by R. C. Lewis
“Come on and what?”
“Twenty-seven days is plenty of time for you to learn how to fight better.”
I couldn’t help it—I bristled and glared. My fighting skills had done me pretty well so far…most of the time.
He smirked, which annoyed me even more. “Yes, you’re very good for a self-taught fighter. But you know the people we’ll be up against there, and you know the restrictions.”
Right. Palace guards would be highly trained, and the whole capital was under an interference field that rendered certain types of tech useless, particularly energy weapons. The palace told the public that Olivia’s powers couldn’t abide “violent energy signatures.” Really just a clever way to make assassination that much harder, and to give guards an excuse to carry swords and knives.
If there was one thing Olivia and my father loved, it was mixing the appearance of an old-fashioned royal court with splashes of the new.
Learning to fight like Dane wasn’t a half-bad idea, even if it rankled a bit, so I followed him to one of the side compartments. He’d completely cleared it out before we left, except for some shock-absorbing mats on the floor. Hopefully that meant neither of us would break anything.
At least I’m dressed for the occasion. The satin and silk had stayed on Candara, but so had my old Thandan rags. Dane and I both wore something in-between, the kind of clothes you could get on any planet, functional and ordinary.
We stood in the center of the room, facing each other. “All right, try to hit me,” he said.
It felt like someone had asked me to run new optic lines in the drones using only my feet. A foreign and awkward task. All he got back from me was a stare.
“What?”
“One, I already know I can’t hit you unless you let me. Two, every time I’ve fought there’ve either been shares on the line or someone trying to hurt me. Fighting like this isn’t natural.”
“I can make you mad if that’d help.”
“Aye, I’m sure you could.”
His expression shifted to a reproachful frown. “You need to stop saying ‘aye,’ Essie. And watch the accent. You’re not supposed to sound like you’ve spent years among miners.”
“Aye—ugh. Yes. Yes, I know.”
“Come on, then. Take your best shot.”
So I did. As expected, he blocked it like he was swatting a fly, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Again, with a follow-up.”
I did. Nothing.
“Again. Don’t always lead right. Try to surprise me.”
Pointless as it was, I did. Over and over. I even tried tossing in a kick or a backhand to throw him off, but he batted everything down.
A growl of frustration finally slipped out. “This is useless, Dane.”
“No, it isn’t,” he insisted. “You’re smart. You can learn it.”
I didn’t know whether to believe his confidence. He’d lied to me too well before. That fact niggled and gnawed, refusing to be brushed aside. I needed to hear some truth, and I figured the place to start was the question I’d been avoiding. “Tell me something first. What are you?”
His stance relaxed. “What?”
“You heard me. Dane isn’t a Candaran name. Blazes, Kip isn’t a Candaran name, either. But you obviously are Candaran, and you’re important to the council, so what exactly are you?”
He hesitated, like he had to decide whether it was worth telling me. “Kip’s name is Keppes. Mine is Kadei, but my father called me Dane so I’d blend in more.”
I took a half step back. “Kadei? That’s an old royal name.”
“Yes, it means storm. So we were both named after the weather. I guess you do know a few things about Candarans.”
“Mostly from lessons about the ‘evil’ empire my father’s family overthrew two centuries ago, so no telling how accurate it is. I didn’t think the old royal family was still around. That’s why the council treats you like they do?”
His eyes darkened. “My father should be leading our people. The next in line always has a choice—serve with the council, or take over as ruler of Candara. With my father imprisoned, I’m one year away from making my decision, so Kip holds my place on the council.”
A choice. To be a king or part of a committee. Nothing like the rules of succession on Windsong. The question of which he’d choose half formed on my lips, but Dane spoke first.
“Come on, let’s try again.”
I took one swing—easily blocked—and stopped. “Wait. You’re not playing both sides of this fight, are you?”
He immediately caught that I meant Transitioning for an advantage, and he froze. “Essie, I would never do that to you. Ever.”
Shame crept through me for even asking. “Sorry.”
“That reminds me, though. When we get to Windsong, you should practice Transitioning to non-Candarans. Try to stay grounded in your own self while you do it, use both perspectives.”
Just as quickly, the shame shifted to disbelief. “You’re the one always talking about the law, about proving Exiles can be trusted.”
“Between the law and you taking every advantage you can to protect yourself, I choose your life.”
“And who should I practice on? Olivia? How about my father?”
As rinked off as I was getting, Dane remained irritatingly calm. “Strangers would be better to start with. Easier to keep your attention separated.”
“That’s even worse!”
He tipped his head to one side. “Enough stalling. Now that you’re mad, try blocking me.”
He came at me, and I tried. Really, I tried. It did feel more like the cage, but it didn’t help. I hated being so bad at fighting compared to him. He didn’t go anywhere near full-force, and good thing, too. I couldn’t begin to stop him. The contact was nothing more than a tap, but each felt like a message tattooed on my skull.
You’re. Not. That. Good. Essie.
“Tank it! I can’t do it, all right?”
“Why not?” he countered.
“I just can’t. Where’d you learn to fight like this, anyway?”
A slight shift in his posture said the answer wasn’t as simple as the question. “I was born in enemy territory, and my father wanted to make sure I could protect myself. After he sent me away and he was arrested…let’s just say I had some anger that needed directing.”
A cold pulse ran through my chest. That anger was my fault.
“Now, come on,” he continued. “What am I doing that’s so different from what you’re used to?”
“You’re too blazing fast.”
“What does fast mean? I’ve seen you run, I’ve seen your reflexes. You’re fast, too. Why am I faster at this?”
I didn’t have an answer, so I kept my mouth shut.
“No wasted movement, Essie,” he began. “Movement takes time, so don’t waste it on anything unnecessary. It’s like I tried to tell you before the VT fight: every action lives in its own moment, nothing longer than it needs.”
I wanted to ask what that was supposed to mean, but figured he’d only answer with something even more abstract and nonsensical.
We went at it again, but the incessant taps started unhinging me. My shoulder, my cheek, my back—I couldn’t even figure how he’d reached my back. Instinct took over, and amidst the blocking, I tried to counterstrike.
Still, nothing got through.
I took another approach, trying to maneuver and get an armlock.
He turned the hold around and twisted, throwing me flat on my back. The mat took the worst of it, but it still knocked the wind from my lungs. Dane just stood over me and offered a hand.
It’s going to be a long trip.
Training had an upside; it kept us busy enough not to notice the monotony of the journey. It also had downsides, most of which showed up as pains in my backside.
For days, it seemed just as pointless as it had at the start. Dane said I was improving. I didn’t believe him but kept quiet. Then finally, after a tho
usand attempts, I hit him, not hard, but right across the jaw. I thought he must have let me, to give me confidence, but he was just as startled as I was. And he laughed.
I’d never seen him laugh before—not a real, unrestrained laugh—but once he did, it seemed so natural. Like something he was always waiting to do.
I wished he had reason to do it more.
We worked even harder after that, refining my sloppy technique, adding more complex moves, and working a little with weapons. I found I had some skill at knife-throwing, which helped my confidence. Everything he’d said about wasted movement started to click. Each strike started with the end in mind. He was still far better than I was, but I could tell it took more effort to stop me now.
As I improved, we also worked on slipping and breaking holds, which brought another obstacle. Little taps while sparring were one thing, but I’d never liked being confined in a hold. Getting caught in one had been my least favorite part of the cage fights. This was different. Half of me wanted to break free and hit him harder. The other half didn’t want to fight Dane at all, even in training, because there was something about letting him hold me. Something almost nice.
Dane didn’t mention practicing my Transitioning again, although I knew the subject wasn’t closed. I couldn’t help noticing he hadn’t suggested I practice with him. Even besides his claim that strangers and non-Candarans would be better, he likely didn’t want me in his head any more than I wanted to delve into it. He didn’t try to make me angry during training bouts again, either, which was a good thing. I picked up his techniques better when I stayed calm.
Fortunately, we didn’t spend all our time fighting. My aching muscles needed a break now and then, and I almost always spent it in the engine area with Dimwit. The tech it ran on would likely be fine in the interference field that blocked weapons, but I wanted to work on shielding some of the more delicate components just in case. The old bucket was unpredictable enough as it was. For the same reason, I’d also rigged a new control to let us mute its voice when needed. I should’ve thought of it years ago.
“Here,” Dane said one day, drawing my attention from shielding Dimwit’s auditory processor. “For your knee.”
I glanced at the offered rejuvenator patch before turning back to Dimwit. “Right, just as soon as I’m done here.”
Dane had other ideas. He sat next to me, pulled up my pant leg, and applied the patch to the purpling bruise himself.
“Sorry again about that.” He rubbed the patch lightly, sending a tingle through my leg that was half the rejuvenator and half his touch.
My first instinct was to jerk away. I steered that urge into a shrug instead. “No, I should’ve realized I’d gotten close to the bulkhead.”
He sat back against the wall and watched me as I stitched. As much as it used to bother me, I’d gotten used to it. Being around Dane had become almost comfortable, something I’d never thought I’d be around anyone who didn’t have four metal legs.
Except when he did things like touch my knee. That wasn’t comfortable, but I couldn’t decide what it was. My hit reflex had eased up almost to the point of disappearing. And he never tried anything else—definitely nothing like kissing me again. I didn’t know why not. I didn’t know much about what went on in his head.
I couldn’t figure him on my own, and Transitioning was out of the question. Maybe it was time to ask.
“Dane, why are you here?”
“There’s not much else to do on a ship flying a set course. If I’m bothering you, I can go somewhere else.”
“No, I mean why are you coming with me at all? You’re important to your people. There’s a good chance we’ll both die before pulling this off, and no guarantee that we’ll get your father and the others out first. Your plan to trade me was probably the better one.”
The muscles around his mouth tightened. “I told you, I couldn’t do that once I knew the truth.”
“I don’t see why not. If someone said I could trade a stranger’s life to get my mother back…I’d have a right hard time saying no.”
“Well, there’s the first problem. You’re not a stranger. The Candaran royal family is allowed choices, and this is my choice. Besides, as much as I hate a lot of your plan, it’s better. When we pull it off, it’ll do more than free my father. It’ll free your people…and you.”
I glanced up and saw how he looked at me. Really saw it. Not the way men like Moray did, like they only wanted to take from me. Not the way Kip did, full of regret. Not even like Petey did, with his admonitions to bundle up for a cold one. Dane’s way was different, had been for ages—as if he didn’t want anything from me, yet wanted everything.
My stitches wouldn’t come, no matter how I tried to focus on the work. “Dane, that time when you woke me and…you know…”
“When I kissed you and you didn’t hit me,” he provided.
“Aye—yes, that. Did you…well…Have you changed your mind since then?”
His eyes warmed with a smile. I’d seen that smile more lately. It was a nice one. “Definitely not.”
Men who wanted me didn’t back off until I caused enough pain to get the message through. That was how it always worked. “But you haven’t tried to since. I don’t understand.”
“Not that complicated. I think I’m in love with you, Essie. But I also think you’re not ready. I shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that, so I decided to take it at your speed.”
A sudden rush of heat made me wonder if the engine had malfunctioned. No, I was just blushing. Instinct told me to run away from something so foreign, but I had nowhere to go. The whole reason I was going to Windsong was to stop running. I focused on Dimwit’s innards.
“And how exactly are we to know when I’m ‘ready’?”
“I’m not sure. Probably when you figure out why you didn’t hit me. You’ve cracked men’s kneecaps for doing less than I did.”
True, I had. My instincts usually made pretty solid sense to me, but they should have prompted me to rip out Dane’s throat. They hadn’t. Instinct failure on all fronts.
I knew one reason I hadn’t: Dane and I were friends again. I liked that.
That left me with another puzzle. I had no blazing idea what my speed was.
Days passed. We trained and prepared. The closer we got to Windsong, the quieter I got. Even when Dimwit rattled on about “Fly Essie shuttle Essie Dane shuttle fly,” Dane was the one to tell the drone to shut it. I hardly spoke, but I also couldn’t stop watching Dane. Couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said.
I think I’m in love with you.
He’d followed me out of love. Deep down, I’d let him come because I was selfish and wanted to keep him with me—wanted one person I could trust at my side. But I’d created a very big problem.
One of the side compartments had a bolted-down table and bench. I often sat there and lost myself in my number puzzles when I wasn’t training or fiddling with Dimwit. The day we would cross into range of Windsong’s sensors, Dane entered the compartment and slid in next to me, his arm brushing against mine.
I scooted away.
“Essie?”
I looked up from my slate and saw the pain in his eyes. It had been ages since I’d moved away from him like that.
“They can’t find out, Dane,” I said.
“Find out what?”
“Who you are. What you are. They’ll kill you.”
“That’s why we have the story. We covered all that. Essie, they won’t know.”
His hand had crept back toward mine. I let my fingers graze his before pulling away again. “That’s not part of the story. I’m supposed to be above you. If they find out I care…”
Something lit in his eyes with the shade of a smile. “Does that mean you do care?”
A ping sounding throughout the shuttle spared me from answering. I hurried out to the command compartment, Dane right behind me. Windsong had become a discernable blue disk on the viewer. The ping signaled an inco
ming communication.
“Garamite vessel, you are entering the sovereign space of Windsong, realm of the Supreme Crown, King Matthias. Please state your business and cargo.”
Dane turned to me. “Are you ready for this?”
“No, but don’t let that stop you. You’re the one who has to deal with this part. Remember the security phrase.”
He took a breath and touched a panel on the console. “Our business is to enjoy the splendors of the Royal City. We prefer not to declare our cargo over an open channel, but have heard the Supreme Crown prefers blue skies over fields of snow.” A phrase meant to evoke my eye and hair color, and my name besides. At least, it had been eight years ago.
A pause. “Please hold your current course until you receive further instructions.”
We waited in silence. Five minutes, then ten, on into twenty before Dane spoke.
“Are you sure they’ll know what that means?”
“If they go high enough, yes. Don’t worry. Taking a long time is a good thing.”
Less than five minutes later, another ping with a different voice. “Garamite vessel, we are transmitting a course to the Royal City. Be advised that a squadron will be deployed to escort you shortly. This is for your own protection from Exile forces occupying the war zone on the far side of our planet. Please do not deviate from the transmitted course.”
“Understood. Initiating course change.” He deactivated the communication system and grunted. “Exile forces on the far side.”
“He’s convinced the general population for eight years. We’ll have to pretend to believe it, too.”
Six new blips appeared on the tactical display, coming toward us from Windsong. With my hand shaking slightly, I checked the registry signatures. The Golden Sword—the king’s guard.
My father knew I was coming home.
NOTHING IN THE ROYAL CITY HAD CHANGED.
Water everywhere, in fountains and in canals with glittering granite bridges spanning them. Planters lined the causeways with the finest flowers, rainbow orchids pointing the way to the palace. Citizens walking through the city made as much a rainbow as the flowers did, with hair of every color, including some as white as mine. When I was a child, everyone had worn bright patterns. Now, the clothes were bold colors with flared hems, decorative collars, and jeweled accents. The fashion of Windsong was alive and well. Like Candara, the buildings were stone, but much more intricate, with carved pillars and statuary, or inlaid with gleaming, smooth marble.
