Chapter 21
Blaze
Over the following week Fox is as good as his word.
Our days begin to fall into a pattern, though it’s nothing like the monotonous routine of my childhood, in which hours were measured by mealtimes and page numbers.
Here, we rise at dawn, ride until late afternoon, set up camp, and then train until sundown.
By the time night falls I’m so ravenous that I eat every mouthful of whatever root-based concoction I’m presented with, and I’m so bone-tired that sleeping on the forest floor no longer feels like some sort of punishment.
We began with footwork. Fox would bark instructions while I ran through a sequence of steps, learning how to keep my tread light in order to better dodge, duck and lunge.
‘Fighting,’ he said as he walked in a slow circle around me, correcting my stance, ‘is a bit like dancing. Your opponent is your partner. Wherever they go, you go. Whenever they move, you move. Except rather than trying to spin you, they’re trying to stab you.
You must always be anticipating what they’re going to do next. Remember, every step counts.’
I would repeat the series of drills over and over while Fox lounged against a boulder, chewing lazily on a sprig of mint, braiding Cedar’s mane, or shaving with his dagger.
At long last, I was allowed my weapon.
‘You should always name your blade,’ Fox told me.
‘Really?’ I asked sceptically. ‘I thought people only did that with swords.’
‘Who cares what other people do? Give it a name.’
I racked my brain, but nothing sprang to mind. ‘What’s yours called?’
‘Soulkiller,’ he replied.
‘Oh, lovely,’ I said dryly. ‘Were Spiritbreaker and Dreamcrusher already taken?’
This made him laugh. ‘Precisely. Now, go on.’
I looked down at the dagger in my hands. ‘Silverclaw,’ I decided.
Fox nodded approvingly. ‘Nice choice. A little on the nose, perhaps, but I like it.’
During the last few lessons, he created a kind of assault course for me to practise on.
I’d sever vines that sprang out at me, swerve away from moving branches, and leap over large stones that rolled across the forest floor.
He even scored the outline of a body into the trunk of a tree, marking the places where I would find the vital organs.
This evening, as I retrieve my dagger from Cedar’s saddle, I’m surprised to see Fox pull out his own.
‘What’re you doing?’ I ask warily.
‘What does it look like? You said yesterday you wanted a real opponent. Well, today is your lucky day.’
My stomach clenches nervously. I may have said it, but now, when actually faced with the prospect …
Fox smirks, flexing his shoulder. His cut has long since scarred over – one of the many advantages of being Etheri, who heal in a mere fraction of the time it would take the Fidra – but he seems to enjoy reminding me that I was the one who inflicted it.
I tell myself he deserved it for goading me into freezing half the forest. Yet this does nothing to ease the disquiet I feel when I recall his insinuation that he and I are more alike than I care to admit.
‘What’re we waiting for?’ I say, tugging at the collar of my borrowed shirt, which I still insist on wearing back to front. ‘Shall we begin?’
‘Not yet.’ Fox angles his head as he takes me in, his eyes raking over my body with such unabashed scrutiny that I almost blush. ‘Come here,’ he says softly.
My insides turn to vines, twisting and coiling around themselves. ‘Why?’
‘Just come here.’
I know he’s not going to hurt me. So why am I hesitating?
Green eyes gleam with amusement. ‘Scared, Storm Weaver?’
Yes.
‘No,’ I scoff.
I walk cautiously towards him, wondering if perhaps this is a trick – some kind of lesson about not trusting your opponent.
When I reach him, I square my shoulders and meet his gaze.
For a moment he is perfectly still. Then he raises his dagger and slashes it through the air so fast I don’t even have time to scream before it meets its mark.
Fox dangles the severed collar of my shirt in front of my nose. ‘Better?’
‘Better?’ I repeat. ‘You almost slit my throat!’
He rolls his eyes. ‘Don’t be so dramatic. But if that had been my intention, you’d currently be choking on your own blood. Your reflexes are sloppy at best.’
Much to my annoyance, I find that the shirt does in fact feel better. The new neckline is still modest, cut to just below my collarbones, yet far more comfortable.
Scowling, I follow Fox out of the treeline and over to the Creek, where we take up our positions upon the grassy bank. We start off slowly, with him teaching me how to block.
‘It depends on the angle of the blade,’ he tells me, taking hold of my forearm and positioning it in front of my face.
Like his shoulder, my arm has also healed, the snake bite reduced to nothing more than a small purple welt.
It’s a miracle the venom didn’t kill me.
Though I suppose I have Fox to thank for that.
‘Again,’ he says, and our daggers clash loudly as they slide together.
This goes on for some time, until my wrist is aching and beads of sweat begin to trickle down my back.
It was strange at first, fighting without my water gifts, but I was forced to admit, grudgingly, that Fox was right, and not just about passing as Fidra but about being more cautious with my magic.
I still can’t wrap my head round what happened that day in the forest. The power humming through my veins had felt so … eager. So alive.
Fox clamps Soulkiller between his teeth as he rolls up his sleeves, exposing a pair of strong golden forearms flecked with little white scars.
For a brief moment I recall what it felt like to be held in those arms as he carried me through the frozen forest. And I recall waking hours later, still furious but less disorientated, to the sound of Fox murmuring softly to Cedar.
‘Who were you talking about the other day?’ I ask, unable to help myself.
Fox removes the dagger from his mouth. ‘When?’
‘After my … outburst. You said, I’m sure she’s fine. But you didn’t mean me.’
He aims another swing at me. I manage to dodge it, but stumble.
‘Remember your balance,’ he says mildly. ‘Find your centre.’
I plant my feet. ‘Answer the question.’
‘I was talking about Scout,’ he says, lifting my arm back into position.
‘Scout?’ I repeat, frowning. ‘Who’s Scout?’
Fox smiles mysteriously. ‘A friend.’
I can’t help arching a brow. ‘You have friends?’
He smirks. ‘Does that surprise you?’
‘Truthfully? Yes.’
‘What about us, Storm Weaver?’ Fox asks, slashing Soulkiller so close to my ear I can hear it slice through the air. ‘Are we friends?’
‘No, we’re not friends,’ I snap, a little too viciously. ‘We’re …’ I pause. ‘We’re two exceedingly ill-matched individuals who just so happen to share a common goal.’
He chuckles as though I’ve said something perfectly charming. I adjust my grip on Silverclaw and take a swipe at him, which he sidesteps with maddening ease. We circle one another, our daggers gleaming in the late-afternoon sun.
‘Besides,’ I continue, using my forearm to wipe the sweat from my brow, ‘friends don’t spy on each other’s memories.’
Fox looks unmoved. ‘You know, during my time in Katteran, I came across a rare bird,’ he says.
‘It was an ill-tempered creature which would peck at you if you got too close. The trader told me it could talk, and indeed it could. Only, it kept reciting this one line, just repeating the same thing over and over. It grew rather tiresome after a while.’ He grins. ‘You remind me of this bird.’
I glower at him. I have every right to be furious about what he did, and I’m far from ready to forgive and forget.
‘Tell you what,’ Fox says, sounding amused. ‘Let’s strike a deal.’
I narrow my eyes, ducking as he aims another lazy swipe. ‘What kind of deal?’
He twirls his dagger. ‘We’re both aware that if this little duel were real, you’d be dead. I’m not asking you to best me, only that you put up a good fight.’
‘And what’s in it for me?’
‘A question. We both know how much you love those.’
‘A question about what?’
‘Me,’ he says simply. ‘It seems only fair, after all. I snatched a glimpse of your past, albeit unintentionally, and now I’m offering you a chance to do the same. Then we’re even, and you can do us both a favour by finally getting rid of that chip on your shoulder.’
I hesitate, mulling this over. While I imagine it would be difficult letting go of this particular grudge, I can’t deny that his offer intrigues me.
‘Fine,’ I tell him. ‘Deal.’
In truth, I thought I was doing rather a good job of putting my new skills to use.
But as the pace begins to pick up, I realize I wasn’t.
Fox is still holding back, but even now, using a mere fraction of his strength, he’s a formidable opponent.
His movements are precise and instinctive, his reflexes impossibly fast – always one step ahead.
‘How do you make it look so effortless?’ I pant.
‘With a great deal of effort,’ he responds, not even slightly out of breath. ‘I used to practise for hours every day with my crew. I’d switch hands too, so my opponent would never know which one was dominant.’
‘And which is?’ I ask, taking another swing.
Fox blocks it before my arm is fully extended. He grins as he tosses Soulkiller into the air with his right hand then catches it in his left. ‘Both.’
I flip my hair over my shoulder and concentrate, remembering what he taught me.
Wherever he goes, I go. Whenever he moves, I move.
Although Fox seems to be intent on driving me backwards.
The soft mud stretching along the bank of the Creek proves slippery underfoot.
I slide around in it, cursing, while he remains entirely centred.
‘Balance, Storm Weaver.’
‘I’m trying.’
I swipe, he blocks. He feints left, I nearly lose a boot in the mud.
When I finally manage to right myself, he’s already closing in, his eyes glinting as brightly as the talisman round his neck. I tighten my grip on Silverclaw as he leans in close, then closer still – almost as if he’s going to whisper something, as if he’s going to …
I seize my chance. Drawing my arm back in one smooth arc, I lunge for him. Only Fox is quicker, darting out of reach, while the force of my swing is enough to throw me off balance. All I can do is gasp as I trip, slip, then topple backwards into the Creek.
Coldness closes over my head. For a moment I’m so shocked that I just allow myself to sink. Then I come to, kicking my legs and breaking the surface. Water sluices off my clothes as I heave myself up and on to dry land, dagger clamped in my fist.
Staggering up the muddy bank, I catch sight of Fox. He’s standing a few yards away, Soulkiller dangling loosely at his side, laughing so hard he’s doubled over.
‘You think this is funny?’ I growl, suddenly conscious of the way my wet shirt is clinging to every inch of me. I fold my arms across my chest in an effort to keep some dignity intact.
Fox only laughs harder.
Seething, I attempt to storm away, only my waterlogged boots sink further into the quagmire with every step. I glance down, then back at Fox, struck by an idea.
The clump of mud hits him square in the face, stunning him into silence. He even drops his dagger.
My methods may have been unconventional, but I’ve succeeded in disarming him. I watch him wipe away the mud with his gloved hand, blinking it out of his eyes. He bends over to retrieve his knife, and for one foolish, fearful heartbeat, I wonder what he might do.
Then, to my surprise, he grins.
‘So, Storm Weaver,’ he says. ‘What is it you wish to know?’