FOURTEEN #3
It’s little more than a pit surrounded by splintered plinths, wooden benches, and the remains of a few toppled statues.
The stone floor has been battered by centuries of rain and salt air, worn down in spots to patches of muddy gravel and sand.
The thick clouds overhead cast a gloomy shadow on a nearly empty rack of swords. Most of the weapons are already in use.
A dozen conscripts are lined up in two rows at the far end, watching as two of them battle. The pair’s swords clash, slicing through the air, metal clanging and ringing as they advance and retreat.
Taliesin points to a nearby bench a safe distance from the sparring. “Want to watch?”
Something tells me this is why Bishop sent me with him.
The fighters move so fast it’s hard to track.
Each movement is graceful, precise but brutal.
Blood sprays as one of them lands a blow to the other’s shoulder.
The wounded woman barely flinches, just grits her teeth and keeps swinging.
Her red hair is short, curling on the ends as it frames high cheekbones, her freckled skin boasting a sheen of sweat and dirt.
This feels like more than practice. It feels like survival.
I wince, my fingers instinctively going to my own shoulder. “What happened to the wooden swords?”
“These are the proving grounds. The soldiers here are training to be knights. That’s Shea,” he says, pointing at the one with the bleeding shoulder. “She’ll be one by the end of the year.”
The highest position a conscript could rise to, since other ranks are reserved for those with Marius blood. I study her, the way she moves, the way she keeps fighting despite the pain. I wonder if I could do the same.
A thought suddenly occurs to me. Given only those of Marius blood have a Kindling and inherit magic … “Are you related to Bishop?” I ask.
Taliesin looks serious for once. “Not by blood.”
“But I thought knights were the ones who studied magic?” If he’s not related, how can he have magic?
“We do. After we prove ourselves.” He gestures to the pit. “If they make it out of the proving grounds, Bishop will knight them, granting them some of his family’s power, and they can begin their studies.”
My eyes widen. “I thought only Order Calix could imbue magic.”
Taliesin laughs. “That’s what they want you to believe. But it’s possible to gift magic if someone’s willing to give it up.”
Someone giving up power? That’s even harder to fathom than imbuing magic.
I glance around the room, at all the soldiers fighting for a piece of Bishop’s birthright.
“They get access to magic if they’re the best fighters?” That doesn’t feel like much of a bar.
“We get access to magic,” he says pointedly, “if we prove that we’re loyal. The sparring matches are only part of it.”
Loyalty. That’s what this is really about. Not only here but in Wintour, too.
Shea manages to parry while bleeding without losing her balance.
Because she has to. She wasn’t born to power.
None of them were. This is all they have—a chance to fight, survive, carve a place in the world with a sword.
I was handed a ceremonial knife, and I flinched. I doubt I would last a day here.
Taliesin watches, studying the fighters like he’s up next.
Blood soaks Shea’s uniform, but she doesn’t slow down.
It’s only when her opponent’s weapon clatters to the ground that she presses a palm against the wound to slow the bleeding.
Then she bends and retrieves the fallen sword.
Her opponent bows his head, and she tosses it to him, her lips quirking up.
The pair stagger back toward their cohort, teasing and mocking each other.
They fall silent as a new match begins. Taliesin tracks their movement the entire time.
“You miss this,” I say softly.
He tilts his head, something distant and thoughtful shining in his eyes. “Sometimes. It’s simpler at the Bellatorum. Fight. Win. Don’t accidentally get yourself killed.” His grin is crooked. “The rest of life is messier.”
“Tell me about it,” I mutter.
“I’d rather show you.” He stands and extends his hand.
I drop mine into his, panic building in my chest as he pulls me to my feet. “Show me what?”
But he walks to the rack of swords and picks one up. He turns it over in his hand. “What it’s like.”
I hesitate, but the challenge in his voice is unmistakable. Watery fear churns in my stomach—I’m the one who needs to prove myself. That’s why he brought me here, and now he’s armed. I could run, but he’ll catch me. I stand a better chance with a sword in my hands.
“Fine,” I say, crossing to the weapon rack. “Show me, but if you’re going to kill me, make it quick.”
I’m only half joking.
“I like a girl who keeps things interesting.” He steps to the side and allows me to choose a sword.
They all look roughly the same. Basic, unadorned apart from the wolf head carved into the hilt.
Some have a little more blood dried onto the blade than others.
I grab the closest one. It’s heavier than Kieren’s—the only sword I’ve ever held—but the handle fits neatly in my palm.
I test the weight, swinging it around. It wobbles in my right hand, so I add my left to keep it steady.
That helps a little. But I’m pretty sure the shaking has more to do with the potential for imminent death than a lack of strength.
Taliesin begins circling me, eyes narrowed. “Have you ever fought before?”
“Once or twice.” I’m not sure knocking sticks around with my best friend or a few self-defense lessons count. But the last thing I want is to appear like an easy target. Even if I am.
He smirks like we’re playing Liar’s Hand and he just glimpsed my cards. “Perfect. Let’s see how you do.”
I grip the handle as tightly as I can, every muscle in my arms straining at the effort.
“Relax your hold,” he advises. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Except you.
He comes at me fast, his blade swishing through the air. But the swing is sloppy—almost lazy. I barely block it, my heart jumping into my throat. He laughs and dances back.
“Good,” he says. “Again.”
This time, he’s serious. The blows come faster, harder. I block the first two, but the third slices across my arm. I yelp as air hits the wound, and Taliesin backs off, lowering his sword.
“You’re not bad,” he says, barely breathless. “Better than most first years.”
Being scared shitless for your life will do that. “Was that a compliment?”
He shrugs. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
I drop the sword to the ground and look down at the cut.
“Just one thing.” His movement is a flash, and a second later, he’s behind me, his blade hovering at my throat. “Never assume the fight is over. Never drop your weapon.”
I don’t dare speak. Breathe. Move. Gone is the grinning man from this morning. In his place is someone hard. Determined. Dangerous. A knight who has proven his loyalty and is ready to protect the kingdom from … me.
“Lots of people want you dead,” he whispers into my ear.
Well, that deserves a response.
“Like you?” I mutter through clenched teeth.
“That depends.”
So much for his promise to make it quick. “On what?”
“On you.” The blade presses harder into my skin. “Now, give me one good reason not to kill you.”