Killian’s chest tightened, but Malahi had a lifetime of experience hiding her mark. “I was wearing gloves. Everything I was wearing was burned. And I’ve no open wounds.”
“That might well be all that saved you from this fate.”
Killian’s stomach churned with nausea. Lydia had stepped in the blight on her way from the xenthier stem to the city, and her bare feet had been scraped bloody. But she’d also been marked less than two hours later. His palms turned to ice at the thought of what would’ve happened if she had not.
Quindor was still frowning at Malahi, assessing her in that strange way all healers did their patients. “I think it best if you refrain from leaving the palace grounds, my lady. For your own safety.”
“Never mind me.” Malahi’s voice was fierce. Angry. “What of my horse? The blight closes in on Mudaire with every passing day. We need to know how it infects and whether the effects can be counteracted by a healer.”
The Grand Master exhaled a long breath. “She’s near death. Even if I can reverse the damage, I’ll not save her. Not when there are lines of civilians in front of Hegeria’s temple in need of my strength.”
Pragmatic prick, Killian thought, despite having known Quindor would say as much.
Quindor moved his hands from the horse’s neck to her chest, pausing there. “Strange,” he muttered before shifting so his hands hovered over one of the pulsing veins of black running up the animal’s shoulder. “Dead.”
Malahi turned her head to meet Killian’s eyes. She’d said almost exactly the same thing when she’d tried and failed to drive the blight back.
“Utterly devoid of life.” The Grand Master’s hands flexed, still hovering above the blight. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Not from poison or infection. Not from frostbite or burns. This … this never lived.”
“Obviously that’s not the case,” Malahi pressed. “Can she be healed?”
Quindor didn’t answer, but his reluctance was palpable. Sweat broke out on Killian’s back, all of his instincts screaming a warning, but they had to know if the blight could be fought.
Taking a deep breath, the Grand Master of Hegeria’s temple pressed one hand against the flow of black.
Time seemed to freeze even as panic rose on the man’s face. Killian lunged, catching hold of the healer’s shoulders and jerking him away from the horse, the force of the motion sending them both sprawling.
Clambering upright, Quindor clutched his hand to his chest. “This is an abomination sent by the Seventh!”
“She’s just a sick horse!” Malahi said, resisting Killian’s attempts to move her a safe distance away.
“Not anymore.” The Grand Master eyed the dying animal like she was a venomous snake. “Kill it. Burn the body. The last thing we need is some fool thinking the meat can be salvaged.”
Killian extracted a knife, pushing Malahi out the door to the stall. “She’s my horse,” the Princess snapped. “It was my mistake that caused this, so I’ll put her down myself.”
“Admirable sentiment, my lady,” Quindor said. “But better that Lord Calorian do it. We don’t know for certain yet how the blight infects and we dare not risk your life. Not with a knife, Lord Calorian. It is in the horse’s blood, and the last thing we need is the entire stables contaminated.”
Killian waited until Quindor had led Malahi from the stall; then he moved to the horse’s head. The veins of blight had already risen up her neck, reaching like grasping fingers toward her head. The mare’s breath was coming in great ragged gasps, her brown eyes fixed on him.
He’d had to put animals down before when they were injured beyond hope of recovery, but it had never gotten easier for him. Just as he’d never gotten used to the way they watched him as he did it. The way they always seemed to know.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, taking hold of her chin and drawing her head back, bracing one foot against the base of her skull. “You deserved better.”
Then a shadow passed over the mare’s eyes, and what was looking back at him was no longer a horse. She started to move, lips pulling back to reveal her teeth. Killian’s instincts kicked in even as his mind recoiled, and a loud crack filled his ears as he broke the creature’s neck.
38
LYDIA
Lydia had spent one of the duller days of her life outside the door to Malahi’s suite, the Princess having remained closeted in her rooms, apparently distressed over the death of her horse. Lydia heard from the other girls some of what had happened, that the animal had been infected with blight and had been put down. As she’d been exposed to the black sludge herself, the story had made Lydia shiver, knowing in her heart that if she hadn’t been marked she might well have suffered the same fate.
Her back and feet ached from standing, but worse than that, the idleness had given her far too much time to think about her lesson with Killian. Instead of sleeping, she’d crouched over the book for the better part of the night, drinking in the diagrams and explanations of style and form until her candle flickered out. Throughout the day, she’d been practicing the forms every time she visited the privy, and her daydreams evolved with each passing hour until she was certain Killian would be stunned by her natural skill with a blade.
Now she stood outside the gates to High Lord Calorian’s manor watching the dying sun, wondering if all her daydreams were better classified as wishful thinking. Killian had not spoken a single word to her all day, standing outside the Princess’s bedchamber with crossed arms and a face like a thundercloud. Given the events that had transpired, Lydia was not so self-involved as to believe his fell temper had anything to do with her, but she was beginning to wonder if he’d found another activity to relieve his mood.
Just as it was growing dark enough that she’d need to sprint back to the barracks to beat the arrival of the deimos, a tall shadow materialized up the street. Saying nothing, Killian boosted Lydia up so she could reach the top of the wall, pushing on her feet until she was able to scramble over.
“We’ve only got a few hours,” he said, dropping next to her on the far side. “There are other matters requiring my attention.”
Curbing what was an unjust sense of disappointment, she followed him into the manor.
He led her once more to the ballroom, and after helping him light a handful of lamps she carefully extracted her sword and assumed the stance the book diagrams had detailed.
Killian looked her up and down, then said, “Well, I suppose that explains the length of your breaks today. Lena was quite certain last night’s stew had not agreed with you.”
She gaped at him, her face burning hot.
“The first thing we need to work on is that draw of yours. It will signal to any attacker you come across that you haven’t the first idea of how to use that weapon. Which isn’t ideal.”
Her whole body felt like it was being consumed by the flames of embarrassment.
Pulling off his coat and gloves, Killian tossed them to one side of the room before returning to the center. “This,” he said, “is how you draw a sword.” He proceeded to extract his blade with both speed and flourish.
Lydia eyed him dubiously, wondering if traveling this path was more likely to get her killed by accident than see her to Serlania. “What good is knowing how to pull it out if I haven’t any idea how to use it?”
He started to grin and she scowled at him. “Keep your jokes to yourself and answer the question.”
“It’s a bluff,” he replied, the corners of his mouth twitching with unspent laughter. “Like when you play cards.”
“I don’t gamble.” She instantly regretted the admission as he lifted one eyebrow in horrified disbelief.
“How can you be friends with Teriana if you don’t gamble? The girl could fleece one of the Six in a game of cards.”
Teriana had taught her a few games, but unlike her friend, Lydia took no pleasure from risking her coin. Besides, Teriana always won. “We do other things.”
“Fair enough. B
ut you do understand the premise of a bluff?”
She nodded.
“Good. Your draw, then, is your bluff. If you do it with enough skill, you can trick your opponent into believing you have the hand to back it up.” He waited for her to nod again before continuing. “If your opponent has a bad hand and believes your bluff, they fold and you win.”
“And if they have a good hand?” she asked, sticking with his stupid analogy. “What if they call my bluff? What do you propose I do then?”
“We’ll get to that part. Now why don’t you give it a go.”
Lydia took hold of the sword and heaved. Instead of the cruel snick of metal Killian’s blade made when he drew it, hers made a grinding noise, then stuck, the bottom of her scabbard flipping up. “Blast it,” she muttered, her belt riding high. She adjusted it, trying to regain her composure and hoping he’d mistake the flush on her cheeks for exertion. When she finally looked up, all the humor was gone from his expression, and for the first time she saw a hint of doubt in his eyes.
He shook his head once, then nudged her into the center of the room. “Try it again.”
She managed to get the blade out this time, but the sound of the metal grinding against the scabbard set her already-frazzled nerves on edge.
“Again.”
The results were the same. “I think the scabbard is too snug—” Before she could finish, he reached over and tugged her sword out with the same ease as his own. He lifted one eyebrow, then shoved the blade back in. “Again.”
“Perhaps rather than mocking me, you might provide some semblance of instruction,” Lydia said between clenched teeth.
“Widen your stance. Bend your knees. Hold it like this.” He held out his own sword to demonstrate but shook his head when Lydia tried to replicate the position. “That’s not right. And quit squeezing so hard; your knuckles are whiter than a corpse’s. It will give you away to anyone who knows their business.”
Frustrated, Lydia snapped, “Just fix my hand for me then.”
“Fine.” Gripping her by the shoulders, he spun her in a circle so that her back was to him. Prying her clenched fingers off the hilt of the sword, he adjusted her grip, his breath warm on the nape of her neck. “Relax.”
As if such a thing were possible.
“May I adjust the rest of you?”
Lydia nodded, her heart a thundering drum in her chest.
His hands moved over her body, gently but firmly, adjusting her posture, the toe of his boot knocking at her ankles until she widened her stance. “Like so,” he said. Then he closed his hand over hers, warm fingers concealing hers entirely. “Breathe.”
She sucked in a breath.
“Once more.”
She inhaled and he moved, guiding her arm and the blade with a speed and grace she hadn’t believed her body possessed. The steel glinted in the lamplight, and as she stared down the empty room she felt like she could fight anyone or anything that came at her. She was powerful. Capable. Fearless.
Then Killian let go of her hand and the tip of her blade wavered, the feeling vanishing. He came around in front of her, for once his expression unreadable. “Now do it again.”
She shook her head. “What was that?”
He looked away, jaw working back and forth. “It’s the reason I’m not a very good teacher.”
“Because you’re marked.” She eyed him, wondering what it would be like to walk through life with such a sense of invincibility. It certainly explained his penchant for risk taking. And his ego. She’d read a great deal on god marks in Treatise of the Seven, but the god of war’s mark was an elusive thing, much of it impossible to distinguish from natural talent. Those marked were stronger, faster, able to sense what their enemy or opponent intended. They easily mastered all forms of fighting, had a mind for strategy, a gift for leadership. Above all, they were brave.
“Do you ever wonder how much of it is the mark and how much of it is you?” she asked.
The way his shoulders stiffened told her that he had. “The mark gives me aptitude,” he said. “But I still had to study and learn and train every day for years to master these skills. And I decide what to do with them.”
“Still—”
“Never mind my mark,” he interrupted. “I’m not going to spend my days holding your hand to lend you competence, so best you start practicing. Now do it again.”
He had her repeat her draw over and over until she was drenched with sweat, her muscles screaming from the unaccustomed exertion. “Set aside your spectacles for the next part,” he said. “I’m not sure there’s a lens maker left in Mudaire, so we shouldn’t risk them unnecessarily.”
It only went downhill from there. He chased her around the room, barking orders and battering at her sword, hands, wrists, and arms, until she was too flustered to remember anything she’d read, all of it exacerbated by the deimos circling and screaming above, which he barely seemed to notice.
“Move your feet,” he snapped, and she shuffled sideways, trying to parry while not tripping over her own boots. “Not like that. Pick them up!” He scrubbed a hand through his hair, clearly as frustrated as she was.
She looked at her feet, trying to will them into behaving, and his padded sword caught her across the forearm. “By the Six, how are you planning to block a blow staring at the floor?”
“How am I supposed to do anything with you yelling at me?” she retorted. “I’m only trying to do what your stupid books said to do.”
“I told you you couldn’t learn how to fight from a book. And you’re doing a fine job proving it.”
She blinked furiously. She did not cry. Not ever. And she refused to debase herself by doing so in front of him. Instead, she let her anger take hold, and with one violent motion she flung the blade end-over-end across the room, where it thudded against the wall.
Killian eyed the shadows where it had landed. “Out of curiosity, will you be allowed to carry a sword when you return to Celendor?”
A vision of her gliding into a dinner party in a silk dress and high heels with a sword belted around her waist floated up in her imagination, and an involuntary laugh tore from her lips. “No.”
“Knives?”
“It would be frowned upon.”
“Never mind frowns. If Malahi can hide two blades up her skirts, then so can you.”
Lydia bit the insides of her cheeks, wondering how he knew that particular piece of information.
“I think it best we move on to the weapons you’ll always have with you.”
Without further explanation, he dropped his blade and swung at her with his fist.
Lydia dodged, feeling his fist brush against one of her braids.
Killian laughed. “I knew those instincts were in there.”
“You just tried to hit me!” She stared at him in indignation.
“Your point?”
There was a gleam in his eye that suggested he knew exactly what her point was but fully intended on making her say it. “A gentleman should not hit a woman.”
“Which liar told you I was a gentleman?”
She gave him a flat stare.
“Fine, fine,” he said, circling her. “What about in such instances where the woman has requested said gentleman teach her how to fight?”
“Surely you can teach the mechanics without trying to blacken my eyes.”
“That’s about as good as you trying to learn from a diagram in a book.”
Lydia bit the insides of her cheeks, annoyed, though she wasn’t sure whether she was annoyed with him or with herself. “I don’t want it to hurt.”
“Fighting hurts. Part of learning to fight means learning to deal with just how much it can hurt.” He rocked on his heels, brown eyes fixed on hers. “So what will it be, Lydia? Do you want to be a lady who needs someone like me to watch her back, or do you want to be a lady who can take care of herself?”
She glared at him. “You know the answer.”
Killian gave a slow nod suggesti
ng that he had known but had also hoped she might change her mind. “If it’s what you want.”
“It is.”
“So be it. Now get your hands up in front of you to protect yourself and try to hit me.”
A slight thrum of fear filled her stomach, because she’d been struck before. By Vibius. By Lucius. By the women who’d attacked her in the shelter. Lydia was not keen to experience that sort of pain again. But as much as she was afraid of the pain, she was more terrified of the helplessness she’d felt in those moments. And because she never wanted to feel that way again, Lydia took a deep breath and swung wildly with her fist.
Killian blocked the blow, then caught her with his own just below the ribs. Lydia stumbled, gasping for air, because it hurt. But her blood was racing, and she found the pain didn’t make her want to cower. It made her want to fight. So she attacked again.
They fought in earnest and in near silence. It was a lesson, but it was taught with actions, not words. With the reward of a blow landed. The pain of a missed block. He was stronger. Infinitely more skilled. But more than she’d realized, her mark had put power behind her fists. Made her faster. And the bruises he inflicted faded in an instant, the pain fleeting and inconsequential. It made her feel invincible.
You won’t have these advantages when you go back. You’ll just be yourself. Weak.
The thought stole her focus, and Killian took advantage, hooking her leg out from under her so that she fell, the impact rattling her teeth. She didn’t struggle as he pinned her wrists, the fight gone out of her.
“You all right?” A drop of blood from a cut on his brow dripped onto her face, and she twitched.
“Sorry.” He let go of her wrist, wiping the blood away with his finger. Then he paused. “See if you can stop yourself from healing me.”
“Am I that terrible a fighter?” Lydia tried to keep her voice light, but her stomach clenched at the thought Killian might be reconsidering their arrangement.
His face remained serious. “We both know that the sooner you can get away from Mudaire, the better. Might as well use what chances you have to practice controlling your mark.”
Dark Skies Page 27
