Chapter 5
Mark /mark/ ·noun
A unique, magical ability formed by a bonded spirit and caster whose souls are compatible.
—Definition from The Zo Lexicon
It’s been five hours since my last duel, and even though Father erased my dagger wounds in my side and shoulder, making them invisible, they’re still there. I enter the level-six dueling circuit in a week, so instead of soaking in a nice bubble bath, I’m here in the training room of our castle, surrounded by walls of mirrors. Their reflection catches every facet of the black room full of weights, weapons, and duel rings.
My new level-six coach sends a longsword at me from across the duel ring with a puff of green smoke. I try not to roll my eyes at how slow he does it. He’s not even trying. With a puff of my pink smoke, I stop it mid-flight and thrust it back at him. The blunt end of its handle thuds against his chest before falling to the mat.
With a wave of green smoke, he calls the fallen blade to his hand and taps his arm to signal forfeit.
My father withers him with a glance. Level-six coaches are rare. Not many are qualified to compete this high, and the few who are, tend to keep their techniques to themselves. Whether this coach is stingy or incompetent doesn’t matter. He’s ineffective.
And I’m not about to remind myself why Father doesn’t train me himself anymore.
When I glare at my coach, he averts his gaze again, either because of my father’s sporadic temper, the crazy celibacy law Father placed on me, or my black eyes that make everyone uneasy.
“Let’s go again,” my coach says, lifting his sword.
“No,” Father says, signaling for his guards. “You’re dismissed.”
Looking rather smug, my coach bows to Father, then to me, before climbing out of the ring and allowing the guards to escort him out.
“You need a coach who’ll teach you what a killing blow is.” Father summons Sorren from his station beside the door.
Violence and shadows dance across Sorren’s bronze face as he prowls forward, ducking through black ropes. His boots jostle the hard mat beneath me, and I square myself up against his approaching, massive form. He surfaced nine years ago after one of my father’s frequent trips to who knows where, and as the Zarr infantry general, he too is controlled through the silver vessel on his finger.
He stops in front of me, poised to slay the next thing that speaks, his demeanor exactly like my father’s. I’ve never sparred with the infantry general, but I’ve watched him deliver countless executions, seen the way he handles his men, and noticed the way shadows seem to flicker when he’s nearby.
I have no desire to spar with him.
“Since you always wish to fight without power,” Father says, “I’ve decided to grant you what you want. No vessel training just to prove you will not survive without using a fucking lot of it.”
Mother and my sister, Tarella, enter the training room, and, like always, Father ignores their existence, like Mother ignores mine. My sister folds her arms and sneers with delight when she sees me in the ring facing Sorren.
I reach for the daggers sheathed at my thighs.
“No daggers,” Sorren commands, waving a servant forward, who lugs two massive swords over, passing them through the thick, black ropes. “Lower-level duels are for daggers and child’s play.” His muscled jaw flexes as he shoves the longsword to me. “This is about killing.”
“What are we killing exactly?” I say to Sorren. “My time?”
“Is your skill with a sword as quick as your mouth?”
I feel Father’s attention combing over me, assessing every flicker of emotion on my face as I face Sorren. I’ll break jaws, smash noses, and even sever limbs if I have to, but I refuse to kill, and Father has every intention of changing that.
This little weakness—my father calls it—makes my plan to win the King’s Duel much more difficult. Good thing difficult is practically my middle name.
I’ve watched the King’s Duel since I was old enough to know what a dagger was. No one has ever won it without at least one kill. The dueler who came the closest, was King Dagen, who killed his opponent in the final round and went on to ask for mining rights and tunnels for his prize.
Refusing to let Sorren see my hesitation, I grab the sword, and Liha takes her cue to leave. If I’m not allowed to use my vessel, she can’t stand to watch bloodshed. There’s a small zing when her spirit leaves my caster shield, the invisible band of energy surrounding me. I always imagine it to be like a mini-dimension meant only for us, since it hides her from other spirits. Like so many things, I find myself curious about why and how it exists, or why she must be in it to offer me her power.
I heave the heavy bolt of steel upward and point it at Sorren’s chest.
“Your form is pathetic.”
This sword is all wrong in my hands—the exact reason I don’t use one. “Then let me use my daggers.”
His green eyes cut into me. “How are you going to block a longsword with an eight-inch dagger?”
“It’s called evasion.”
He shakes his head. “Level-six duelers will wear you down and drive their sword through your unusually thick skull.”
Tarella giggles from beside the wall of mirrors. Boiling liquid rises inside me. I swing the bolt toward Sorren’s flank. Before my sluggish blow is halfway there, Sorren’s blade is at my open neck with speed and control I’ve never met in a duel ring; he slices my collar bone.
“Dead,” he says flatly.
Hints of the gold spirit shimmer from a distance, and heat floods my ears, only amplified by Tarella’s palpable glee.
I death-grip my sword and swing.
And swing.
And swing.
He blocks so easily. It’s embarrassing.
He carves his sword through the air like it’s an art form, landing blows with unmatched precision. I have no choice but to admire it, despite my mounting rage.
After countless, airy swipes of my sword, and even more elegant, bloody swipes of his, he blind-sides me with a spiked fist to my face. The heat in my ears climbs down my neck and chest, until I begin screaming with my sloppy swings.
He slices for my torso.
I evade.
His green eyes flicker with something like amusement. He let me evade.
“Don’t hold back!”
He answers with a breathy laugh. “You don’t know what you ask.”
“I do.” I am a trained dueler, not some defenseless woman. I wipe blood from my mouth with the back of my hand. “Don’t hold back.”
Sorren looks to Father, and Father gives a curt nod as Mother and Tarella break for the other ring to train.
Sorren unleashes his sword. A deep fiery gash appears on my leg, my calf, my shoulder, my cheek, leaving my blocks and dodges two full moves behind his. I’m used to having space and time to think in the level-five circuit, but this is too close, too fast. Where’s the showy flips and spins? The pauses for dramatic affect the audience loves so much?
He slices up my thigh with his blade and slams my gut with the blunt of his pommel in what feels like the same moment. His massive blow hurls me back into a duel ring post, knocking the air from my lungs. I”m heaving for air when Sorren eyes me with clear disapproval. He saunters over. ”Never,” he says, stomping on my hand with a steel-enforced boot. ”Let anyone see your vulnerabilities in the ring.” He grinds his boot down, cracking the bones in my hand before removing his boot. Once my lungs finally catch air, I cry out.
Not a cry of pain.
A cry of fury.
Father watches with a dark expression. “Get up Nizzara.”
My hand is broken, if the unnatural angle of my fingers is any indication, but I draw myself up and take the sword in my good hand, using my other forearm to brace against the weight of it. This is the heaviest sword I’ve ever held, but I grit my teeth and raise it. My hands shake, yearning to drive this sword through Sorren’s snide grin.
Sorren’s eyes dance with shadows as he advances again.
And again.
And again.
An hour later, my arms can’t hold their own weight—when I push myself up off the floor and regain my footing, I raise my sword. It shakes in my hand.
“Again,” I say, wiping bloody sweat from my face.
“Sorren has real work to do.” Father folds his arms over his chest, unimpressed, except the small light in his eyes. Almost like old times when he used to spar with me.
I let the thought go.
Sorren exits the ring and steps in line with Father once again. If my body wasn’t wobbling, I’d argue the matter.
I go to limp away, but Father says, “You are not leaving like that.”
I clench my teeth as father’s black tendrils of smoke crawl and roll toward me. They slink up my skin and wipe away each bloody wound.
He doesn’t tolerate scars on me.
Especially with the Winter Rave coming up.
And certainly not when he’s arranging my betrothal.