CHAPTER 11 #4
“Have you seen Kahvrah?” My interest piqued.
It wasn’t lost on me that Gerta disappeared most evenings.
Dane had widened my reins to move within the castle grounds freely, but Gerta was still confined to the keep unless accompanied.
The last time I had a tea date with Helene, she was missing all day and only returned to our room long after the dinner hour.
“Oh, I—uhm—yes. She’s taken me to the market.”
I sat up straight. “Without me?”
“Well, you have lessons and sparring sessions and…other plans…”
“What for?” I leaned forward in my chair. She was hiding something.
“For your basic needs, of course. Who do you think refills your personal items? And buys your favorite snacks?” Gerta’s voice took on that sharpness from my childhood, like when I had painted flowers down the side of my dresser or ripped holes in all my stockings playing too roughly with Bale.
“She lies to you.”
That burning voice again! Anger blossomed in my chest. I snatched up a comb and chucked it across the room. “UGH!” It cracked in half.
Gerta pushed a short breath out of her nose. “I suppose I’ll replace that comb too when I next visit the market, shall I?”
I flopped back into my slump. “Don’t be all high and mighty with me tonight. I’m not in the mood.”
Her chair scraped against the floor, then her footfalls thumped across the room.
“You may not have chosen this life, but as a future leader of these people, one would think you’d see purpose everywhere you looked.”
I opened my mouth to retort, but Gerta cut me off with a curt, “Goodnight,” and closed the door behind her.
I scowled at the ceiling and ignored the sting in Gerta’s words.
But Gerta didn’t understand—didn’t know—my true purpose here.
I would never lead these people. The life chosen for me was that of a traitor. In every imaginable way, I was trapped.
“Any advice now?” I demanded of the empty room. “No? Silent now that you’re not barging in on my conversations?”
“You have enough words for us both, my delicious little liar.”
I clamped my mouth shut. Whatever it was that could hear me, whatever twisted part of my conscience was speaking back, it was really starting to scare me.
“BE READY.”
It was the voice again, haunting my dreams. Why couldn’t I just have a nice, simple dream for once? Just random regurgitations of the day and none of this commanding nonsense.
“The time draws near.”
My eyes cracked open. The room blurred around me. I rolled over and smashed my face into the pillow. I didn’t have time for dreams.
Gerta had returned at some point after I fell asleep. Her breaths were steady and even in the bed next to mine.
I closed my eyes and prayed for sleep.
“AGAIN,” WEP commanded, arms crossed and feet planted at the center of the mat. The calm in his voice was grating.
I huffed and took my stance, the wooden sword extended before me. Wep had decided that practice weapons would encourage my balance and coordination without the pesky worry of cutting off digits. The only problem was, fake sword or no, I sucked.
Lispen, opposing me, mirrored the stance. I lunged, and Lispen slapped my sword away with one sharp blow. My elbow rang with the impact, numbing half of the limb. My sword clattered to the mat.
“No,” Wep said. “Again.”
“What should I do differently?” I asked through gritted teeth.
“Not drop your weapon.”
“Obviously!” I shouted.
Lispen’s eyebrows raised. The room fell quiet, despite the other partnered pairs sparring with actual weapons.
“If you’re going to teach me, you need to actually teach me, not expect me to just know what to change.”
“You need to change your mind. You’re thinking wrong.”
“Thinking wrong?” I growled, snatching up the fallen sword. I fell into stance, and again Lispen mirrored.
Wep threw a glance over his shoulder, and the clanging of steel on steel resumed around us.
Lispen lunged, wood clashed, and my sword hit the floor. I shot Wep a look that would’ve made any other man wither where he stood. Wep, however, stared back, impassive.
I gathered up my practice sword again and fell into stance, unprompted.
This repeated until my arm was vibrating with pain.
I snatched up the flaming thing and flung it at the wall.
A scream ripped from my throat as three other weapons clattered to the floor, scraping against the walls in their descent.
Everything went silent again, aside from my panting breaths and the jarring echo of metal on stone. I should have been embarrassed, but all I felt was the thick, hot pulse of frustration coursing through me.
“Feed it,” the voice encouraged, utterly unhelpful.
“Enough,” Wep commanded, snapping the tension. “Lispen, get a real weapon and take Teke or Raif. Serae, back to dowsae. Begin with child’s.”
“And then?” I shot back.
“I will tell you when to stop.”
“Seriously?” I spat. I was itching for a fight. My blood pounded in my ears. “The child’s dowsa?”
“More. Push your limits.”
Wep’s eyes held mine, then slowly, deliberately, shifted to the heap of weapons scattered across the floor. “Do you think something else more fitting?”
I growled but fell into stance. Wep took up beside me as I began.
I gritted my teeth. I didn’t need a reminder of how infinitely better Wep’s honed body moved—even in this simple pattern—than my own.
His every step was grace and power, balance and purpose.
I was a fumbling idiot, every bit the child he’d insinuated.
The worst part was my cursed self-awareness.
I couldn’t even escape into a meadow of blissful ignorance.
I had wanted to be accepted by this group, which had a casual camaraderie I envied from the first introduction. I had wanted to try my best, even when faced with an impossible, pointless task. I had wanted to prove—perhaps to myself—that I could do this, until my fucking temper got in the way.
Breath is for focus. Kahvrah’s words echoed in my head this time, not the voice, and I obeyed. After a few steady breaths, my face cooled, and my heart rate slowed.
We continued the slow motions of the child’s dowsa on loop for a dozen repetitions.
Then, I walked to the wall and hung each weapon back in its original spot.
I knew Wep was watching my every move. Fire and ash, the entire room was.
When I finished, I stood beside him again and took stance, but he pivoted.
He led me through the motions of the other dowsae I’d been learning—bear, fern, and even cat.
At the end of training, Wep touched my elbow. I looked up into his blue-gray eyes and, for a moment, they softened. He opened his mouth to speak but must have thought better of it. Instead, he gave me a quick nod that I hoped conveyed his approval and left.
“You don’t dine in the Hall,” a rumbling voice sounded behind me. It was Ivank, and it wasn’t a question.
I scrunched my eyebrows. “No.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not permitted. I bring a tray to my room.”
Ivank frowned. “We all eat in the hall, even Dane. All Riht may join.”
My stomach soured. “Well, you’ve hit it on the nose, haven’t you? I’m not a Riht.” Several of the others leaned in toward our conversation. Whatever their opinions, I wasn’t in the mood to hear them. I marched away before anything more could be said.
When I entered our room, I had expected to find Gerta waiting for me like usual for our midday meal, but it was empty—except for the chill.
Everything in Rihtlond was cold, especially as autumn crept in.
It was nothing like the dry, absent cold of Inra that made a house feel vacant.
It was like a living entity, filling every hallway.
The thick, wet chill pushed its way into every crack and crevice.
It followed you down hallways and battered against windowpanes.
It seeped into your skin, your bones, and your heart, and forced you to carry it with you through every step.
I had expected to adapt quickly, considering winter had always been my favorite time of year. How very wrong I was.
“Let the tenth Martyr freeze to death,” I hissed at no one at all.
Then, I collapsed onto my bed. I glared at the wardrobe, weighing my options.
I could strip this blanket off the bed and bundle myself up.
But when Gerta returned, she’d tell me I was being childish.
I’d had enough of that for one day. Alternatively, I could make use of the leather overcoat that had appeared in the wardrobe a few days ago.
I had been avoiding it on principle. Or…
something. It was heavy and unyielding and so very Rihtish.
It was made to last for decades here, and I was not.
I was a woman who wanted more pillows on her bed than any one person could use, enjoyed the look of elegant—if inconvenient—dresses and sollars, and missed being surrounded by frills and gilt trim.
I was not someone who felt comfortable in leathers and boots or who could kick anyone’s ass.
A knock at the door sounded.
“Enter.”
“Your meal, my lady,” a young woman said as she pushed through with a tray. She looked close to my age. She set the dishes, removed the tray, and stood to the side rather than retreating.
“Is there something else?” I asked.
“Yes, my lady. I have been assigned as an option to be your new reálta.”
“An option?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“And if I don’t like you?” I knew the question was rude, but I’d lost my ability to care.
“Another option will be found until you are satisfied, my lady.”