Chapter 11
Late. She was going to be late. The bedchamber door opened behind her, and Khaeric’s voice rumbled through the room. “Aeryn, I wanted to ask—”
“I can’t right now.” She shoved her foot into the second boot, hopping to force her heel down. Where had she put the letter? The desk—still there from last night after they’d returned from the baths.
“It’ll only take a moment—”
“I’m sorry, I really can’t.” Her fingers closed around the sealed parchment. She turned toward the nightstand where the dagger rested.
“Aeryn—”
“I’m sorry, I have to go!” The words tumbled out as she bolted toward the door, letter clutched in one hand, dagger in the other. Her boots barely found purchase on the stone before she was through the doorway and into the corridor.
Behind her, she heard Khaeric call her name again, but she was already running. Crystal clusters blurred past, leather soles slapping against stone. Just after dawn, Garran had said. The training yard. Don’t be late.
The courier’s hall sat two levels down and across half the mountain.
She flew down corridor after corridor, breath coming in sharp gasps.
The stairwell appeared on her left, and she took the steps two at a time, one hand pressed against the wall for balance while the other clutched the letter and dagger.
Second level. The courier’s hall was just ahead; she recognized the carved archway marking its entrance. Aeryn burst through the opening, startling the elf-blooded woman behind the desk.
“I need this sent to the lowlands.” The words came out breathless as she thrust the sealed parchment across the desk. “Aelyndor. It’s addressed—the recipient’s on the seal.”
The woman’s brows rose, but she reached for the letter. “It’ll go out with the afternoon courier.”
“Thank you.” Aeryn turned before the woman could respond, already moving back toward the doorway. Up one level. Then another corridor. The training yard was on the eastern side of the mountain.
The archway loomed ahead. Aeryn pushed through, chest heaving, and stumbled into the yard. Garran stood in the center, arms crossed. “Ye’re late.”
Aeryn pressed one hand against her ribs, trying to catch her breath. The dagger felt slick in her sweating palm. “I—I’m sorry, I had to—”
“Dinnae care.” Garran’s eyes tracked over her, assessing. “I said dawn. It’s past dawn.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” The words came between gasps. Her lungs burned, her legs trembled from the sprint through half the mountain.
Garran’s expression didn’t soften. “Trainin’ starts on time. If ye cannae manage that—”
“I can. I will.” Aeryn straightened despite the protest in her muscles. “It won’t happen again.”
His gaze traveled from her flushed face down to the dagger clutched in her hand. “That yer weapon?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see it.”
She extended the dagger, hilt first. Garran took it, turning it over, examining the blade. “Good steel.” He flipped it in his hand, offering the hilt back. “Show me how ye hold it.”
Aeryn wrapped her fingers around the grip, trying to remember how she’d seen soldiers hold their weapons. Her thumb pressed against the guard, the blade angling away from her body.
Garran’s mouth tightened. “Wrong.” He stepped closer, his hand closing over hers.
His palm was warm, calloused, completely engulfing her smaller grip.
“Thumb here.” He adjusted her hold, pressing her thumb along the blade’s spine.
“Firmer grip. If someone strikes yer wrist, ye’ll lose it otherwise. ”
She tightened her hold, feeling the leather wrap bite into her palm.
“Better.” He released her hand and stepped back. “Now show me yer stance.”
Aeryn shifted her weight, trying to remember how the palace guards had stood during weapons drills she’d glimpsed from windows. One foot forward, knees slightly bent—
“No.” Garran moved around her, boots scuffing against packed earth. “Ye’re too rigid. Drop yer shoulder. Weight balanced between both feet, not favorin’ one.” His hand pressed between her shoulder blades. “Lower. Ye’re presentin’ yerself like a target.”
She adjusted, bending her knees further and lowering her center of gravity. The position felt awkward and unnatural. Every muscle in her body wanted to lengthen her spine.
“Ye’re thinkin’ too much.” Garran circled back to face her. “Stop tryin’ to look pretty. This isnae a ballroom.”
Heat crept up her neck. “I’m not—”
“Ye are.” He drew his own blade. “Combat is ugly. Ye need to be willin’ to look ugly if ye want to survive it.
” He shifted into a stance similar to what he’d been correcting in her, and she noticed how natural it looked on him.
Relaxed, even. As though violence were simply another language his body spoke fluently. “Again. Show me.”
Aeryn shifted her stance. The muscles in her thighs protested immediately, unaccustomed to supporting her weight at this angle.
“Better. Hold it.”
She held the position while he circled her again. Her legs shook after thirty seconds. After a minute, the trembling had spread to her arms.
“Ye can let up.” Garran stopped in front of her. “That’s the foundation. Everythin’ else builds from there. Ye’ll practice that stance until ye can hold it wi’out thought.”
Aeryn straightened, relief flooding through her protesting muscles. “How long should I hold it?”
“Five minutes to start. Work up to twenty.”
Twenty minutes. She’d barely managed one.
The next hour passed in a blur of corrections and repetitions. Garran showed basic strikes—how to thrust, how to parry, how to move without announcing her intent. Her shoulder and wrist ached and her legs burned.
A group of orcs entered the training yard, crossing to the weapon racks. Aeryn’s attention drifted toward them despite Garran’s instruction to focus.
“—absolutely unbearable this mornin’,” one of them was saying, a rangy orc with dark green skin. “Snapped at me for leavin’ a strap loose on the practice dummy.”
Another orc laughed. “Ye got off easy. He tore into Rothgar for askin’ about the patrol schedule. Near bit his head off.”
“The Chieftain’s son is in a mood,” the dark gray-skinned orc continued. “Has been all mornin’. Whatever crawled up his arse, I hope it finds its way out before the evenin’ meal.”
“Focus!”
Her attention jerked back to Garran. She forced herself to breathe, to settle back into her stance. Her arms burned. Her legs burned. Everything burned.
“Again.”
Aeryn raised the dagger, thrust forward, withdrew. The motion felt clumsy despite the hours of repetition. Her wrist wobbled on the follow-through, and Garran’s disapproving grunt confirmed what she already knew.
“Ye’re droppin’ yer elbow. How many times do I need to—”
“I know. I’m trying.”
“Tryin’ isnae enough.” Garran crossed his arms. “Ye either do it right or ye get hurt.”
Aeryn’s tunic clung to her back, soaked through. Her right arm trembled each time she raised the dagger. How long had it been? Two hours? Three?
“Ye can rest.” Garran sheathed his blade. “Five minutes. Then we work on footwork.”
Aeryn lowered the dagger and flexed her fingers.
“There ye are.”
She turned to find Mael approaching across the training yard. The other orcs training nearby glanced up at his arrival, then returned to their drills with pointed disinterest.
“Mael!” she smiled. “What are you—”
Mael didn’t return her smile. “What’s wrong wi’ Khaeric?”
Aeryn blinked, her mind still caught in the ache of her muscles. “What?”
“Yer mate.” Mael’s tone carried an edge. “He’s been insufferable all mornin’. Snapped at half the clan, nearly took Rothgar’s head off for askin’ a perfectly reasonable question about patrol rotations.” His gaze sharpened. “I thought perhaps ye might ken why.”
Aeryn stared at him, confusion threading through the fog of exhaustion. “I don’t know. He was fine this morning before I left.”
“Fine?” Mael said, brows drawing together.
“Yes.”
Mael groaned. “Go deal wi’ yer mate.”
“I’m in the middle of—”
“Garran!” Mael’s voice rang across the training yard. “She’s leavin’ to deal wi’ Khaeric.”
Garran’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening until the scar along his temple stood out. “We’re in the middle of a session.”
“Aye, and my Clanlord is in the middle of terrorizin’ the mountain halls.” Mael’s tone carried no apology. “I’d wager the latter takes precedence.”
Garran grunted, then turned his attention back to Aeryn. “Tomorrow mornin’. Dawn. Not after dawn. Dawn. If ye’re late again, I willnae bother teachin’ ye.”
“Understood.”
Turning away, Garran dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
“Run along, then.” Mael waved his fingers at her. “Go soothe yer temperamental mate before he frightens someone into droppin’ a weapon on their own foot.”
Before Aeryn could respond, Mael had already turned away, walking back across the training yard toward the archway. She sheathed the dagger at her hip and started toward the Hall of Druin.
The Hall of Druin sat on the third level. Aeryn climbed the stairs with her hand pressed against the wall, her muscles screaming with each step. She passed through the archway and into the warren of chambers beyond.
Voices drifted from open doorways: orcs conducting clan business, discussing trade agreements, settling disputes. None of them sounded like Khaeric.
His study sat at the end of the corridor, the door standing half-open. Aeryn pushed it open and stepped inside. The chamber was empty. Khaeric’s desk sat undisturbed, covered in scrolls and parchments stacked in neat piles.
She crossed to the desk and glanced at the papers. Nothing seemed out of place. No sign he’d been here recently.
Aeryn exhaled and turned back toward the corridor. The trembling in her arms had worsened, fatigue settling deep into her bones. Her tunic clung to her back, damp and uncomfortable, the fabric chafing against her skin with each movement.