Chapter 42 #2
When I don’t move, a flash of hurt reaches me, and then she turns away and reaches for the clothes.
The undergarments go on first. I don’t lie to myself and pretend I’m not enjoying how they slide up her legs.
The pants are next, followed by the undershirt and tunic.
She sits on the bed to pull on the socks and boots, and when she stands, she’s breathing harder than getting dressed should warrant.
“Well?”
I arch a brow at the snapped word, then turn and walk out without a word.
She follows me.
The village is still quiet at this hour, and I lead her past the forge, along to where the last cottages are spread out, and then further down the road until we reach a clearing screened by birch trees.
The ground here is hard-packed earth, ensuring good footing for what I have planned. I stop in the center of the clearing and turn to face her.
She’s standing with her arms crossed, watching me. As she lifts her head, the rising sun hits the collar, and I frown.
“Come here.”
“Why?”
“Because you won’t like it if I have to drag you to me.” I let my gaze run over her, pausing on her breasts. “Or maybe you will. Do you wish to find out?”
Her eyes narrow at that, but she comes closer.
Once she’s within arm’s reach, I lift a hand and touch the collar with one fingertip, and send magic into it.
The collar thins, changing shape, until it lies against her skin like a delicate silver chain rather than a band.
When I pull my hand back, she reaches up to touch it, her fingers tracing the new shape.
“What did you do?”
“Made it less obvious. You still can’t remove it. I don’t want mages tracking you.”
She nods, fingertips lingering on the new chain. “So … training?”
“Training.” I move back a few steps, and snap my fingers. A simple bow forms in my hand, sized to fit her frame.
“Do you have to snap your fingers every time you do magic?”
“No.”
“Then why do it?”
“Because I can.” I arch an eyebrow. “Are you looking to bargain a truth for a truth again, Moirthalen?”
Her cheeks turn pink. “No.”
“Then may I continue?”
She glares at me.
“You can shoot a bow, yes?”
She nods, staring at it, eyes wide.
“Is there a problem?”
“You … you’re giving me a bow?”
“I can’t see how well you shoot without one.”
“But … the last time I held a bow, I was trying to kill you.”
“I remember. You missed.”
“I did not miss.” There’s a spark in her eyes now. “You moved.”
“Then don’t announce where you’re aiming this time.”
She laughs, a startled sound. For a second she looks like someone else entirely. Someone who hasn’t spent the last month being hurt, and collared, and terrified. Someone who used to laugh easily.
She takes the bow, tests the draw, and adjusts her grip. The wariness falls away as she settles into the stance, her body remembering what her mind has been too distracted to hold onto. I watch as her hands find the right positions, her shoulders drop, and her breathing slows.
Then I form three arrows and hold them out.
“That tree.” I point to a birch at the edge of the clearing, thirty yards out. “There’s a knot halfway up. Do you see it?”
She nods.
“I want you to hit it.”
She nocks the first arrow, draws, and releases in one smooth motion. It hits an inch left of the knot. She frowns, adjusts her stance, and draws again. The second arrow is a hairsbreadth short of the target. The third one hits dead center.
I dissolve the bow. “Good enough for the moment. What else have you been taught?”
“Some knife work. How to hold a blade, and where to aim if I’m ever caught alone.”
“Show me.” I let a butter knife form in my palm.
She stares down at it. Then at me.
“That’s not funny.”
“I thought it was.”
“You’re hilarious.” Her eyes roll, but she takes it. “I didn’t have anything else to use.”
“You had the element of surprise. You had me asleep. And you had the blade at my throat.” I form a proper dagger, black with silver chasing, turning it over so the light catches the edge. “And you still couldn’t do it.”
“I hesitated.”
“Hesitation gets you killed.” I take the butterknife and give her the proper blade.
Her fingers curl around the grip, elbow tucking in close, blade held out.
“Brennan showed me how to use one.” Her voice softens when she says his name.
I think about all the ways I could kill him.
“He used to drill me in the armory before dawn, when no one else was around. He said all women should know how to defend themselves.” She turns the blade over in her hand.
“I used to love those mornings. It was the only time I felt like I was actually good at something that mattered. Merina had the politics, the charm and the grace. I had a bow and a knife, and a guard who didn’t treat me like I was made of glass. ”
There’s more there than she’s saying. I can hear it in her voice. Years of feeling second-best, of being the spare. The one nobody expected anything from.
“He was right. About defending yourself.”
She looks up at that, surprised.
“Your stance is not bad.” I circle around behind her. “But a knife is no good if you can’t get close enough to use it. And getting close means not dying on the way.”
I study the way she holds herself. The set of her shoulders, the position of her feet.
“Your feet are too close together. An unexpected shove, and you will lose your balance.”
She adjusts, widening her stance. I nudge her ankle with my boot, pushing it another inch into position.
“Good. Now adjust your weight.” I put my hand on her lower back and she stiffens under my touch. “You’re leaning forward. If someone pushes you, you’ll go down on your face. Sink your weight. Unlock your knees.”
She tries, but I can feel the tension running through her.
“Relax.”
“Easy for you to say.” I don’t think I’m meant to hear the muttered words.
“Is it?”
She turns her head, trying to look at me over her shoulder. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means relax.”
She takes a breath, and some of the stiffness leaves her.
“Better. Now … when someone comes at you, your instinct is going to be to step back. Don’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because stepping back is giving ground. You give ground, you lose your balance. You lose your balance, you end up on the floor with someone’s boot on your throat.”
And just because I can, I have her on the ground with my foot on her throat before she can blink. The blade flies across the clearing. I dissolve it with a glance.
“See?” I reach down and pull her onto her feet. “You want to move sideways, out of the line of attack, not away from it.”
“Sideways,” she repeats, but her focus is on me now, not on what I’m saying.
“Like this.” I come at her. She steps a second too late and my shoulder slams into her. She drops to the ground again. “Up. Again.”
She moves better this time, but she goes the wrong way, and I spin her off balance. She stumbles but doesn’t fall.
“You moved into me. Watch where I’m going, not where I am.”
“I was watching!”
“You were watching my eyes. Eyes lie. Watch my shoulders, my hips. That’s where the movement starts.” I come at her again … and she hits the ground … again.
I vary the speed, the angles, the direction, and slowly she starts to understand. Her eyes drop from my face to my body, learning to read the shift of weight that signals where I’m going. She’s not fast. She won’t be fast for a while yet, but she’s learning.
“Better,” I say when she manages to sidestep cleanly for the third time in a row. “Now let’s add something new.”
I step closer and take her hand, pressing her palm flat against my chest. “When I move, don't try to stop me. You can’t. You need to use my momentum against me. When I’m close enough, slam your hand right here.” I tap the back of her hand. “Most of the impact will come from my forward motion.”
Her hand is warm through my shirt. She’s staring at her fingers splayed across my chest.
“Alleria.”
Her eyes lift to mine. There’s color high on her cheeks, and her pulse is fluttering visibly at the base of her throat.
“Are you listening to me?”
“Yes.” She clears her throat. “Yes.”
“Then show me.”
I step back, giving her room, then move toward her. She sidesteps, better this time, more fluid, and pushes.
“Harder.”
“I don’t want to—”
“You’re not going to hurt me. Harder.”
The next time she shoves, there’s more force behind it. It isn’t enough to stop me, but enough that I feel the impact.
“Adequate.”
“Adequate?” She’s breathing hard, frustration bleeding into her voice. “That’s all you're going to give me?”
“What do you want, a round of applause?”
“You haven’t said a single positive thing since we started. You just keep barking instructions at me. I hit that target three times—”
“You hit it once. In good light. Standing still. With no one trying to kill you.” I step toward her, and she holds her ground.
“You want praise for that? Go back to your palace and shoot at targets until someone pins a ribbon on you. If you want to survive what you’ve chosen to be a part of, then you have to learn to do it when you’re tired, hurt, and terrified.
When your hands are shaking, and your eyes are full of blood, and someone is coming at you with a blade they mean to put through your throat.
” One of my swords appears in my hand, its tip pressing against her throat.
“That’s what this training is for. Not for ribbons.
And not so you can go and hunt half-dead game to brag about around the dinner table. ”
She stays still, frozen to the spot, lips parted.
“Fine.” Her voice shakes. “Then train me properly.”
“I am.”
“No, you’re—” She steps back, away from the reach of my sword. I let it disappear. “You’re holding back. You’re coming at me slow enough that a child could dodge you.”
I snort. “A child with faster reflexes than you.”
“If you want me to learn how to survive someone trying to kill me, then you need to behave like you’re trying to kill me.”
“I’ve done that once already, Moirthalen. It appeared to have the opposite effect, and you’re still here.”
“Then stop treating me like I’ll break!”
We lock gazes. There’s a stubborn set to her chin, and a spark in her eyes. My lips twitch.
“Remember that this is at your request.”
I move, and have her back against my chest with her arm twisted behind her before she can blink .
“You’re dead,” I whisper against her ear.
I release her and step back. She turns to face me, rubbing her arm. I don’t give her a chance to regain her balance, and wrap my fingers around her throat, driving her backward until she hits a tree trunk.
“Dead. Again.”
Her breathing grows ragged, sweat beads her brow, and plasters her tunic to her back. But she doesn’t complain and she doesn’t quit.
Every time I put her on the ground, she gets back up.
“Your footwork is still wrong.” I move behind her. “You keep crossing your feet, and tripping yourself up. You trip—”
“You die. I know.”
I put my hands on her hips to adjust her position, and she goes still.
“Step left.”
She steps, and my hands move with her.
“Now right.”
She steps right. Her breathing has turned shallow.
“Again. Left.”
Her hip shifts under my palm, and the memory of her body moving against mine, the sounds she made, my true name spilling from her lips, fills my head.
“Again.”