Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
O ur walk to the training ground takes longer than it should, as though she’s been walking in circles all day. Perhaps today is the day we never arrive; the day it finally changes.
Pasha.
The sight of him transforms me into a beast barely contained. All claws and fangs. Fire and flames. Rage and ruin.
But I’m frozen solid in this prison.
“Where is everyone, I thought it’d be a group?” she asks the weapons master when we arrive for lessons a few minutes late.
“Just us. Gave everyone the morning off as I knew it’d be your first day since…you know.” Pasha makes a weird gesture toward our lower half.
“Right. Okay then,” comes the sarcastic reply.
Immediately, I try to make her apologize, to beg for forgiveness, but our mouth and body don’t respond.
She cannot hear me. She never can.
“I’m not in the mood for your attitude today, Mika,” he spits.
I scream at her to run, go, escape . But she stays, unaware of the seconds ticking down to the moment our life changes irreversibly .
“We’re practicing how to disarm someone with a knife. Move into the barn.”
Confused about why he’s red with anger, she follows him.But his anger fuels me, sharpening my teeth and claws. It feeds me.
“Right. Try to get my knife,” he instructs, as he throws his knife from hand to hand, dropping into a defensive position.His skin—so pale it’s almost translucent—is going pink from the cold.
She steels herself and advances, focusing on his knife and his body language. We’ve been learning how to do this since we were five and Jaena saw us winning scraps against the older boys in the children’s compound. She thought perhaps it was our Gift, but it wasn’t. We are good,very good—especially for our age—but not Gifted.
There’s nothing special about us.
I try to stop her. Dull our skill, be meek, anything to stop what’s coming. But she disarms him easily, his face sweaty as he demands the knife back.
“Again,” he tells her, and she swiftly disarms him with little trouble.
“Am I doing something wrong? Isn’t this exactly what you want me to be doing?”
Pasha is Gifted, not in weaponry, but in teaching, and he just so happens to be adept at weaponry. We’re better though, even at thirteen.
“I thought you’d be grateful that I gave you more one-on-one training instead of having to deal with a full group for the first time. Instead, you’re showing off and giving me attitude.”
Pasha was always a bit odd, maybe a little creepy, but never nasty. A decade our senior, we thought he’d enjoyed teaching us one-on-one for the last three revs. But finally, today, we were supposed to be with the rest of the kids in secondary, learning as a group instead of being hidden away.
“Here, take the knife, and I’ll disarm you and show you how it’s supposed to be done.” He hands us the knife, and she prepares to attack so he can defend and disarm.
“Do it badly, don’t win, let him disarm you!” I try to yell, but nothing stops her from pinning his arm behind his back and holding the knife to his throat.
She releases him and hands his knife back, which he snatches and moves in so close that she’s stepping backward to keep some distance from him.Every step, every time, fuels me. Sharpens my claws, lengthens my teeth, just that little bit more.
“You really do think you’re better than me, don’t you, Mika? I thought maybe once you were sterilized, some of that fire would be extinguished. But no, you’re just the same arrogant little bitch you’ve always been.”
Right now, this is when she realizes. We’re backed against the wall of an empty stable.
RUN .
But she doesn’t run. She still doesn’t truly understand the danger. She still trusts him. Still believes he won’t hurt us.
Even afterward, when he leaves us broken and bleeding on the empty stable floor, she doesn't understand. We still don’t.
Why didn’t she fight back?
Why didn’t she fight back the next time?
Or the next?
Why did it have to be me?
I never did get to join the group.
I know I can never change the sequence of events. I know yelling and screaming at myself does nothing. But still, I try, and still, I wake up gasping for breath. The revolting memory of Pasha’s touch still caresses my skin. Over a decade of this nightmare and it’s still as raw as it was back then.
I catch Riley’s eye, awake in his bedroll, as I have the few times I’ve woken from a nightmare. He doesn’t sleep long either, or much at all for that matter. He’s often carving wood, but something about the time of night and the hushed silence stops me from asking what. I calm my breathing and let the nightmare-fueled memory wash off me until I fall back to sleep.
We reach a beautiful old cobblestoned cottage surrounded by all sorts of trees and vines with a massive stable around midday the next day. It’s beginning to drizzle, and the pluming smoke from the chimney gives me hope that the inside will be warm and dry.
The cottage is reminiscent of the small parts of Nemoris I’ve seen. With only two assassination assignments in Nemoris, I haven’t seen much of the country at all.
The two men I was sent to assassinate, one Laguzborn and the other Erduborn, both hid in cottages like this. Though the assignments were two revs apart, the similarities were uncanny. Both knew I was coming and accepted their fate as soon as they saw me waiting for them. I was instructed to kill them brutally, painfully. I did neither. They sat on a couch and a kitchen chair, respectively. And didn’t fight back. Both hung their heads, waiting. I slit their throats. Then, when I knew lifeblood no longer ran in their veins, I brutalized their bodies. No one would know they weren’t tortured.
Come to think of it, I’ve only been tasked to assassinate one Nemorisborn—a Gifted man able to change the temperature of water.He was my first assassination in Sadori. I spent weeks in that Divine-forsaken hot country before vowing I would never return.
Just as our horses enter the gate, a person sprints out to greet us. It’s a long way to the house from the gate, so it will take a moment for whoever it is to run to us.
“Bitty!” calls Beans, with a paternal look of affection on his face. “You’re on their horse, by the way,” he leans back to say to me.
“Oh?” is my eloquent response.
As Bitty nears, I recognize them. Their coming-of-age was less than a revolution past, though Nemoris had pre-purchased them. It’s the first and only time I've ever heard of this happening. I remember seeing them around, their pitch-black straight hair tied in a small bun, revealing a shaved undercut. Big eyes with long lashes, square features and a wide nose, and the typical blemish-free sun-kissed bronze skin of a Laguzborn. They’re closer in height to me, just a couple of inches taller. Slim but a fit build. Most stunning was the enormous smile across their face, all dimples and teeth.
I hadn’t known Bitty’s name and we hadn’t interacted. They were the infamous Laguzborn who wasn’t admitted into Osraed until they were four or five revs old. Lost in Laguz on one of the tiny non-country islands and never reported, as the gossip goes. Adding to the infamy was—though everyone tried to force them—they were not suitable to live with the other children in the compounds. No one ever knew why, only that they lived outside of the compound borders. It wasn’t until they aged-up that they moved into secondary and continued life as a normal Gifted Patron. That is until their coming-of-age when, despite there being no official announcement, they were sent straight to Nemoris.
Out of breath, Bitty greets us all and we’re formally introduced. I jump down from Applemint, offering her back to them to ride. They reluctantly accept, not wanting to make me walk, but I insist. Once they’re up, Bitty’s smile is incandescent, and Applemint looks just as delighted.
We continue toward the house with me on foot. Two Nemorisborn women stand on the veranda of the cottage, both clearly related to Beans. That bright, fire-orange hair must be a family trait.
When Ditch spots the two women on the veranda, he bolts toward them. It looked like he was about to bowl them right over, but he stops in time, neither woman even flinching. Beans is getting down as Ditch is cuddling and nudging at the two women, desperate to touch them both at the same time. He seems more like a snowolf pup and not a fully-grown horse. It’s adorable given how huge he is in comparison to these normal heighted women. While the three are obviously related, these two are not giants like Beans.
“Tall father,” Riley whispers down to me, nodding toward them and smiling conspiratorially. I pin my lips together, trying not to laugh.
“And what’s your excuse, you overgrown toddler?” Tovi asks Riley, causing Bitty to snort. “Your entire family is a normal height, while you grew like a thick, red weed.”
Riley tries to push Tovi off her horse and the result is them—yet again—chasing each other. Bitty, Applemint, and I are left alone.
“Are they always like this?” I ask Bitty to break the silence, as it starts to drizzle.
“Yes,” they laugh. “Unfortunately.”
Bitty tips their head as if listening to something, and I look around on high alert. “Can I be rude and leave you here?” they ask. “Mama is trying to convince Beans to leave me behind!”
I nod and wave them on. It takes me a few moments to register their words and realize that Bitty’s Gift must be enhanced hearing. And that they’re likely the one joining our party.
Walking alone isn’t so bad, though the drizzle quickly becomes heavy rain. I startle when Riley rides up behind me on his horse and reaches his hand out to me. I look at his hand, and then his face, and back to his hand, not taking it.
“Do you want a ride to the cottage, or would you prefer to catch your death in the rain?”
I reluctantly grab his hand, putting my foot in the stirrup he’s left available for me, and he yanks me up behind him. I have less than a second before we’re galloping, and I’m groping all over him for something to hold on to. He reaches down and grabs one of my hands, pulling it around his waist and holding it there, riding one-handed. His clothes and leathers don’t do this man’s physique any compliments. He’s ripped . Pure, unadulterated muscle is rippling under my touch.
His hand is hot. Actually, everything is hot. I’m hot. Why is it so hot? My rage flutters and swirls inside my chest, getting feisty. It’s not until we arrive with a screeching halt into the barn behind the cottage and he lets go of my hand, that the rage goes back to sleep.
I slide off his horse with ease. Riley’s bags are already in a pile next to one of the stables. He must have dropped them off and come back out for me.
“Thanks for the ride.”
“No worries. Mama and Frankie would have castrated me if I’d left you out there,” Riley says, grunting as he lifts his horse's saddle.
“Wait. Whose mama is she?”
He lets out a little chuckle. “Everyone’s. Yours too now. Prepare yourself to be smothered by the two of them.”
I must look the way I feel because Tovi walks past and says, “Don’t look so horrified, Mika.” But then adds slyly, “Riley isn’t that ugly.”
He whips his head up to look at Tovi and then me. “Geez. Give a girl a hand, and she repays you with uninhibited disgust,” he says with exaggerated offense.
I make a stuttered sound to defend myself as both of them cluck their tongues, walking away, shaking their heads in fake disappointment. Leaving me alone in the barn to wonder what the fuck just happened.
Inside the cottage, I am greeted with so much that I am instantly overwhelmed. The heat of the roaring fire in the center of the room slams into me. Booming laughter from Beans and—I assume—his sister, can be heard down the hallway directly to my right. Tovi and Bitty are playing a card game at the far end of the room that seems to require lots of table slapping and celebratory whooping. Riley reclines in a massive sofa seat, a drink in his hand, watching me with an intent stare. The smell of food cooking sends my stomach into a frenzy.
Drifting toward the kitchen, finding a smaller, wrinklier, more feminine version of Beans. Standing awkwardly, I try to sniff out the ingredients that might be in the giant pot she’s stirring. Red meat, onions, garlic, and something earthy that I can’t identify.
“Mika! You’re so quiet, you nearly scared an old woman to death!”
“I’m sorry, I was drawn to the smell,” I try to apologize as my nose keeps sniffing toward the pot. She laughs and flaps at me with her apron as if to shoo me away.
“Can I do anything to help?
“Come give this a stir then, while I check the bread.”
I eagerly take the spoon from her and begin to stir the pot of chunky meat stew, which is interspersed with all kinds of wilting leaves I don’t recognize: wide and bright green, small and yellow sword-shaped with pink edges and spots, and curly, dark green ones. Amongst the wilting greens, I see chunks of white kumara and what looks like pieces of young fern stem, prompting my stomach to give a hungry growl.
While I’m mixing, the older woman takes the two massive loaves of bread out of her little fire oven and sets them aside. Disappearing for a moment, she returns with some dried seed pods and starts grinding them to a powder before tipping them into the pot. An earthy, minty smell wafts up toward me.
“What’s the meat?” I ask her.
“Mutton, dear. Our old lady had enough of this life, so we eat her in celebration and thanks.”
I like that, and I smile to myself.
“Taste it, will you, and tell me what it needs?” she calls, rummaging in a large butler’s pantry.
I quickly look for a small spoon and dip it in the pot to get some of the gravy. The pepperiness punches me delightfully in the face, along with the sweetness from the kumara and earthiness from the greens dancing across my palate.
“Honestly, just a tiny pinch of salt. But a salty buttery bread would be enough.”
She returns from the pantry with an approving look, laden with seven bowls and side plates in her arms.
“Good girl. Beans said you could cook, but he eats the slop that Riley cooks, so I wasn’t convinced,” she says wryly as we hear a “hey!” from Riley in the next room.
“Make yourself useful, boy, and set the table before you’re too drunk,” she calls out to Riley.
He does as he’s asked, and everyone else comes to help, and before long, we have a giant table loaded with food and drinks. There is even a spiced pear cider in jugs for us to share. It’s a fun meal with stories and laughter, mainly at Riley’s expense. It looks like they enjoy deliberately goading him until he explodes. But he gives it back just as good as he gets, so I think he secretly enjoys it.
Frankie—Beans’ sister—pulls me aside after lunch to ask if I have leathers. Ofnemoris predominantly wear leather vests or harnesses, leather sheaths for weapons, leather boots, and even fingerless gloves. I have none as Nemoris leather is expensive.
We’re in a massive room with sewing machines and piles of fabric and leather. I show her my straps with equal parts pride and embarrassment after seeing the quality of her work.
“You made these?” Frankie asks, and I nod. “These are so clever. Do you mind if I take the measurements of the designs? I’ll pay you back with anything you want. I was already going to sew you some leathers anyway, but maybe there’s something extra you’d like?”
I have to shut my gaping mouth and restart my brain. Unable to reply yet, I strip off all the different straps. Pulling out weapons from their hiding places but keeping some hidden. By the end, I have the straps from two small flat wrist blades of varying sizes, two longer ankle blades of different widths, the sheathed knife inside the cut of my left pocket, and two straps of throwing knives of different lengths. It was Frankie’s turn to be gobsmacked before her laughter boomed, not unlike her brother’s.
She grabs out a measuring tape and begins taking measurements of my body, instructing me to lift my arms, stand straight, or take off my current, ratty old boots.
“Do you carry a sword?”
“Oh, yes I do—it’s on a belt with my belongings. Should I get it?”
She nods at me, and I look for the room I’m to share with Riley and Tovi. Grabbing my sword and belt, I hesitate. The edges of a soft leather wrap peek out from my bag, giving me an idea fueled by hope. I return to Frankie.
“Would you have any idea how I could holster these?” I ask, almost pleading, as I show her my hatchets.
She takes them from me with awe, being so gentle. She looks closely at each one and strokes them like a lover. I like her. This is the exact respect and love my hatchets deserve.
“These are stunning, Mika! Where did you get them?”
I describe the market stall and the lady who sold them to me, though I don’t think I’ve ever seen her again.
She takes a few more measurements from me, asking if she can keep the hatchets with her while she works, and I agree. I leave all of my straps with her so she can make patterns, feeling oddly naked and vulnerable without them.