
‘Good of you to notice.’
‘What about the other, Torj the Bear Slayer? Would he tolerate me?’
‘Only if he wanted to bed you.’
‘Surely that’s frowned upon? Aren’t there rules?’
Hawthorne made a noise at the back of his throat. ‘That’s rich, coming from you.’
‘Well, he’s a Warsword though.’
‘Perhaps alchemists aren’t the only ones with a penchant for rule breaking.’
Hawthorne worked his way through a final round of sparring, his momentum increasing with every spin, every block.
‘What are they like? The others?’ Thea pressed.
At last, the Warsword came to a stop and mopped his brow on a scrap of fabric. ‘I just told you,’ he said, sheathing his blades in their scabbards. The warrior passed her on the ridge and made for a nearby stream.
Without thinking, Thea made to follow.
Hawthorne stopped in his tracks and turned to her with a piercing gaze. ‘Do you mean to watch me bathe as well?’
Thea’s cheeks heated, but she lifted her chin, recalling the press of his hard length against her backside. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.’
The corner of his mouth moved, betraying the hint of a dimple. ‘I doubt that, Alchemist. I doubt that very much.’
By mid-afternoon, the capital city, Hailford, and the grand palace, the Heart of Harenth, were on the horizon.
Even from afar, it was an incredible sight, as though the unnatural darkness at the edge of the midrealms didn’t dare touch its shimmering soul.
The palace sat atop a great hill at the centre, the city sprawling beneath it, its buildings in neat layered rows, like adoring admirers before a stage, surrounded by thick stone walls.
Before Thea knew it, they were at the towering iron gates tipped with spikes, though the imposing structure had been draped in banners and flowers in honour of the royal guests from the neighbouring kingdoms.
Hawthorne slowed his stallion upon approach and addressed one of the armed guards.
‘The celebrations are well underway, then?’
The guard bowed his head in respect before he answered. ‘Yes, Sir. The rulers from Tver and Aveum arrived two days ago. The main feast will begin by sundown.’
Hawthorne nodded. ‘We’re just in time. Thank you.’
Lowering his head once more, the guard pressed three fingers to his left shoulder, the utmost sign of reverence to a Warsword. His companion on the other side of the gateway did the same.
‘Always an honour to host one of your kind in our city, Sir. Welcome to Hailford.’
Hawthorne nodded in thanks and urged his horse through the open gate, Thea close behind, her eyes widening at what lay beyond the walls.
The gates opened up to a paved square, an elaborate fountain at the centre with a mountain drake atop a jagged peak, streams of water shooting from the spikes on its back, the detailing so fine that Thea could see its individual scales.
But there was no chance to study it, as Hawthorne urged them into a trot down the main thoroughfare.
Thea didn’t know where to look first. Shops opened up onto the street, some selling wares from small stalls right on the cobblestones, goods spilling out from baskets, merchants calling out to those tempted to browse.
More flowers and banners draped across the streets, petals lining the gutters.
Celebration was thick in the air, people were drunk and cheerful, and the whole of Harenth pulsed with life and joyful abandon.
Thea drank it all in, wishing she could leap from her horse and take part in the festivities.
A particularly colourful stall caught Thea’s eye, and she longed for Wren to see the array of spices on display in little stone bowls and the range of herbs hanging from a thin rope across the width of the table.
Sure enough, behind the stall was a fully stocked apothecary, likely where Farissa and the fortress cook got their supplies from, for potions and stews alike.
‘Keep up,’ Hawthorne called back to her.
Thea reluctantly squeezed her mare’s sides, increasing her pace.
At the sight of the mighty black stallion and its rider, the crowded streets parted before them, some people making the three-fingered salute to the Warsword in their midst.
The street curled around the base of the hill and inclined, the celebrations and opulence growing with each step closer to the palace.
The clothing of the onlookers became more colourful and lavish; instead of plain wool dresses and jackets, silk gowns trailed the cobblestones and velvet tunics with family crests and emblems emblazoned on the front lined the streets.
Thea and Hawthorne passed more shops, taverns and vibrant stalls, and eventually, the sight of the swinging wooden sign with crossed axes etched into it yanked Thea from her state of wonder.
It was the great forge of Harenth, where she knew the Thezmarrian warrior weapons were made.
It was a good opening to ask about the forging of the Naarvian blades and where that took place, but she wouldn’t risk another verbal sparring match so close to the palace.
Thea’s chest grew tight and nerves squirmed in her gut.
She became increasingly aware of her worn and dirty travelling clothes amidst all the finery.
The fresh shirt she’d changed into earlier that morning was dusty and smelt of horse.
She knew that she would be afforded no opportunity to clean up before she was presented to the king, and the injustice of that fact nagged at her mind.
Towards the palace, the shops became more and more specialised: a gallery, a fine jeweller, a silk merchant and —
A plump man in a red velvet tunic waved so enthusiastically at Hawthorne, Thea thought his arm might pop out of its socket. He stood amidst a collection of massive oak barrels outside what appeared to be a wine shop.
‘Hawthorne, my old friend!’ he called, still waving, a wide grin splitting his face.
‘Like you have any friends,’ she muttered.
But to Thea’s surprise, the Warsword slowed and when he turned to the man, she was even more shocked to find a genuine smile on his lips. It made him look younger.
‘Hello Marise.’
‘You must stop by today,’ Marise gushed. ‘I’ve received several new vintages. There is one I know you will love especially!’
It was all Thea could do not to stare with her mouth agape. Hawthorne likes fancy aged liquor…? The Warsword and the wine merchant… It was an odd friendship pairing, to be sure. Also, it proved that Hawthorne was capable of manners and camaraderie, just not with her.
Brash bastard, Thea thought.
‘Perhaps another time,’ Hawthorne replied. ‘I have business at the palace.’
‘Business is thirsty work…’
‘You’re not wrong.’
Marise craned his neck, seeming to notice Thea at last. He made no effort to hide his blatant curiosity.
‘And who is this intense creature? A new friend of yours?’ he asked.
Hawthorne actually laughed . ‘No.’