CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO #3
“So . . .” Evylin let the word hang as she came to conclusions. “Likely, we never felt it before because we never needed magic to that extent before, which is why Warriors may never realize their magic in the first place. If we aren’t put in a true battle, we don’t have a true need for it.”
Ethenn shifted his weight, head tilting thoughtfully. “So we can only access our magic in life-or-death situations?”
Evylin shook her head. “No, I’ve now found myself using it many times in daily life,” she said, not bothering to mention that Deckard’s touch could spur her access to the magic.
In fact, her first notable experience with the sensation had been during their kiss in Wayford, well before they rescued the prince.
Ignoring those thoughts and the feelings they stirred, Evylin returned to the topic at hand.
“It isn’t the dire circumstances that drive us to use our magic,” she explained, “it’s the focus required of us in those times.
In a fight, we have no choice but to concentrate on the moment at hand.
We’re attuned to our magic because we’re open to it.
Just like when we watched the camp yesterday.
We focused on extending our vision and hearing, and thus, we tapped into our magic. ”
“Like when I tracked you in Dunneshead,” Ethenn murmured.
Evylin furrowed her brow. “You tracked me?”
“Yeah.” Ethenn’s ears turned pink. “When the colonel and I were looking, I was able to, uh—to pick up your scent. It’s something I’ve always been able to do during a hunt. I just didn’t realize it was a Warrior thing until—well, until now.”
Despite the oddity of the revelation, Evylin pursed her lips with approval.
“I never would have thought of that. But yes, that’s a perfect example of what we can do.
When we access our magic, our senses become superhuman.
It’s as though the world becomes brighter, louder, stronger . . . Everything is clearer.”
Ethenn nodded enthusiastically. “The world is sharper. You feel connected to it.”
“Exactly.” Evylin smiled, awed at having someone understand her experience so fully. “Focus is the trick. We have to hone our thoughts, concentrating on our task, to feel that connection.”
The lesson reminded Evylin of her youth and training with Hewitt.
He’d always taught her that focus was the key to victory.
Calming your mind, finding your center—that was how you won a duel.
People overcomplicated swordsmanship, he’d said.
It wasn’t about being the strongest or most cunning.
It was knowing the blade itself and trusting your body to do the job.
You didn’t overthink it. You simply lived as one with the sword.
“How do you practice that?” Ethenn asked, breaking through her memories.
Letting Hewitt’s training speak through her, Evylin replied, “By knowing what you want.”
Ethenn’s eyebrows lowered in confusion.
Evylin chuckled and pulled out a dagger.
She was surprised when she looked down and saw that she’d unconsciously drawn the one that had belonged to Deckard.
She brushed her thumb along the rosettes on the pommel.
Then she tossed it in the air, flipping it end over end.
As it began its second rotation, she caught the hilt upside down in her left hand and lunged, pressing the blade to Ethenn’s neck.
The series of movements occurred in the span of a half-second.
Eyes wide, Ethenn stared at her.
“You don’t practice aimlessly, Ethenn,” Evylin said, pulling the dagger back. “You know what you want, and you visualize it. Then you do it.”
“That’s an oversimplification,” Ethenn said, though he was smiling.
Evylin raised her brow playfully. “That’s being a Warrior. We don’t seem to have the constraints normal people have. We focus—we get a picture in our mind, and we act on it.”
She slipped the dagger into the sheath on her belt.
“The problem comes when focusing isn’t easy.
From what Auden has told me and what I’ve observed, it seems that Warriors are predisposed to finding and holding their focus in a fight, but I can tell you from personal experience that you can’t rely on that. Once that focus is lost . . .”
Memories of the Water Keep flooded Evylin’s mind.
The feeling of her feet slipping from under her; water soaking to her bones as she drowned; fear distorting her mind as she faced Blount; anger rising at the revelation that the Calders had lied.
And more than all those other things, the grief of losing Hewitt was ever looming at the back of her mind.
“It’s hard to recover from that,” she murmured.
Blinking away her thoughts, Evylin forced herself to smile at Ethenn. “That’s why you need to know your weaknesses,” she concluded.
“How’s that?” Ethenn asked.
“If you know your weaknesses,” she explained, “you can be prepared for any circumstance.”
“Wouldn’t knowing your strengths be better?”
“Not at all. You’re only as strong as your greatest weakness.”
Ethenn scratched the back of his neck. “You’ve lost me.”
Evylin smirked. “Think of it this way: You can be the strongest fighter in the world, but if you aren’t aware that your armor has a hole in its back, you can’t defend yourself properly.”
“So you mean that by knowing your greatest weakness, you can become a better fighter?”
Evylin nodded.
“What are your weaknesses then?” he asked.
Evylin could practically hear Hewitt’s voice gently admonishing as he taught her to recognize her flaws. Then he’d instructed her on how to overcome them. “I have two,” she said. “I’m a woman and a show-off.”
Ethenn laughed, crossing his arms. “I would think being a woman is a benefit. People will underestimate you.”
“True,” she said. “But that benefit only lasts until the first strike, and then they discover how skilled I am.”
His eyes gleamed with interest. “How do you overcome those weaknesses?”
“As far as being a show-off goes, I just have to get over my own ego,” Evylin said with feigned self-derision. “Doing the job right isn’t always fun, nor is it always pretty. But it is the best way, and I have to remind myself of that.”
She shrugged. “There isn’t much I can do about being a woman.
The fact is, I can never be as strong as the average man, and that’s a distinct disadvantage.
However, that doesn’t mean I can’t beat him.
I have three means of outfighting another’s strength: skill, smarts, or speed.
The weight of muscle can make a man slow, which means I can be vastly faster.
It can also make him think he’s invincible.
In which case, I can use my knowledge and training to outsmart him.
He can rely on his strength to overpower me, but I can use my superior technique to outmaneuver him. ”
Ethenn nodded along, listening intently.
“However,” Evylin concluded, “if my opponent happens to be an intelligent, agile, masterful swordsman with superior strength, then Hewitt says I only have one recourse.”
“And what’s that?” Ethenn asked.
She smirked. “Run,” she said. “And if that fails, kick him where it counts.”
Ethenn burst out laughing, and she joined him. It felt good to be free enough to laugh once more, to release deep, rich laughter that came from her gut. When was the last time she’d laughed without a Relic’s influence? She couldn’t remember.
“Yeah,” Ethenn said through his mirth. “That should work.”
Evylin scooped up the practice swords. She tossed one to him. “Now, let’s figure out your weaknesses, shall we?”
Over the course of the next hour, they sparred, taking careful consideration of Ethenn’s weak points and shortcomings.
They both worked to channel their magic throughout the training.
Ethenn was a natural fighter—they’d known that from the start—and it was hard for Evylin to pick apart his skill.
The technical, critical eye was Hewitt’s specialty, not hers.
And she found it more difficult to pick up on what he was doing wrong than she’d anticipated.
However, she finally struck on some key failings.
First, Ethenn was left-handed. Not a fault on its own, but sometimes, it showed in his swordplay.
Though he held the sword in his right hand—a standard Hewitt had drilled into him—at times, he grew sloppy, forgetting which arm should bear the brunt of his attacks.
Second, he was slower to make decisions.
Evylin thought it came from his training as a hunter and archer, which required sitting still for long periods and perfectly lining up his shot.
In a sword fight, you couldn’t wait for the perfect moment.
Snap decisions were necessary. He’d have to become more decisive.
And thirdly, Ethenn held himself back. Evylin could feel it with every strike and blow—he wasn’t putting his full effort into any of it. When she commented on it, he shrugged. “I always do that,” he said placidly.
Evylin screwed up her face, nonplussed. “You’re not going to hurt me.”
“No, it isn’t you,” he said. “I do it with everyone. With every fight.”
“Why?”
“Because . . .” He stared at the ground then. He rubbed away the sweat dripping down his nose. “Because I don’t like how it feels when I lose control.”
Suddenly, Evylin remembered the first time she’d met Ethenn.
He’d joined the Third Volunteer Company and become a member of Thom’s platoon along with one of his old friends from Trollenston.
“Friends” being a loose term, as the other young man had goaded him into a fistfight.
One where Ethenn would likely have beaten the boy senseless had Thom not intervened.
Since then, Evylin hadn’t seen Ethenn lose his temper. Now, she wondered how hard he’d worked to keep it that way.
“That’s why you don’t want to be a Warrior,” Evylin realized. “It isn’t because you lack self-confidence. It’s because you’re afraid of yourself, of what you could do if you got angry enough.”
Ethenn didn’t confirm it but stood before her, silent and steady.