Chapter 7 #2
Varka had also dressed in a simple tunic and sharply tailored trousers. In her hand was a glass goblet, into which a servant poured freshly squeezed orange juice.
Ksenia spotted a honey-covered bun on a nearby tray and reached for it.
“Halt! Hold it right there—” Varka brandished her fork at her. “From this moment on, you’re only allowed to eat it if you can steal it.”
“I thought you wanted me to be conditioned and physically ready for the trials.” Ksenia arched a brow.
“I do. And part of the trials is an emphasis on stealth and pickpocketing, of course. This house is ancient. The floorboards are creaky, it’s strewn with delicate heirlooms and breakable objects, and…” Varka’s smile was lopsided. “It’s full of hidden surprises.”
Ksenia stared at her for a beat. Then swiped a bun with one hand, dashing back out to the foyer, narrowly avoiding the butter knife that buried itself into the wood grain of the door as it slammed shut behind her.
A short while later, Varka swung out of the dining hall licking each finger.
Ksenia averted her gaze, focusing it back on the portraits on the walls.
During the daytime, Beranek Manor had a different mood—full of light and air.
The curtains were pulled open, letting in the misty gray morning light from all sides.
“I hope you enjoyed that pastry, because every single person in this household is in on our training and is sworn to make it hell.”
The staff looked at her warily as Ksenia shifted her weight back and forth. It seemed all eyes were on her now, thanks to Varka’s new game. She would have to “hunt” for her meals at less conspicuous times.
Ksenia’s stomach grumbled, and a nearby maid stared at her.
“Each of our days will be as follows: drills on survival, escape, followed by dueling.”
Ksenia ticked off each one in her head. “What about infiltration?”
Varka smiled wryly. “Hunger is as good a motivation as any, but I will teach you.” She stepped back from Ksenia, arms spread. “There is a gold piece in the right pocket of my trousers. Steal it.”
“What?” Ksenia glared. “You’ll be watching my every move—how could I fool you?”
Exasperated, Varka closed the distance between them, grasping Ksenia’s shoulders to quickly spin her to look at a nearby mirror.
“Don’t see it as taking. See it as distracting, then disappearing.” In the mirror’s reflection, Varka rolled a gold coin over her knuckles before tucking it into Ksenia’s pants pocket. There was a satisfying weight to it.
She flipped Ksenia back around and prompted her again. “Steal the coin.”
Ksenia glowered and jammed her fingers deep into the pocket, but came up empty. She schooled the surprise on her face, unwilling to let Varka’s ego blow up larger than it already was.
Varka’s grin spread ear to ear, the gold coin ensnared between her thumb and index finger. “Distract. Disappear.”
It was another couple of hours before the pair even left the entry hall for their next destination, while Ksenia repeatedly tried to take the coin from Varka by using distraction tactics and laying a hand on low-sensitivity areas of Varka’s body, such as her back and shoulder, while moving with a featherlight touch to free the heavy coin. Again and again, she failed.
“It’s because you know my intent and what I’m trying to do!” Ksenia threw her hands up in frustration.
“False. You know I’m trying to get the coin from your pocket, and yet I succeed. You, on the other hand, are jabbing at my hip like you’re digging with a shovel.” Varka snorted before breaking into a brisk walk, heading out the front door.
“Keep at it, have faith.”
They strolled behind the manor toward the gardens, which stretched out in layered terraces down the hillside.
The winding path was made of loose black river rock, worn smooth from years of waves turning them back and forth.
They passed a collection of roses, the dew still dripping from their petals.
On their right, Varka pointed out a greenhouse filled with herbs and deadly plants, including ghostspine thistles, ashcap mushrooms, and, in the corner, night jasmine, which Ksenia gleefully noted.
“All the plants were trimmings from the court physician’s collection. Learn to pick with gloves or bleed like a fool, as I learned,” Varka tossed lazily over her shoulder.
Then they came upon a copse of twisted trees, almost at the edge of the wilderness. A soft and misty drizzle had picked up, smelling of wet stone, roses, and fresh pine.
“Perfect weather, isn’t it?” Varka looked about herself, producing a small tin canister. Ksenia could smell the coffee grounds before she opened it.
“I want a cup of coffee—start a fire.”
Ksenia gaped at her. “Start a fire? With what? Wet kindling?”
“Figure it out.” Varka settled onto an iron bench at the edge of a covered canopy of trees. “I’m waiting.”
Ksenia huffed, trudging through the sopping underbrush for a fire starter. As a smith, her instincts led her to search for dry, resin-rich woods that could catch easily. She found nothing of the sort.
Ksenia’s palms were rubbed raw from trying to strike a fire between her chosen spindle: a pitiful, waterlogged branch from a nearby tree, and her hearth: a rotted piece of bark she pried from the same trunk.
The black lake next to her funneled icy wind across its smooth surface, halting all her progress the moment steam began to rise.
Ksenia huffed, sweat dripping down her neck.
“Well, it looks like you won’t be having any coffee—pity because you’ll need the energy to survive the rest of the day,” Varka drawled as she tore the sticks from Ksenia’s hand, earning her a glare that she overlooked. “You have the right idea, but the wrong materials. Watch me, and do it again.”
Varka retrieved a branch, scraped some bark, and removed a bit of mossy lichen from the trees.
She peered around, searching for something before finding a flattened rock anchored into the ground.
Plopping her materials down, she began shaping her spindle, straight as an arrow, and got to work with her back to the wind.
She patiently spun the spindle in her hands, and at the sign of smoke, added the lichen to the tinder nest, blowing gently to coax a small flame to life.
She transferred the new flame to a bed of moss and leaves at the base of the rock, sheltered from the wind, and brushed her hands clean.
“Not so hard, is it?”
She brewed a single cup of coffee as Ksenia glowered nearby, begrudgingly grateful for the warmth of the fire.
“I used a hollowroot tuber as the spindle along with pine bark, since they tend to burn smokeless. Great for cooking undetected.”
Varka pointed out functional materials hiding in plain sight.
The crimson moss that liked to grow on the south side of trees bled a red sap that burned exceptionally well but produced a tremendous amount of smoke—ideal for signaling.
The thin leaves of a silvery fern were ideal for compacting into a tinder nest, creating a compact, warm bonfire that burned for an extended period.
Ksenia hadn’t expected this noblewoman to be so capable and willing to get her hands dirty.
By the time they returned to the manor, it was afternoon, and Ksenia was fading fast.
But something caught her eye in the courtyard and she brightened instantly.
“Is that a forge?” She pointed at a smokestack chimney leading down to a squat structure, partially sheltered by a moss-covered overhang off to the side of the manor.
It was made of blackened riverstone and timber stained with resin and soot.
The apron-style front door was half open, and within, Ksenia could see hammers, aprons, tools, and an anvil.
Varka studied her, debating whether to indulge her. “So you are a smith. I suspected as much with that blade you’re always carrying.” Her eyes dropped to Ksenia’s hip.
Ksenia nodded, carefully. After all, being a blacksmith wasn’t a crime. In fact, it was a profitable line of work.
“If it pleases you and makes you feel more welcome, you can use that forge.”
Ksenia beamed, eager to explore.
“Hold on—you can only use it during your off time.” Varka’s forearm blocked her from going further. Ksenia hadn’t even noticed herself drifting toward the apron doors of the forge.
“Will I even get a day off? With your regimen and the upcoming trials, this feels like the last time I’ll ever be able to lay hands on a hammer. If I’m lucky,” Ksenia grumbled.
Varka ignored the crux of her question. “Luck is only part of it. We’re going to be smarter and more ruthless than your competition.”
Ksenia bit her tongue as she followed Varka toward the manor.
Inside, lunch was being assembled. Ksenia’s keen sense of smell could detect a blackberry reduction, roasted goose, and bitter, charred vegetables.
She spied a baker, his stomach distended beneath his apron as he balanced a wooden board of breads and cheeses, making his way into the dining room.
Ksenia swallowed thickly: she had to find a way to get food.
She studied the scene and— there, tied through the apron loops at the baker’s waist, was a single skeleton key.
“I hope you’re motivated, because after my lunch, we’ll work on sparring.” A wild gleam settled in Varka’s eyes, and Ksenia’s stomach grumbled as she was shooed from the kitchen.
In her spare hour, Ksenia wandered the manor.
Farther down the hall from the kitchens, there was an above-ground cellar, boasting countless bottles of wine and mead laid in wooden latticework holders.
And just next to it, an inconspicuous door, wallpapered in a pattern that blended in seamlessly with its surroundings.
She sidled closer, pressing her ear against the cool surface, and heard nothing. With a turn of the knob, she let herself in.
The room was small and stuffy, but smelled like clean linens. As her eyes adjusted to the dim lights, she was greeted with rows and rows of spare uniforms and fabrics for the servants of the manor. This could help.