by Emily Colin
Schooling my expression to blankness, I jerk my head up, forcing myself to look at her. “Why are you staring at me? Is watching me use an awl and thread that fascinating, apprentice mine? Surely you have someplace more useful to be. Or are you that confident about your bladework, then?”
Her eyes flash to mine, and even with all my interrogation training, I have a hard time deciphering their expression. “What do you want from me?” she says, ice dripping from every syllable.
Frustration sharpens my tone, honing it to a fine, deadly edge. “What I want is for you to train harder, to be a worthy opponent for me the next time we face each other. The Architect help you if you end up at my mercy with no more skill than you showed last night. Next time, I won’t be gentle.”
I look up at her, my features set in an expression of utter boredom. She is glaring at me, her face white, those dark eyes filled with the rage she’s not allowed to spill. I would love to fight her again, to channel the heat sliding unchecked through my veins into the familiar rush of battle, but I don’t dare. To face her now with a weapon in my hand would mean to risk losing all my control. Who knows what I might say, what I might do. I can’t take the chance.
“I gave you an order, apprentice,” I say, my eyes flicking downward, toward the leather strap in my hand. “Why are you still here?”
I don’t hear a sound to indicate her departure—not a footfall on the worn wooden floor or the creak of silver against leather as her weapons shift in their belt. But sure enough, when I look up again, she is gone.
I’m still sitting there half an hour later, sorting my way through belt after belt and trying not to think about the feel of Eva’s hand in mine, when Kilían comes in. “So here you are,” he says. “I didn’t see you at lunch, or that intriguing apprentice of yours, either. Then I came upon her in the training room, dueling Karsten and Riis at once, blood in her eye and giving no quarter. It’s quite a sight, actually. They’re drawing a bit of a crowd.”
His voice is mild, but I sit up, the belt in my hand forgotten. “Eva’s fighting the two of them at the same time? One of the Thirty, and his apprentice? Is she crazy?”
Kilían shrugs. “As to that, who can tell? But one thing she is, and that’s determined. I’ve never seen a recruit move so fast, or so viciously, either. What in the nine hells did you say to her?”
“What makes you think I have anything to do with it?”
“I know you, Westergaard. Better than you think.” The words walk the edge of a threat, but he raises one red eyebrow, lessening the sting. “You’ve got a gift for seeing what makes people tick—what motivates them, what makes them afraid. What they’re hiding. If you hadn’t said something to provoke Marteinn, you’d be down there training with her, and she wouldn’t be working herself into a frenzy at the expense of Riis and that poor recruit—not to mention making a fool of them both in the bargain.”
“Oh?” I say, straightening in my chair.
Kilían smiles, an unexpected flash of white in his freckled face. “When I left, Karsten was bleeding from four different places, and Riis had all he could do to fight her off. She has it in for him, I’d wager. Karsten is just collateral damage.”
“Ah.” I feel a grin creep across my own face. “Well, that makes sense.”
“Does it, now? And why is that?”
I pull my dagur loose and reach for the whetstone, in case I’m called upon to enter the fray. “A couple of days ago, Eva overheard Riis saying she’d never amount to anything, that her being a girl was an insult to the Bellatorum. It seems she took it personally.”
Kilían’s smile widens. “It seems she did. But that still doesn’t explain why she took on the two of them at once. Which brings me to my earlier question—what did you say to her?”
When I run my index finger along the edge of my blade, it bleeds, but not fast enough. I slide the knife against the stone again and give Kilían an acceptable version of the truth. “You’re right, I did provoke her. I told her the next time she faced me in the training room, she’d better put up a more effective fight. That she’d give me a battle worthy of my skills and her training, or she wouldn’t like what happened next.”
He tilts his head, regarding me. “Upset about Samúel, were you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, my voice even. “He met his death bravely. It is our way.”
The truth is, this is the third ceremony of its kind I’ve witnessed, and I still found it unnerving, not that I would ever admit it to Kilían. Samúel chose this fate of his own free will; no one forced his hand. The alternative was growing old and decrepit amongst his fellow bellators, unable to defend himself or the Commonwealth should the situation so require. But still—watching one of our own allow himself to be thrown backward into Black Falls with a weight tied to his feet makes my stomach churn.
Kilían scrubs a hand over his face. “I don’t think less of you for it, Westergaard. The man died bravely, but there’s still a horror in it. That you recognize such things speaks to your humanity.”
Silver-tongued bastard, I think, looking him over. I shouldn’t feel the way I do about Samúel’s death, shouldn’t have permitted myself to get attached to him. But if we’d been allowed such things, I would have considered the aging bellator my friend. He was always kind to me.
This is the virtueless nonsense I got in trouble for as a child—prioritizing one person above another, caring for them beyond the utilitarian dictates of what life in the Commonwealth demands. I’ve never stopped, and not for lack of trying, either. But that doesn’t mean I have to let Kilían see it. My humanity, indeed.
I eye him without speaking, and he turns away, taking off his formal robe and grabbing needle and thread with which to mend a small hole in its hem. Satisfied I’ve deflected him, I finish sharpening my blade and set it down. “I’ll be going, then,” I say, pushing to my feet. “To see the sparring match of the century and all. Wouldn’t want to hear about the whole thing secondhand.”
“Wait, if you don’t mind.” His head is down, eyes fixed on his work, but there is no mistaking the air of command in his voice. “I came to find you while the rest of them were occupied for a reason, Westergaard. I have something to say.”
“All right,” I say warily. I’d been about to sheath my blade, but I think better of it and leave it bare in my hand. “What is it, then?”
He lifts his head and looks at me. His Adam’s apple shifts, and his eyes slide from mine. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was spooked—but why would Kilían be apprehensive about anything where I’m concerned? He outranks me, has ten more years of experience. I don’t like the feel of this situation at all, and my hand tightens on the hilt of my blade as he speaks. “I shouldn’t be talking about this, but you need to know.”
If he saw us at the Falls, the important thing is not to panic. I know my tells—the hand I run through my hair, the downward glance, the way my left hand automatically drops to my belt in search of weapons. I will show him none of these. If he wants a confession, he will have to drag it out of me with a needle in my vein. “And what exactly is that, Bellator Bryndísarson?”
He turns toward me, his expression solemn. “What I’m trying to say, Ari, is—” His mouth snaps closed mid-sentence, and he looks down at the robe in his hands. “By the nine hells, this is difficult,” he mutters. “I knew it would be, but standing here, looking at you, I don’t know if I can—except I have to—”
If I have only rarely heard Kilían use my first name, I have never heard him stammer like this. Eloquence and verbal manipulation are his stock in trade. His hesitation is scaring me, which in turn makes me irritated. “Spit it out already, Kilían,” I say, deliberately brusque. “Or do I have to beat it out of you?”
“Not here,” he says, glancing nervously around the room. “We have to talk, and sooner rather than later. But someplace more private—”
I’m about to lunge forward and grab him by the collar when Jak
ob Riis bursts through the door, Karsten right behind him. His face is scratched; his weapons belt, clutched in his hand, has been severed above the buckle. There’s a savage look in his eyes, and before I can say a word, he grabs Karsten by the scruff of the neck like a puppy and shoves him forward.
“Look at what your girl did to him,” he hisses. “Just look.”
Karsten is a mess. He’s bleeding from a deep scratch on the back of his sword hand, his forearms are covered with defensive wounds, and his shirt is torn to rags. I gape at him, on the verge of laughter.
Riis is not amused. “Say something, would you!” He shakes Karsten hard, and the boy winces, clamping his mouth shut to keep from crying out.
“Eva did all that? While fighting you?”
“She’s a wild animal!” He shakes Karsten even harder, and the recruit lets out a moan. “She knocked the boy’s blade right out of his hand and before he could pull another weapon, she was on him like it was a fight to the death. He barely got his arms up in time to protect his face. Look at those cuts!”
“I see them, Jakob. What do you want me to do about it?”
“What do you mean, what do I want you to do? I want you to control your apprentice. She almost took out my eye. She sliced my weapons belt right in half, and laughed when it fell to the floor. If Efraím hadn’t called the fight, the Architect only knows what she would have done. It’s training, Westergaard, not the Trials.” He glares at me in disgust. “She’s yours, damn it. You’re responsible for her. Make her behave. What did you say the other day? Call her to heel. I don’t care what name you give it, rein her in or I’ll do it for you.”
“If you could have reined her in,” I say softly, “you would have done it. You wouldn’t be standing in front of me with your ruined weapons belt in one hand and a half-mutilated recruit in the other. Perhaps there should be two open spots in the Thirty, rather than the single one Samúel left behind.”
Riis’s face goes red, then white. “You arrogant bastard.” He lets go of Karsten so quickly the boy almost falls to the floor, draws his long blade, and lunges for me.
I get out of the way just in time, leaping up onto the wooden counter behind me. My dagur in one hand, my sverd in the other, I stare down at him, teeth bared. “If it’s a fight you want, I’m happy to oblige. I’d have thought you’d had more than enough for one day, but obviously not. Come on, then. I’m right here.”
He takes one step forward, then another. But before he can take a third, Kilían comes to stand in front of him, forcing him back. “Ease down, both of you,” he says.
“Ease down?” Riis says, his voice a growl. “That girl is a risk, Bellator Bryndísarson. Tell him.”
“She’s a recruit,” Kilían says, in the calm tone I’ve heard him use on volatile interrogation subjects a hundred times. “So is Karsten. You are not. In the absence of her mentor, it’s your responsibility to bring her into line. If the girl bested you, then perhaps it’s you who needs more training.”
Riis doesn’t take his eyes off me, but I see his spine stiffen. “Yes, sir,” he says, spitting the words out as if they taste rotten.
“Take Karsten downstairs. Get him cleaned up. And don’t blame others for your shortcomings. Marteinn may be wild, but that’s why she needs training, is it not? If she can best you now, think what she’ll do after her apprenticeship is at an end. If I were you, Bellator Riis, I’d stop wasting my time with Westergaard and focus closer to home.” He turns his body halfway, so he can keep both of us in view. “As for you, Westergaard—arrogance is a sin. Humility, a virtue. Don’t antagonize Riis. It doesn’t help.”
“Yes, sir,” I echo, without moving an inch. I have the high ground, two blades in hand, and a functional weapons belt at my disposal. Until Riis leaves the room, I have no intention of ceding any of my advantages.
Kilían sighs. “The boy’s bleeding all over the floor. Get him out of here.”
Riis snaps to attention, cuts another furious look at me, and turns to go. In the doorway, he and Karsten pass Eva, who looks them over with such disdain, I have to suppress a snort of amusement. Her eyes fall on me, standing on the counter with my blades unsheathed in my hands, and one dark eyebrow rises.
Then she stalks into the room, her skin sheened with sweat and her hair coming loose from its braid. There’s a clotted scratch across her forearm and another on the back of her hand, but other than that, she’s unmarked—a fact I’d find hard to believe, if I weren’t taking it in with my own eyes. “Sir,” she says to Kilían with impeccable politeness.
“Marteinn,” he replies, lips twitching.
I see her eyes flick from the ground to the counter, judging the distance. Then she leaps, landing in a crouch beside me. When she straightens, her throwing knife is in her hand. “Am I a worthy opponent now?” she says, and lets it fly. It hurtles across the room, straight and true, embedding in the doorway above where Riis’s head passed through a moment before.
Kilían chuckles. “I’ll leave you to it. Good luck, Westergaard.” He takes a deep breath, and when he speaks again, his tone is as serious as I’ve ever heard it. “What I was talking about before—it’s important. When you have an opportunity—come find me and we’ll finish our conversation.”
He looks like he wants to say more, but whatever’s on his mind, he obviously can’t voice it in front of Eva. Instead he bows to her, a startling gesture of respect, inclines his head to me, and strides out of the room, doubtless to make sure Riis has obeyed his orders.
“Well?” Eva says, and I realize she is waiting for my answer. I blink, dismissing my troubling discussion with Kilían. Whatever he meant, now is not the time.
She stands inches from me on the countertop, her dagur in one hand and a throwing knife in the other. In her eyes, I see the unmistakable glint of a challenge, and instinctively, I answer its call. Without taking my gaze from her face, I drop my hand to my belt and free my shuriken. I keep my throwing stars razor sharp, but this time I’m aiming to disarm, not to kill or maim. A flick of my hand, and the serrated weapon soars across the room, hitting the handle of her knife and sending it tumbling to the ground.
“Meet me in the woods,” I tell her. “Tomorrow before dark. And then we’ll see.”
14
Eva
We’re standing in a small clearing at the base of an oak, the tip of my sverd pressed against Ari’s chest. Dusk has just fallen, and the threat of a growing storm weights the air. With his free hand, he beckons me closer. “Come and get me, Eva. Or are you afraid?”
“Does it hurt?” I ask him, breathless.
He laughs at this, one side of his mouth curving upward in a facsimile of amusement. “Of course it does. Don’t stop.”
I frown, uncertain. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
As soon as the words leave my lips, I regret them, but it’s too late to take them back. Ari regards me, and his expression hardens. “Are you a warrior or not, Bellator Marteinn?” he challenges, and steps closer, digging the point of my blade deeper into his flesh.
I know what he’s doing—goading me, using his words as another kind of weapon. Still, I can’t help but rise to meet him. “I am,” I say, the syllables issuing from between gritted teeth.
“Then prove it,” he says, and slides like water from my grip. Bewildered, I shift my gaze one way, then another, trying to figure out how he’s vanished—but I can’t see a thing.
From the darkness behind me, I hear a mocking chuckle. “Acta, non verba,” he chides me.
“By the Virtues,” I mutter in irritation, turning in a slow circle. My only reward is an echoing laugh that issues from everywhere and nowhere at once.
“Close your eyes, Eva,” he urges from wherever he is hiding. “Breathe deep. Use all your senses.”
“I’m not stupid, Ari. I’ll close my eyes, and you’ll be on me in a heartbeat.”
He gives a grudging sigh. “I won’t, I promise. Now close your eyes and tell me what you see.”
/> “How can I see if my eyes are—”
Ari growls. A second ago I could have sworn his voice was coming from somewhere to the left; now it hisses from the shadows beneath a cedar tree, a bright thread of irritation pulled tautly. “Stop arguing with me, for the Architect’s sake! Am I your mentor, or not?”
I don’t say a word, out of pure rebellion. That, and the more I aggravate him, the more distracted he’ll become. Distracted people make mistakes. But my silence must nettle him further, because when his voice comes again, it bears the clear, distant tone of authority, each syllable needle-tipped. “That was a question. You’ll answer it now, or you’ll answer to me.”
“I was under the impression I already had to answer to you. So I don’t see the benefit,” I retort, revolving one more time in pursuit. His voice is moving, shifting with the wind, and I close my eyes as he’s ordered, breathing deep, sampling the air. I will find him this way, I am sure of it—but that’s no more or less than what he expects. In order to have him carry a truly stellar report back to Efraím—a report that will elevate me from the tedium of guard duty—I cannot merely pinpoint his location. I will have to find a way to impress him, instead.
“Don’t provoke me, Eva.” It’s a whisper, borne on the breeze, heavy with the scent of coming rain.
Beneath the moisture that thickens the air, I can make out a mélange of other aromas, as layered as the complex flavors of the ceremonial wine they make us sample in training. On top is the perfume of the pine trees, the bite of cedar, the humid fug of leaf mold. Beneath that I can smell my own sweat, the oil I used on my blade this morning, the mild, neutral trace of soap. And hovering at the edge of my senses, something else, flickering in and out of my perception.
If this is the case for all the Bellatorum—if they can feel the forest move through them like a tide, so they are at once riding the waves and awash in its depths—then they’re truly a tribe apart. For the first time, I wonder if it might be worth compromising the state of my soul to stand among their ranks—but if I owe my heightened senses to those little pink pills, I’m only an unworthy sinner, guilty of the worst sort of hubris.
