Chapter Eleven
I wake to the mouthwatering scent of roasting rabbit. Titus has raked some coals to the side of the fire and spitted the rabbit
above them. Something drip-sizzles.
Titus sits cross-legged before it, occasionally turning the rabbit. He acknowledges my waking with a quick glance.
“How in two moons did you find a rabbit in this storm?” I say.
“The storm passed,” he says. “It’s not even snowing anymore.”
“But snowshoe rabbits always burrow during a storm. How did you—”
“I’m a very good hunter.”
No argument there. He may not be a devotee of Jeridan, but the god of the hunt has certainly blessed him. “How long was I
asleep?”
“It’s late morning.”
I sit straight up. “You should have awakened me.”
“You needed the rest. I’ve been pushing you hard.”
No argument there either. “Do we still have time for those lessons you mentioned?”
He nods. “We’ll pack up, then I’ll show you a couple of forms while this roasts.”
We make quick work of our camp, and Blackwind is saddled and loaded in no time. The rest did me good. My bones don’t ache for once, and after I fill this growling belly, I’ll be ready for anything.
Titus has already swept bones and detritus aside, creating a space on the floor. He plants himself before me, feet slightly
apart. He says, “Mirror me.”
“I’m so glad you’re going to teach me how to stand,” I say, getting into position. “About time I learned.”
His lips quirk. “That’s it. Except bend your knees slightly. Yes. Now relax your hands, but bend your elbows just a little.”
He adjusts the width of my stance, making sure my feet are planted right below their corresponding shoulders. My stomach growls
loudly.
“I’m going to teach you the pendulum,” he says. “It will build strength in your legs and abdomen and prepare your mind to
learn how to read an opponent.”
I’m not sure how standing will accomplish that, but I nod with appropriate enthusiasm.
“Next I want you to twist at the waist. Right shoulder forward, left shoulder back.” He demonstrates a mirror image of what
he wants me to do. “Lean into it a little, let your hips absorb some of the swing, but keep your feet in place for now.”
I give it a try. It feels like swaying in place, with a little twist at the end. “Like this?”
“Yes, but keep your eyes on me.”
I demonstrate again, and he nods approval.
“Now the other side.” Once again, he mirrors and I follow suit. “Good. Let’s go again, one side, then the other.”
He sways to the other side, twisting one shoulder away from me, then back again. I copy his movements as best I can, sway-twist, sway-twist, one side, then the other. Our gazes never leave each other’s faces. I feel like an idiot.
“Please tell me there is a good defensive application for all this swaying.”
“Oh, yes. Keep going.”
So I do. Sway-twist, sway-twist. My thighs warm.
“You’re doing very well,” he says, a note of surprise in his voice. “You show excellent isolation control.”
Whatever that means. “Thank you.”
The next time I sway right, his right fist punches slowly forward and occupies the space where my head used to be. “Oh,” I
say, watching that fist. “Oh.”
His fist retracts as I sway left, and his other fist punches forward, occupying the vacated space. It’s a dodge, I realize.
Not a real dodge, not a fighting dodge, but a practice one. A form.
“Eyes on me, not my hands,” he says, still punching slowly as I sway out of reach. “A blow doesn’t come from a fist; it comes
from the shoulders and abdomen. A fist is merely a vessel, and if you’re watching the fist, you will only see the blow coming
after it’s formed, after the vessel has been filled.”
That makes a weird sort of sense. I focus on his shoulders, and after a few moves, I understand fully. I can see the energy
of a punch gather, long before it travels down his arms. Everything would happen much faster in real combat, of course. The
way we move now is slow, sleepy, controlled—almost like a dance. But I see it. I get it.
I lean one way, then the other, over and over again. Titus’s fists whisper past my cheeks. My sides begin to ache just above my hips.
“There are variations on the pendulum form,” Titus says, punching, punching. “Ducking down, dodge with lunge, even a jump.
All of it is meant to train your eye and your footwork. Proper footwork is essential because it sets you up for a good counterattack
or even a second dodge.”
My breath is coming a little fast now. “Is this how you learned?”
“Sort of. I’m not as naturally coordinated as you are, and I had an impatient tutor.”
Of course, as a prince, he would begin lessons like this at a very young age. “That sounds unpleasant.”
“You’ll learn faster than I did. I think . . .” A punch glides past my face as he grins, straight out. “I think you’ll be
an excellent student.” There is light in his eyes. Actual joy. It almost takes my breath away.
We practice the form until my muscles burn and my breath comes fast. It’s such a simple movement; I can’t fathom why it should
prove so taxing. But I’m thrilled when Titus calls a halt and orders me to eat.
It’s late afternoon when we finally take our leave of the cave.
Titus must have cleared the trail while I slept, for it is swept mostly clean.
Clouds still darken the sky, but the electric tingle on my skin is gone.
Climbing up doesn’t seem as awful as climbing down, and as we cautiously make the trek, I think about unanswered questions.
Exactly how did Titus find this place? How did he run off a denning ice cat so quickly and easily—a horse-sized carnivore with dagger claws?
How did he find that rabbit in the middle of a storm?
I’m grateful for all those things, of course. But they make no sense.
We reach the top of the cliff. Yesterday’s path is made invisible by snow, but rock cairns give us a general direction.
“We’re going to leave footprints,” Titus grumbles, gazing at the pure white landscape. Wind has already whipped strands of
hair from his ponytail.
“Nothing we can do about that,” I say. “Except travel fast.”
He mounts Blackwind, and I follow suit on Apple, who prances a little, happy to have a rider again. “Let’s go,” Titus says,
and we push our mounts forward into the high barrens, toward the Spires and the Fedor mine.
Another day of snow, followed by a melting warmth, brings us to the foot of the Spires, where wind has swept the sparkling
granite bare and hardly a tree dares take root.
I visited the area once as a small girl. Ma and I packed up some treats for Grandda—deer jerky, a basket of honey cakes, a
quilt we’d sewn together—and we made the trek on foot in three days. Anja was too little to come; she stayed home at the inn
under the watchful eye of our father, who was sitting out the mining season to nurse a bad knee.
Even though I was barely five years old, a few memories stand out clear as day: the blocky, stone-gray miners’ barracks that Ma said were remnants of a long-dead civilization; my shins and ankles burning from the effort of navigating the steep, icy paths; and most of all the way that crystal-blue water filled the nearby quarry, gently lapping against the cliff’s edges, shooting sapphire crystals of reflected light into my eyes, so sharp and bright that I had to squint.
I don’t remember this relentless wind, stinging my face with snow and gravel and whipping my hair into my mouth. And I definitely
don’t remember masses of griffin condors circling lazily among the Spires.
As we crest a rise and look down onto the haphazard remains of the miners’ village, one of the griffin condors settles on
the stone wall of a roofless hut. She stretches her wings to sun them, proudly exhibiting a span twice the length of a horse,
and shakes her black, furry mane before beginning a thorough preen of her pure white belly. Her raptor’s beak looks as though
it could tear my head off.
“Oh,” Titus mutters. “Gods.”
“Exactly what I was thinking.”
“I’ve heard of griffin condors, but I’ve never seen one in real life. It’s the size of a dragon hatchling. Did you know that
they’re too heavy for flight? But they fly anyway. It’s their magic.”
I whip my head to gape at him. “You’ve seen dragons?”
He shrugs. “Let’s find a place to camp. Condors aren’t dangerous, are they?”
I pretend not to notice that he evaded my question. “Only if you’re carrion. Or if you threaten a nest. I didn’t realize they’d
established a nesting ground here. But we’ll be safe so long as we’re respectful.”
Titus dismounts and starts down the icy path, leading Blackwind by the reins, and I do the same with Apple.
“There’s been an unusual amount of animal migration throughout the entire Sunderland the last few years,” he says, and I find myself listening with great care because he volunteers information so rarely.
“Dragons and banshees leaking into the valleys, animal herds fleeing the Edge, warm-water fish schooling in the cold southern waters, ice cats in the Iolan lowlands.”
We approach the stone hut where the condor is perched. She peers at us sideways but appears unfazed. “Do you know why?” I
ask, keeping an eye on the great bird.
“There are theories,” he says vaguely. “How about that one?” He points to another hut, slightly less ramshackle than the rest,
with a thatch roof that seems intact. It was built partly into the mountainside, which has protected it from the worst of
the wind.
“As long as we keep sparks away from that thatch,” I say.
After assuring Titus that the condors won’t pose a threat to the horses, we tie Blackwind and Apple to a stone post with metal
rings, and we enter the dim hut. The beaten wood door hangs from one hinge. It swings open, but it can no longer shut completely.
Still, it will be so much better than sleeping in open air.
It’s a moment before my eyes adjust to the murk. I make out a floor strewn with dirt and dry leaves, a single cot with no
mattress or even straw, and a deep stone hearth with a thick chimney.