12. Leah
Leah
“Can we talk?” I corner Filippa outside after breakfast. I know she’s still upset with me, but I can’t keep this to myself.
Her shoulders drop. “I don’t want to talk about it, Leah.”
“Good,” I say. “Me either. This is about something else.”
In reality, I’d love to have a chance to apologize and explain that I didn’t intend for any of this to happen, but Filippa’s not as direct as a lot of other ephilium.
She’s good at putting distance between herself and a problem.
If I press too hard, she’ll just respond by putting distance between us.
“All right,” she says, folding her arms across her chest. “What’s up?”
“These,” I say, turning around and pulling the back of my shirt up to show her the ridges.
She inhales sharply.
“Are they…” I’m suddenly nervous, worried I’m wrong. “Are they what I think they are?”
“Yes,” she says, her voice hard to read. “You’re getting your wings.”
I drop my shirt. “Well, thank the goddess for that. Or the ancestors. Or whoever. Maybe I should be thanking you—it’s probably hanging around you and everyone else that told my body to stop fucking around and start growing them.”
Her lips twitch. “Yes, well, at least now I won’t have to be afraid of you getting mauled or crushed or whatever they have in store for us in the trials because you can’t fly away.”
“That’s the spirit,” I say cheerfully. “One less thing for you to worry about.”
In reality it feels odd, knowing that my body is changing, becoming more ephilium.
Just a month ago, I was worried about too much demon influence on it, and now…
there’s no going back. Up until today I could pass for human, but once I have wings, there’ll be no denying what I am.
It’s a good thing I need these wings so badly to survive, otherwise this might feel more like a door slamming permanently shut on a particular part of my life.
Filippa sighs and uncrosses her arms. “Look, I’m sorry about the other day. Usually, I’m better at not letting the self-pity get to me.”
“Hey, I realize I haven’t exactly made your life easier since coming to Aradis, and I’m sorry about that.
I just hope you know I didn’t intend for any of this.
Plus,” I reach a tentative hand out, putting it on her arm.
“I happen to know a thing or two about families who make you feel like shit. So if you want to throw yourself a pity party, I’ll happily bring the decorations. ”
She rolls her eyes, but I’m relieved to see the playful spark has returned to them. “It is very annoying. Now you have your wings, you’ll be as good as the rest of them. Just remember us little folk when you’re leading the Brigade, yeah?”
I scoff. “Not likely. With my luck, Keros’s predictions will come true, and I won’t even see the end of the trials. Speaking of which…how long do you think they’ll take to come in?” I ask, nodding over my shoulder.
“It’s hard to say. For most kids, it’s anywhere between a couple of weeks to four months.” She grimaces. “Of course, mine took nearly five months.”
“Four to five months?” I say weakly. “The second trial will have come and gone by then. Heck, the third trial will probably be over.”
Filippa shrugs one shoulder, the wry commiseration of someone used to getting dealt a crappy hand. “Then let us hope your wings grow faster than that,” she says simply.
At least she says “us,” like she actually cares about the outcome. As we head out to training that morning, she falls into step beside me. I can’t tell if all the tension between us has been erased, but it’s definitely eased.
So far, I’ve stuck to working with my better weapons in training—a small knife or arrows—and have managed to avoid going up against my peers face-to-face, given most of their hand-to-hand fighting happens in the air.
But today, Hasteed changes things up, making us gather around her on the fields outside the nest.
“Today you’ll be practicing how to fight when you’re grounded,” she says, her eyes flicking briefly over me.
“Why?” Keros demands. “If you can’t stay in the air, you don’t belong in the Brigade.” He throws Filippa an ugly smile before his eyes narrow at me. “If you can even get up there at all.”
Goddess, I hope my wings come in soon. If for no other reason than so I can kick Keros’s ass from one cloud to the next.
Hasteed looks unimpressed by the interruption.
“Plenty of worthy soldiers find their wings injured in battle. The real test of your mettle is whether you give up then, ended by the slightest bit of failure, or if you can drag yourself back through that rift when you’re carved open and spilling your life blood out on the ground. ”
I lean in to Filippa, my eyes on the scar wrapped around Hasteed’s throat. “Is that what happened to her?” I whisper.
Filippa nods, ducking her head to whisper back. “Story is her throat was slashed so bad she was nearly decapitated. When she crawled back to Aradis, they were so impressed they brought in some physician from the Mire to save her.”
My hand goes to my own throat at the thought of it—the horror of the injury and the unbreakable steel of Hasteed’s will to survive it.
But I’m also unnerved by being faced again with the ephilium’s unyielding attitude toward sickness and injury.
Three weeks in Aradis and not once have I heard of anyone going to a healer.
No wonder they haven’t acted to fix the blight Garion mentioned. They can’t seem to face up to anything that might be considered a weakness.
It’s good to spar with my peers at last. The matches are more even than I expected.
Most of them aren’t as skilled as Rowan, and I have Swiftwing with me.
I’m starting to get used to the nudge of its magic now.
It still doesn’t turn up every time I need it, but at crucial moments I can rely on it.
The blade tugs in my hands a little, and when I let it guide me, I’ll manage a block I couldn’t before or catch my opponent’s armor with a satisfying clang.
I try to track patterns in what it corrects—what mistakes I’m prone to making. Having Swiftwing right now is a big help, but I can’t always count on having it with me in the future, and I want to get as good with a sword as I am with a knife.
This morning’s training session certainly helps.
We spar in groups without magic, rotating partners each time one of us has gotten at least two hits in.
Filippa would probably say I’ve angered the ancestors in some way because I end up in a group with Keros.
She offers me a warning as we break off into our sections: “Be careful. If he gets an opening, he’ll try to do maximum damage.
Let him win fast if that’s what it takes to get out of there before he can seriously hurt you. ”
Now I can see him out of the corner of my eye, plowing through partners, beating his opponents into submission with pure brute force.
The knot in my stomach tightens each time we move one partner along and I’m one fight closer to him.
I can’t afford a serious injury right now—not when my wings are just starting to come in and I’m getting somewhere with my combat skills.
I win my current bout, and as I wait for the rotation, I watch Keros, who hasn’t finished yet with his current opponent.
He drives the pommel of his sword into a rangy fledgling’s face, giving her what will no doubt be a nasty black eye, but as she falls to her knees, I think she’s lucky he didn’t break a bone.
“That’s two!” she gasps, flinging up her arm as Keros goes to swing his sword again. We’ve blunted our blades with training sheaths, but they still hurt, especially with the force Keros is using.
The blond bastard halts his sword mid-swing, clearly annoyed to be reminded of the rules. He lowers his blade and scans the group, his expression clearing as he sees me step up to the fledgling one over from him. We’ll be sparring next.
Which means I have to make this next fight count.
I square up with a floppy-haired fledgling called Larius who’s concentrating so hard he looks vaguely constipated.
Too much tension, not enough flexibility in his approach—I’m already assessing where his weaknesses will be, but it’s hard to focus with Keros standing off to the side, practically chomping at the bit to get his turn to snap my bones like twigs.
I decide to give him a show he’ll enjoy.
As we start to spar, I swing wide—slow and clumsy—giving Larius an opening to put his stiff, rehearsed attack into play.
Within a minute, he’s tapped me on my shoulder, and I don’t stop myself stumbling, barely catching myself from hitting the ground.
I turn, going to right myself, and find Larius coming for me again.
I lift Swiftwing, but my grip is deliberately wrong, and the sword’s magic is practically screaming at me to adjust the angle as Larius comes for me. His blade slides right past mine, the tip driving against my sternum with ease.
I double over, dropping my sword and pressing one hand to my chest as I hold up the other.
“You win,” I gasp. Larius allows himself a second to be pleased before his expression folds into that look of intense concentration again, already preparing himself for the next bout.
“Keep practicing,” he says calmly. “Your swordsmanship needs a lot of work.”
I stifle a smile, knowing he doesn’t mean any insult by it. You’ve got to love how direct ephilium are sometimes.
“I’ll bear that in mind,” I say as I get to my feet and fix my eyes on Keros’s delighted expression.
“Any recommendations for how to get red out of a uniform?” he says smugly as we take our starting positions. “I’ve not had to wash mire blood off my clothes before.”
“I’m surprised you know what washing is, Keros,” I shoot back. “You certainly don’t smell like you do.”
It’s far from my best material, but I have more important things to worry about than witty comebacks as Keros bares his teeth and lunges.