Chapter 15
Without Tristan to spar with, I set up a pell in the crypt.
It’s a wooden training dummy, and I can use it to practice my strikes with an oak sword.
I still have no idea if weapons are involved in the trial by combat—Niniane won’t tell us a thing.
But I can hope. A sword has always been my preferred weapon.
For the past three days, I’ve been hunting around the castle for signs of the grail and coming up empty.
Then I take out my frustrations by battering the shit out of this pell.
My palms have grown calloused and rough.
I fashioned the pell and the sword from oak.
For my sword, I carved the point with a knife, then tied cloth around the base to act as my makeshift hilt.
It all came from the coffin oak of some poor dead knight named Bleoberis.
And even if his skeleton now lies jumbled on top of the bones of one of his fellow knights, I hope their spirits will not haunt me.
Now, my biceps burn as I thrust at it, delivering crosscuts, over-strokes, down-strokes, and cleaving blows. I practice the little windmill slices to build strength in my wrists again. Even without the Song, I find some of that fluidity I once honed with hours of daily practice.
It’s cold in this crypt, but I’ve still managed to work up a sweat, and my skin glows with the heat. All the time I’m attacking this wooden man, I’m imagining Auberon’s face—the crown gleaming over his platinum hair, my blade jabbing at his withered heart.
He used to wake us late at night with buckets of ice water dumped on us because for some mad reason, he was convinced that sleep deprivation made us stronger.
After practicing all day, we’d practice at night in the forest, in storms. Some nights, he’d send us alone to the wintry woods and leave us to shiver against a tree, listening to the sound of wolves growing closer. It built strength, he said. Resilience.
Sometimes, he woke us just to beat us for no reason at all. He told us our parents no longer wanted us, that he was our protector now. He said he was the only one who cared for us. The only thing I’m thankful for when it comes to Auberon is that Vero wasn’t born with a type of magic he could use.
I flick my wrist harder, faster, jabbing at the wood.
“There’s the Syn Malleore I remember.” Tristan’s deep voice echoes off the crypt ceiling, and Auberon’s face disappears from my thoughts.
He’s back. With a smile, I turn to see him.
“Any luck with the grail?” he asks.
My smile fades, and I notice a new scar across his cheekbone. “None, I’m afraid. What happened?”
“Just a scratch. We had a little skirmish with the Iron Legion.” He steps closer, appraising me with his eyes. “But your speed is improving already. I saw it just now. The old Syn Malleore.”
I turn back to the pell, showing off now with some rapid crosscuts to Auberon’s heart.
Tristan stands behind me, and his familiar scent curls around me—cloves faintly tinged with tobacco. His hands settle on my hips, and heat slides through me. I want to lean back into him, but I resist.
“So much better. Just fix your form,” he says quietly. “Because your power comes from here.”
His hand slides around my stomach, and heat radiates from his palm. My lips open, my breath shallowing. I wonder if he can feel my pulse racing.
“And here,” he murmurs. “Push from the ground up, let it rise through your core, and transfer the energy from your arm into the weapon. Like magic.”
Heat from his body washes over me, and I lick my lips.
But before I can melt into the hard muscle of his chest, he pulls his hands from me. As I turn to face him, my heart is still racing, and heat rises to my cheeks.
“So, can you tell me about your mission now?”
He shakes his head. “Avalon Tower said they need to meet you before you can get clearance. But if we can make that happen, it would be great to have your help. I could bring you very briefly with me through a portal, quickly enough that the Cloaked Ones don’t notice you’re gone.
” He turns to stare at the pell. “Did you make this?”
“Sir Bleoberis donated his coffin. He was quite generous. Not that he was in a position to argue.” I point at a pile of broken wood in the corner. “There’s more sticks if you want to fight me.”
“You think you can take me on with coffin sticks?”
“It’s actually my weapon of choice.”
He leans over and selects a straight piece of wood with a splintered edge, roughly the length of his arm.
From his dagger sheath, he draws a blade and begins shaving away the jagged edges, smoothing the tip so he won’t actually rip a hole in me.
When he’s finished, he pulls off his shirt and tears it into strips, wrapping them around the base to form a makeshift handle like mine.
As he works, my gaze drifts over the strong lines of his body. New tattoos mark him now, dark ink winding from his forearms to his biceps. Across the sculpted planes of his abs, the ink forms a hound, captured in motion.
He looks even more powerful than he did in the Undercroft, and I can only thank the gods he’s not a telepath, because my thoughts are becoming indecent.
“Syn?”
“What?” I say in what comes out as an annoyed shout. Then, quieter, “When did you get that dog tattoo?”
“It’s my Cornish hound, gods rest his soul. Petitcrieu.”
“So, you gave yourself a sigil like a nobleman?”
“You’re stalling.” He slides into his fighting stance. Then, to my immense irritation, he starts twirling the wooden sword around in a display of his skill.
While he’s showing off, I shift in for the attack, but he parries easily. We strike, back and forth, wood clashing.
I shift forward faster, aiming for his chest. As I swing, he ducks, then strikes me from below. His sword slams into my thighs, knocking me over, and I fall back hard. My head smacks against the floor, and pain flares through my skull.
Get up. Auberon’s voice bellows in the hollow of my skull. At the sound, I feel like ice water drenches me.
I’m up again in moments, gripping the wooden sword tightly.
I used to be good at kicking. It all happened instinctively back then—but does that memory still live in my body?
Gripping our coffin swords, we circle each other like wild animals.
I strike for him, and he blocks it. “Almost.”
Our swords clash again, then he jabs at me. I spin away like we’re dancing, then whirl around to strike him in the back. He shifts just before my sword lands, but I barely manage to clip his bicep.
A wry smile from Tristan. “Getting better, Syn. You’re no match for me yet, but—”
I strike again, bringing the sword down, and he ducks. I kick for his head—but he catches my foot, twisting it. I’m off my feet, suspended for a moment—until I slam down hard on the crypt stones. My sword skitters away from me. He lunges, and I barely roll away from the strike.
I kick backward at his knee with my free foot. Whack.
He stumbles.
Get up.
My heart pounds like this is real. I know we’re only training, but it never feels like just training.
Even with Tristan, it always feels like death is just a breath away.
Which, strangely, makes me feel energized.
It makes me feel more alive than I did making tea in an office for people who told me I was a star.
I scramble for my weapon, pulse racing.
Still on the floor, I spin back to him. He’s bringing up his sword above me, and I only just manage to block it. From the ground, I lunge upwards, my shoulder slamming into his stomach, taking him down. But as I start to stand, he swings a hard kick at my legs.
I crash back onto the stone, my back aching. I grunt with frustration. He’s starting to make me deeply irritated.
“Master your emotions,” he says.
“Get fucked.”
Anger starts to heat my blood, though I’m not sure if I’m mad at Tristan or myself. I want to remind him about the time he failed to master his emotions and ran through the woods naked.
I roll backward, snatching my sword off the ground.
I stand, then swing, and he blocks it, the force of it so hard this time that the wooden swords nearly splinter.
Tristan flashes me an infuriating half smile, practically glowing.
He’s enjoying himself. His magic coils around me, tingling over my skin, which means I don’t stand a chance anymore.
He launches off the floor toward the wall, then kicks off the stones.
He’s a blur above me for just a moment—gripping the wooden beams and swinging.
Then, with a flip through the air, he lands behind me.
Still, my sword is at his throat. “Got you, you ridiculous show-off.”
But only then do I notice the thrust of his wooden sword already at my abdomen, prodding at my stomach.
His eyebrow arches. “Do you really?”
The annoying thing about Tristan during sparring situations is that he can slow time—only for himself. To others, it looks like he’s moving incredibly fast.
We spin away from each other, and the next time we meet, he slams the wooden sword into my hips once more, knocking me hard into a wall.
And before I can push away, Tristan is there, his weapon carving through the air. When his sword slashes into mine, it’s with a force so powerful that the wood splinters.
I bring up a left hook that slams into his chin, because I needed to get at least one good blow in. In the next moment, he’s pressing me against the wall, one hand lightly around my throat and a faint smile ghosting over his lips. His other hand tightens around my waist.
His green eyes shine down at me, and a bead of sweat slides down his temple.
My gaze lingers on his mouth—that full lower lip that always invites me to stare.
“That was fun,” he says quietly.
His gaze dips to my lips, and he leans in slightly closer once more.
I lick my lips, and my hips shift forward, seemingly of their own volition.
His fingers pulse on my waist. I want to wrap my arms around his shoulders and pull him in close—but then I’d be stepping over a boundary I’m afraid to cross.
His thumb brushes the skin on my throat slowly, just above my clavicle, and I breathe in sharply at the touch.
Heat radiates from the point of contact.
The air between us is charged as lightning, and warmth pounds through my blood. I glance at his neck, nearly overcome by the urge to run my tongue over the pulsing vein in his throat.
At last, his gaze shutters and he pulls away, releasing me. As he steps back, the cold air washes over me again, and I regret the loss of his warmth.
I’m catching my breath, scrambling to organize my thoughts. “See? I’m already getting better.”
He’s still close to me. “How’s your head? And your body?”
Aches slide through my bones, and my skull is pounding.
I smile anyway. “I know you were still holding back, by the way. But I’m absolutely fine, soldier.
I don’t feel a single sore point,” I lie.
I’m trying to sound normal but probably overdoing it.
“What’s your assessment of my chances of surviving? ’
He arches an eyebrow. “Just make sure the Council of Nobles love you. Charm them. Ultimately, they decide who lives and dies after you surrender. They like a good fighter, of course, but you could also try to make them love you.”
And what are the chances I can do that? I don’t suppose any of them would be delighted by a long monologue about Tudor-era execution methods.
I slide down the wall, my body exhausted. “Any chance you checked up on Vero when you were away?”
He nods, his expression grave, and my stomach turns.
“She’s okay,” he says. “She’s resting.”
Every muscle in my body tenses. “Does she seem worse?”
“She’s tired, yes. They found a healer, but he wasn’t able to help her.”
There’s a quietness to his voice that sets my teeth on edge. Tristan always burnishes the truth. Tired probably means something far worse.
“A regular healer can’t help. The toxin was specially designed by Auberon’s poisoners to be incurable by peasants. Only a royal relic like the grail can fix it.”
I’ve been looking for clues to the grail’s location, just like Cador said, but how can I recognize what they are?
My jaw clenches, and I stare up at him. “I’m running out of time, aren’t I?”