Chapter 12
A wise Sylvan leader never loses control.
—EXCHARIAS, SYLVAN POET
Thea longed to go straight to bed, but it was already time for training.
With sluggish movements, she removed the skirt, shirt, bodice, and stockings and began dressing in her practice gear.
The clothes still stank of magic, so she threw them into the fire, then the slippers, watching them fold in on themselves like flowers blooming in reverse.
A part of her ached a little as she watched them burn, as if she’d thrown away something important. But that made no sense, so she turned away and got dressed.
When she arrived at the training yard, most of the Huntsmen were already sparring in pairs, the familiar clash of practice swords like an uneven drumbeat.
The air was damp, the sky heavy with the promise of rain.
The cold brought her back to herself. Something about that shadowy realm had blurred the line between truth and fancy.
She’d felt as if she could hold up a lantern and the whole place would have turned out to be made of parchment.
At least she could remember it. Perhaps Damon’s spell to make her forget him only lasted until she visited his realm. She despised that he’d affected her memory, even temporarily.
Burke twirled his wooden sword as he approached, his long strides eating up the yards as if eager for her arrival.
No doubt he was jubilant after knocking her down the last time they’d sparred.
His grin was somewhere between teasing and insulting.
With no sleep and a full day ahead of her, Thea chose to be insulted.
“Morning, Thea. Ready for another go?” His tone ignited a fire in her belly.
“Any time.”
“Are you sure you’re up to it?” His tone dripped concern. “I could give you another week or two to recover.”
She had to force her jaw to unclench. “Dead certain.”
At his nod, she attacked. Her pride still stung that he’d gotten the better of her, that moment of inattention so unlike her that it would be fixed in everyone’s minds today. She needed to redeem herself.
She swung her sword in a predictable strike, hoping he’d let down his guard if she held back.
Instead of falling for it, he met her move for move, his footwork as impeccable as always.
On the surface, he was the better swordsman, his precision and economy of movement unmatched among the Huntsmen.
But she had something he didn’t—an inner fire that would not allow her to give up. And she meant to remind him of that.
Within seconds, it became apparent they were not merely sparring.
They were both trying to prove something.
He wants to be First Huntsman, she thought.
But I want it more. This wasn’t a contest for First, but it felt like it.
Some of the Huntsmen ceased their own practice, and in a few minutes, half the Sylvan army was encircled around them.
Thea saw the glimmer of excitement in Burke’s eyes and suspected he was enjoying the audience.
Sweat covered her forehead and arms as she parried his every strike, trying to get inside his guard. She watched the sweat bead and slide down his face, satisfied that she was putting him through his paces, too.
As she told herself to be patient, she saw that something serious had entered his eyes, something behind the joyful glint of an eager performer. He wanted to win.
Part of her understood. She knew she would enjoy the renown of being the best Sylvan warrior, the most feared Huntsman of the Sylvan army.
There had always been a murky lack of definition in her title, as if being the king’s daughter was enough, and she shouldn’t want to also be ranked among the Huntsmen.
The title of First was changed by the king every few years, claiming it was healthy for the younger Huntsmen to compete for a chance at leadership.
The current First, Alof, had been in the role nine years, so it was soon time for a change.
Enora was also a natural leader, but she wasn’t ambitious.
She fought because it must be done. She didn’t crave fame or glory.
She was content as long as everyone she loved was secure.
Thea wanted that, too. But she felt safest when she had control. She wanted the power to protect those she loved.
She would be First.
When Burke made a tiny mistake, Thea took the opening. For a second, she thought she had him. But he’d set her up. She was unable to block as he hit her wooden sword so hard it flew from her hand.
“Sure you won’t take another day to rest?” he mocked.
Without thinking, she kicked him. Hard.
He snarled, “Desperate, Theodora?”
The kick had been cheap, and she knew it. But his taunt made her lose all sense. Her body took over. She drew her knife. She’d moved the blade an inch toward Burke’s throat before she stopped herself, her hand shaking violently.
All around them Huntsmen gaped. Thea froze, horrified. She hadn’t meant to do that. This wasn’t like her at all. Had her brush with magic already affected her somehow?
Enora strode forward and took the knife from Thea’s hand, which had gone numb. It was clear her sister was furious. There weren’t many people Thea feared, but she cared what Enora thought of her, and that gave her sister the power to hurt her as few people had.
“Inside. Now,” Enora commanded.
Thea followed without a word, her stomach sick with guilt. As they reached the edge of the crowd, Rozie stepped forward, but Tibald put a hand to her shoulder. “Let them go, Sproutling. There’ll be time enough for you to find out what’s going on.” His eyes met Thea’s. “For all of us to find out.”
As soon as they reached the upper level of Scarhamm, Enora turned on her, her cheeks flushed. “What in the nine realms was that?” Her eyes were as stormy as the rain-laden sky.
Thea took a breath, stalling. “What do you mean?”
“What do I mean?” Enora looked like she wanted to wallop her. “You drew your knife on a fellow Huntsman!” Enora’s eyes were wide with a blazing concern that made Thea’s stomach churn with guilt. “Something is wrong!”
“Don’t push me, Enna,” Thea said, using the childhood nickname, feeling cornered and needing a breath. “I know I’ve been acting strange—”
“Strange!” Her sister threw her hands up. “Just now, you looked like a wild thing. The violence in your eyes when you went for Burke!”
Thea felt her breath becoming shallower, her sister’s fury not helping her to calm down. “We always fight. We’re both vying for First.”
Enora’s mouth fell open. “Well, in that case, what an excellent way to show Father you’re ready to lead. Do you even hear yourself?”
Thea closed her eyes. “I went too far. He pushed me, though.”
“He pushes everyone! He’s a braggart and a show-off. You’ve never let him provoke you like that. What made you draw your knife?”
Thea bit her lip, trying to find some self-control. “I don’t know. He used my full name.”
Enora’s eyes sharpened with understanding. “Theodora. Like Mother called you.”
Feeling her jaw clench tight, Thea nodded.
“Mother will come home one day,” Enora reassured her, some of the anger leaving her voice.
“I’m not so sure about that.” Thea felt the truth crowding her tongue.
“There is something I haven’t told you,” she said.
Abruptly, her lips pressed together, and not by her own doing.
It felt as if her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth.
As terror threatened to consume her, the tightness eased, and she took a shuddering breath.
“What?” Enora asked impatiently.
Thea was furious. She’d already told Veleda about the dresses. Why couldn’t she tell Enora? It had to be some enchantment keeping her from saying anything about Damon’s magic. Finally, she managed to choke out, “Maybe you’d better talk to Veleda.”
Enora looked more outraged. “Either tell me or don’t, but don’t tease me, Thea. You can be thoughtless, but I’ve never known you to be deliberately cruel.”
“I don’t mean to be—” Thea started.
Too late. Enora slammed the door so hard, the walls shook.
A picture fell from its nail, the wooden frame cracking in two.
Thea bent and picked it up, the space behind her eyes tight with regret.
It was a small painting of her and her sisters that Rozie had done when she was seven. A cherished piece of art.
Her chest tightened with anger. First, she’d lost control, and now something was preventing her from talking about Damon.
She would go back to the shadow realm tonight and demand answers.