Chapter 16 #2
Ignoring the tightness in my chest, I recalled the events: how South had hidden in the plants, how I’d run so our attackers would split up, how I’d planned to just survive until Stefano was able to help me.
“And then what?” he pressed.
“They started throwing their daggers, and I realized running alone wouldn’t work. I got one of them to skid out on some wet soil, but the daggers kept coming. I knew I was going to die if I didn’t do something, so I searched and found…”
No. I didn’t find. The living flame in my chest found it. Guided me toward that vine, planted the idea of what I needed to do. Skies, I’d completely forgotten that detail. That wild, strange, completely unnatural detail.
Harthon waited patiently.
Forcing the conversation out of my head, I stammered, “The knowledge of the path—it’s like this ball of heat in my chest. It…
pulses sometimes, like it has a mind of its own.
As I was scanning the garden for something to help me, I looked at some squash plants, and it did that pulsing thing. I just knew I needed to go there.”
I sounded like a mad woman, describing this out loud. But Harthon was listening like I spoke nothing but fact.
“I saw the vine, pulled it taut, and took one of them straight out. I don’t really know how the vine held…” I trailed off, because really, how had that flimsy vine held?
“More happened after that,” Harthon said.
I nodded. “One man was still pursuing me, so I ran back to Stefano. South took him by surprise, and then we were one-on-one. He got me on the ground at one point. I was ready to die.” I swallowed.
“But that heat…it jerked me. I don’t know, it might have been my mind imagining it.
It could have been some survival instinct.
Whatever it was, it got me to move, and then you were there. ”
Part of me expected the kernel of heat to jump or jolt right then and there. Acknowledge that I was talking about it. It didn’t. And I was officially going mad, because of course it didn’t. It wasn’t a walking, talking person.
“Did you ask the—” he struggled to find a word— “heat to do those things for you? Did you summon it like you summon the knowledge of the path?”
Gnawing at my lip, I shook my head. “I just didn’t want to die, and it helped me to survive.”
Harthon ran his hand across his jaw. “It sounds like it didn’t want you to die, either.”
“Maybe,” I allowed, even though it was strange to personify this feeling inside me.
“If it helped you, then it’s a tool. Given it literally saved your life, it’s a valuable tool. But a tool is only as useful as the training its wielder has.”
“It isn’t something I can call on. It just happened.”
“Have you tried calling on it in any situations where you felt threatened?”
“Not yet.”
At that, his uncertainty morphed into resolute confidence. “I think it’s time we try.”
How, exactly? “We’re on a ship full of your men. The storm is gone. There isn’t anything here to threaten me, so we can’t test your theory.”
I might as well have dared him to challenge me. A terribly foolish move, given who he was. The man had defeated a Princeps’ army and usurped a throne with nothing but his mercenaries. He thrived on challenges.
He smiled, baring his teeth in a way that rocked me with unease. “Walk with me.”
Reminding myself that I wasn’t threatened, I followed him over to the ship’s railing to see the seas were still calm. He bent down and snatched a stray scrap of wood, turning it in his hand.
Resting his arms on the railing, he asked, “How familiar are you with sea life?”
“Merelda taught me the basics. Shells, fish, predators—though many of them are probably dead by now. Apparently the seas died with the Domus, just like the land.”
He dipped his chin. “This is true. But there are always survivors.” Again, he turned that wood in his hands. “They survive because they’re scrappy, and because they know where their greatest chance at a meal lies. Right now, where do you think that is?”
I searched the sea around us, finding nothing but white foam and smooth water. Still, I didn’t like where this conversation was going. “This ship has an awful lot of meals.”
“It does.” He tossed the scrap wood into the ocean. It hit with a splash, then floated at the surface. It sat there, calmly bobbing as we sailed away from it.
“You’re trying to make some kind of point, but I’m having trouble—”
A shape erupted from the water, just behind the driftwood. Smooth gray skin and a jagged fin arced through the air before crashing back into the sea, which rippled in the aftermath. It was but a moment of violence.
The scrap of wood was gone.
Shark, I think the term was. Apex predators, rows of razor sharp teeth, indiscriminate in their prey—Merelda’s lesson easily came back to me.
Eying Harthon warily, I said, “Those things would eat me.”
“They would,” he agreed, far too casually.
I took a small step away, because I knew exactly where his mind was. “One, you need me to lead us into the Domus. You can’t risk me. And two, it would be incredibly un-magvis-like to have you chase me around this deck.”
“I already told you about sailors and their tall tales. I’m not concerned. And as for your first excuse, I’m fully confident you’ll call on this thing inside you so that you don’t end up in the ocean as a meal.”
I stared at him, wondering how serious he was. There wasn’t even the smallest hint of humor on his chiseled features. Nothing that told me this was just a hypothetical.
“You realize this is completely unhinged,” I warned. “You can’t throw me to the sharks. And despite all your talk, I don’t believe you will.”
Was it wise to lay down yet another challenge? No. But Harthon would never actually risk me.
His easy shrug had me questioning that. “You’re right that I wouldn’t harm you. But I believe so strongly in your ability to do this that I’m not concerned.”
If Harthon believed—really believed—I could do this, then maybe he really was serious. Because to him, this wouldn’t count as putting me in danger.
It would be an extreme measure. But Harthon was uncompromising as a warrior, used to gritty fights and forcing his way to victory. This wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.
I took another step away from him. “We’re not doing this.”
“Who’s training who?” He shifted to face me, still leaning on that railing.
“Training’s over,” I decided.
“You’re being a coward.”
“No, I’m just embracing my survival instincts.”
“And I’m helping you build them.” He took a single step forward.
That was all it took.
Like a frightened rabbit, I dashed away from him, back to the center of the ship where we’d started. He’d left a spare sword and two daggers on the deck. I grabbed the largest of the blades and spun to see him stalking toward me.
He frowned. “You haven’t trained swords. You’re going to hurt yourself with that blade.”
“No, I’m going to stop you from tossing me into the sea, because that would hurt me.”
“I disagree.” He was approaching far too quickly.
My pulse sped up. “I’ve always thought you were clever and strategic, but this is plain mad. If North or Callen were here, they’d tell you that.”
“Again, I disagree.”
Of course, because North would love to see me torn to pieces by a shark, and Callen would probably just be curious.
He drew his sword, and I resorted to my favorite battle strategy: running.
Holding the sword in front of me so I wouldn’t stab myself, I took off for the stairs leading to the cabin. There were rooms to hide in—rooms much farther from the ocean than this deck.
A sailor appeared at the top of the steps, holding a heavy chest.
“Move!” I shouted.
He took in the scene, me running while Harthon gave chase, and chuckled.
Dammit. Sprinting past that stairwell, I searched for something to help me, some way to buy enough time to convince him this was an awful idea.
There.
The sails. I could climb them.
The back of my neck tickled.
I came to a hard stop and pivoted, swinging my sword in a wide, blind arc. Harthon easily dodged the strike, and I swung again. His blade met mine, my arm reverberating with the impact.
I yanked the weapon away, panting, trying to think of my next move. I didn’t know how to use a sword. What I did know was that Harthon wouldn’t strike me. His only goal was to disarm me so he could send me overboard. I only needed to hang on to this blade.
I feigned left before striking right. He sidestepped. I kicked at his knee. His leg met my foot with an abrupt block, and I slashed with the weapon again. Metal clanged as my blade came to a hard stop against his, and he lunged forward to grab my sword hand.
I danced back before he made contact.
A flicker of intrigue crossed his face.
“I’m calling on that heat, and it isn’t answering,” I informed him as we circled each other. It was true. Nothing was coming from that kernel in my chest except the draw to First Territory.
“Then you aren’t feeling threatened enough.”
All this time, I’d assumed he’d play defense. Wait for an opportunity to seize my weapon. Between one second and the next, he stripped me of that comfort.
Harthon rushed me, a mass of power and agility, swinging that sharp metal with unrelenting speed.
A cry escaped as I clumsily brought my sword up to block his.
Once. Twice. On the third, my arms almost buckled.
On the fourth, I fell to a knee, the hilt nearly slipping from my fingers. He lifted his sword again.
Screw this.
With a shout, I completely disregarded his next strike and dove at his knees. His blade sailed over my body, and I took him down. The moment I sat on his legs, I realized my mistake. Wooden planks spun into gray sky as he flipped us. He gripped my sword hand and twisted. The weapon fell free.
I screeched in pain.
Not because it’d hurt, but because it was the only offensive move I could think of.
Immediately, Harthon halted. When I whimpered, his brows crashed together. The concern almost made me feel guilty. Almost.
I rammed my forehead into his nose.
He grunted as blood erupted. His hands shot to his nose. The pang of guilt hit, but it wasn’t enough to stop me from scrambling out from beneath him and darting away.
Harthon wasn’t as incapacitated as I’d hoped.
He snagged my ankle, sending me sprawling on my stomach.
I hadn’t even recovered my breath when I was flipped again, and a fuming mountain of muscle landed securely on my waist. Two hands plastered mine to the deck.
Blood dripped from his nose onto my chest, though it didn’t appear broken.
“I’ll commend your creativity,” he hissed out. “And now I won’t feel even a little bit bad about this.”
He yanked me up and tossed me over his shoulder. Wooden planks blurred with the head rush, and then they moved, because we were moving. Toward the water.
I tried to kick, but he’d manacled my legs with his arms. I resorted to punching his rock-hard back, calling on that kernel of heat within me again and again. It didn’t even flare. Didn’t do anything but uselessly tell me to go to First Territory.
I threw my hand up and blindly yanked on his hair. He cursed and jostled me. His shoulder pushed the air from my lungs, and I lost my grip.
Come on.
Give me something.
But I wasn’t on his shoulder anymore. Cool air swallowed my body as I went airborne. There was nothing deceptive about the shriek I let out this time. I caught a glimpse of water before my wrist snagged and I slammed into the wood siding.
My heart in my throat, I glanced up. Harthon held my wrist, eyes blazing. “Make it work, Etarla,” he gritted out.
Two drops of blood fell from his nose, plummeting into the water below me.
That was all it took. Three of those deadly predators exploded out of the depths, mouths gaping, rows of jagged teeth searching for their next meal.
When they didn’t find it, they kept thrashing, churning the seas.
They would swallow me before I even touched the water.
“Harthon!” I screeched.
He muttered a curse. In one hard tug, I was dragged back over the side of the railing. I collapsed in a heap, body shaking, gasping for air.
“Did you try?” he asked, like he hadn’t almost ended my life.
“I fucking tried,” I hissed, panting. “And I was threatened. And like I said, it didn’t work.”
His lips turned down as he wiped the blood crusting above his lip. There wasn’t any swelling, and I wished I’d hit him harder.
“That was out of line,” I seethed. It’d been more than out of line. It’d been insanity.
“Training isn’t supposed to be easy. It was worth it to determine if that thing inside you can help in more ways than one. Now we know it can’t, so we’ll focus our training on your other strengths.” He lowered a hand to help me up.
As if I wanted his damned help. Ignoring it, I shoved to my feet. My knees were quaking. Did he pull these kinds of stunts with every soldier he trained?
“Grab the sword you dropped, and let’s get started,” he ordered.
He wanted to continue training, after all that?
Grinding my teeth together, I trudged over to the fallen blade. If more training meant I could hit him again, it was worth it.