First Blood

by K. Gorman

  The prince, for his part, looked more subdued. Alert, she thought, though not unfriendly. He wasn’t as tall as his guard, and held a slighter frame—not weak, but certainly not that of the career soldier sitting in the front seat. He held a leaner, more compact build. Sat balanced in his seat, his posture at ease and correct, subtle beneath the coat he wore. With his dark clothes, black hair, and the deep olive tint to his skin, he provided a distinct contrast to his companion, and, from afar, reminded her a bit of the small, wiry, gray-feathered nuthatches that picked at the forest floor.

  The distance made his expression hard to discern, but she got an impression of smooth, quiet features.

  She felt the exact moment his gaze found her across the space, likely drawn to the unusual sight of a forest elf in training garb standing next to the castle’s Master-at-Arms. Between her height, darker skin, and the fact that she was a woman in practice armor, she stood out even more than Treng did. He, at least, was human.

  Plus, her reputation had likely preceded her. No one gossiped like the courts did.

  Their eyes momentarily locked, his far bolder than she had expected, and a shock ran through her. Anger. Aggression. A flash of memory, quick and dark, never far from her mind. A slice of torchlight against the shadows of a wall.

  Her grip tightened on the training sword, but she forced her features to remain smooth and neutral. She dropped her gaze to the vehicle again and received some satisfaction to see that the shiny red paint along the motorcar’s sides had been marred with splattered mud.

  As Treng waved to the two men, and the growling car began to slow—Elrya, it looked like they were stopping to say hi—she gave his elbow a quick tap, lifted her injured and now visibly swelling wrist, and gave a slight bow.

  “I better go heal this.”

  He gave her a pitying look that she knew had only a little to do with the broken wrist, then bowed his head and offered the traditional Abiermar greeting. “Merry and bright, Catrin.”

  “Merry and bright, Master Treng.”

  She bowed a second time, deeper, then left.

  Chapter 2

  “There’s something on the way. I can feel it.”

  Catrin cocked her head and lifted an eyebrow, not bothering to look up from where she leaned against the wall, out of the way in the busy kitchen. “What—are you a weather hag now?”

  The castle’s kitchen thronged around them, a hive of activity that expanded across two small rooms and spilled out into the back courtyard for the feast preparations. The air buzzed, a frenetic, happy type of chaos that spun lighter and faster as the sun sank toward the horizon. A clash of scents—herbs, meat, raw dough, cooked rice; fresh, wet leaves for the traditional Abiermar sticky dumplings that she spotted partially made in the far corner—mixed with the closer wood-smoke aroma of the hearth and two ovens.

  The heat flushed right over her skin. Doneil and most of the cooking staff were visibly sweating. Even with the expanded room, the kitchen was pushed to its limits. No less than five roasts filled varying surfaces, the two hogs halfway through their cooking cycle and due back on the outdoor spits, while the other three—the largest birds she’d ever seen, either living or dead—were undergoing some strange ritual of carving and herb-stuffing that created lines like waves in their surfaces. A set of assistants with serious, concentrated expressions lined the ridges with herbs and spices.

  Doneil had been relegated to the corner nearest the door, the flour-coated counter in front of him overloaded with pieces of shaped and braided dough inlaid with apple slices, cinnamon, and fir tip jelly, a distinctly elven flavor that had drawn her like a crow to silver. She’d wedged herself into the slight nook created between the edge of the counter and the door, keeping herself out of the way.

  It said something about the busyness of the kitchen, and the approaching deadline of the feast, that she and Doneil only drew a few curious looks from the steady stream of people in and out of the door. One elf was sufficient to warrant a second glance—two together, speaking their own dialect, usually turned a few more heads, especially since she was a blooded rnari.

  With her broken wrist, it had hurt, but she’d done a quick cleanup, the cool water of the basin in her room washing off the sweat and dirt and easing the hot shake of her muscles after the day’s training, and had changed into a simple belted shift over a pair of leggings and soft shoes—quick and easy, enough to zip down to the kitchens and heal—but there was no hiding the darkness of her skin or the cords of muscle that flexed on her arms. Or the distinct curling pattern of tattooed mercari runes that ran down her shoulder and bicep.

  Doneil grunted.

  “Nah, it’s just a pressure thing, I think. Broke my wrist when I was in smetlina, before I got my rune. Took a few days to get to the healer, and it’s been wonky ever since.” He glanced up long enough to wave the wrist in question at her and beam her a grin so broad, she saw a flash of his canine teeth. “Gets twingy when there’s something up. And it’s twinging mightily today.”

  She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Doneil was many things, but a soothsayer was not one of them. And his wrist looked fine, albeit smudged with flour from his work on the counter. Though he carried the stereotypic lanky frame of an elf from the Raidt, his was a skinnier build. Wiry and strong, but not packed with the hard slabs of muscle she’d beaten into herself. He was a bit of a Jack, she’d learned. Had even managed a few entry levels in the rnari before taking a greater interest in the outrangers.

  Then, eventually—oddly—cooking.

  Despite the eyebrow raise of a career choice for one who used to ride with the rangers, he was interesting to talk to. He had a loose, comfortable manner and a quick, easy smile. As the apprentice chef, and a castle outsider to boot, he made a perfect bridge between the lower staff and the castle management. If anything was going on, he was swift to find out about it. Especially since he kept pieces of ‘failed’ cooking experiments in a bribe bag next to the spice cupboard by the outer door. She’d seen everyone from the blond-haired stablehand to Geneve, one of Lady Stanek’s ladies-in-waiting, walk out of here eating something.

  His frown of concentration grew as he leaned forward, nimble fingers slowing as they rounded the dough on his latest ginnri bun into what would soon form the delicate points of a limbis flower.

  When he finished, he carefully slid a bakery skiff underneath it, picked it up, and deposited it onto a long, skinny tray where four others already sat waiting.

  Then he turned to her, wiping flour off on his apron and making a gesture to her injured wrist. “Now, let me see that.”

  She lifted it, hiding the wince as sharp pain shot through her nerves. It had swollen, but not badly, and the cold water of her washbasin had taken some of the heat from it, though it was quickly coming back. With the swelling, and the discolored splotch of bruising around the joint, it was hard to tell precisely what was wrong with it, but the healing rune on Doneil’s wrist flared gold under the coating of flour and he grunted, confirming Treng’s diagnosis.

  “Broken. Hold still.”

  She breathed carefully, her own senses sharpening as magic slid between them. It felt like a colony of ants had crawled into her skin. The bones in her wrist stiffened, energy humming into them like a rapid drum beat. She tightened her other hand into a fist as they knit together, the swollen throb from before tempering into a slow, grating sensation.

  After a few minutes, he released her hand and stepped back to his counter, returning to his work.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  He grunted again. “You should be easier on yourself. You’re not indestructible.”

  She flexed the hand, feeling only the dull pull of tired muscles and tendons. No pain, sharp or otherwise.

  “And you should eat something,” he continued. “Can’t be a good rnari if you starve yourself.”

  She shot him an annoyed look. “Can’t be a good rnari if I’m fat, either.”

  “It doesn’t matter if y
ou make yourself rail-thin or fat as an elephant. He would have still come for you, just like he did the others. You’re only punishing yourself.”

  Her jaw locked, and her entire body went dead still. Memory slammed through her. The small touch of his hand when he’d stopped her in the corridor, the seize of surprised breath catching in her lungs. Panic as his gaze had slid over her, touched with languor from the table wine, but not drunk. Calculating. Purposeful. Amused. Seeing straight through her rnari armor as if it were thinner than wet reed paper. His scent, like dry maple wood and worked steel, had filled her senses.

  Her spine tightened like a bowstring.

  “I don’t expect you to understand,” she snapped, the words clipped and precise, though faster than she’d liked. “I don’t have the luxury of changing loyalties at a hat drop. Rnari are weapons, nothing more. A weapon needs to be capable.”

  He gave a soft snort, not looking up from the bread. “I don’t think anyone would call you incapable.”

  She was about to snipe something back, anger singing in her blood like a fiery torrent, when the mood in the kitchen rippled. A few heads turned up, attracted to a spot of fluttering yellow that had just come through the open window.

  “Sun’s bright tits,” Doneil swore as the butterfly dipped lower in the room, either dragged down by the humidity and warmth or blasted by the confusing assault of smells it had wandered into. His flour-coated hands came up, and he took half a step toward it before glancing down at them in disgust. “Hells. I can’t get it.”

  Her jaw slackened at his reaction. It loosened even more when she realized that he wasn’t alone in it. Several cooks and assistants had turned their attention to the insect, their expressions a mix of concentrated scowls.

  Despite herself, her eyebrow twitched.

  All this over a butterfly?

  “It’ll get into the food,” Doneil said, as if reading her thoughts. He turned to her with an irritated sneer, the disgust plain on his face. “Plus, it’s one of Abier’s Own. Incredibly bad luck if it dies.”

  She hid a soft snort. She had no idea how this particular butterfly had managed to get onto the list of things sacred to the agriculture god—it was the type whose caterpillars were usually found munching the beekeeper’s lettuce—but it explained the attention it was getting. The butterfly had turned nearly half the kitchen now, and no one seemed pleased to see it.

  “Catrin—could you…?” Doneil grimaced, baring a flash of white teeth. “My woodcraft isn’t very good.”

  Now, she didn’t bother hiding the lift of her eyebrows. “You want me to call the butterfly to me and take it outside?”

  “Yes. Call it repayment for the heal.”

  His tall, lanky figure had hunched, arms bowed with restrained irritation at his sides, fingers unconsciously flexed into claws.

  Her earlier anger faded, replaced by a quiet spark of amusement. She loosened her arms and stepped forward, eyes on her target, mindful that her next action was about to clash with the serious, deadly set of spellwork inscribed into her skin. The butterfly had swooped close to the main oven, a jittering dart of pale yellow against the sooty brickwork. An entire kitchen’s worth of eyes settled on her.

  Well, she thought, lifting her arms. This will change their view of the deadly rnari warrior.

  She drew her mind down, focusing. A trickle of energy fluttered up from inside her being, like a quiet ripple on a pond. Unlike the mercari runes that marked her skin, which focused on magic outside of the body and soul, this magic called from within her, a talent natural to the forest elves, though one she didn’t often use—at least, not in this context. She connected with the deeper part of her, then reached out across the space to the tiny flutter of life that was causing so much anxiety in the room.

  Come, little sister, she called. I’ll take you to safety.

  The butterfly jittered to the side, as if spooked, skirting over the arch of the oven’s roof. Then, like watching a windblown leaf, its jerky movements pitched her way.

  It landed in her outstretched palm, feet light and delicate, a contrast of pale yellow against her dark skin. She immediately caged it with her other hand, brought it to her mouth, and pressed her lips to her fingers, muttering a few words in elven to calm its heart.

  She slid a sly look to Doneil as she turned to the door, making for the pale glow of sunshine on courtyard stones. She shed the shadows of the kitchen like a cloak, the sunlight striking her skin with heat, its radiance entering her eyes and obliterating all sight. The air changed, cooled. She made her way several paces from the door, then let her fingers go, opening the cage. The butterfly sat on her hand, soft and delicate, its pale-yellow pattern marked with tiny gray lines as subtle as spiders’ silk and an indigo-colored spot on the arch of its upper wing. The sun caught on the soft powder of its wings and gleamed on its antennae as the breeze shifted, blowing it to the side. She relaxed, waiting.

  After a minute, it shifted on her hand, angled itself into the wind, and fluttered up. It struck a jerky trail through the air, skirted over the table of unlit paper lanterns, and rose up among the ribbons and glass ornamentation that hung across the courtyard. She breathed out as it climbed up into the sky, and rolled her shoulders back, flexing the fingers of the wrist she’d injured.

  “Are you the butterfly queen?” an amused voice asked.

  She glanced up and back. The prince and his guard stood at the thick stone railing of the castle’s wrap-around, staring down at her. The guard leaned forward over the railing, a teasing smile on his face. As she’d seen before, he had a tall, buff frame. Filled out, not lanky like her and Doneil. The uniform he wore tried its best to hide it behind straight lines and stiff fabric, but it was like trying to contain a bear. His fingers were thick and rough where they gripped the stonework.

  The prince had only put one hand on the stone, keeping his back straight. Now that they were closer, she saw that his eyes were light blue, not dark like she’d initially thought—striking against the deeper tint of his skin and his black hair. They watched her carefully, his expression neutral, as if drawing to some kind of conclusion.

  “Only when the food’s threatened,” she answered.

  “You eat butterflies?” the guard said with mock incredulity.

  Her gaze flicked back to him. Stayed. Then she turned and made to step away.

  He was quick to apologize.

  “Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry—come back! My name’s Bellfort Lange, and I’m an idiot.”

  Bellfort?

  “Was your mother an architect?” she asked, turning back to face the castle.

  “Funny. No, actually. She was a nun.”

  Orphan-raised, then. She’d heard of that happening. Castles picking promising children out of convents and monasteries to raise as guards, ensuring loyalty and servitude from a young age.

  “Catrin,” she answered.

  He beamed her a grin from the railing, leaning forward even more. “Can I call you Cat?”

  “No.”

  His laugh was loud and infectious, a shout of jubilation. His grin exploded across his face, filling his eyes and cheeks with a vibrant light. He leaned forward even farther, practically vibrating with happy energy.

  Then the prince spoke.

  “What’s a rnari elf doing at Pemberlin Castle?”

  Her gaze flicked back to him. Though the low sun should have lit up his eyes, he’d angled his face so that his brows cast shadows over them. He still held a cautious, subdued posture, features a careful mask, but she detected genuine curiosity behind his tone—and a touch of suspicion.

  Anger flared like an old wound.

  “Broke a princeling’s hand when he got too close,” she said, curling her accent around the words, making them clipped, pointed. She folded her arms over her chest and let a slip of teeth show. “They don’t like that sort of thing.”

  The prince stiffened. She held his stare.

  “Aren’t you supposed to protect princes?” Be
llfort pressed, his grin still evident—as if she hadn’t just inadvertently threatened his charge. “That’s a strange way to go about it.”

  She didn’t answer, only stood. After a few moments, her gaze switched back to Bellfort.

  “I’ve never seen a woman with so many muscles,” he continued. “I’d love to get my hands on them.”

  Her eyebrow twitched. “Sure. Tomorrow morning, on the front drive.”

  Pemberlin Castle was so modest, the drive was the closest thing they had for a training ground.

  His face sobered briefly, slipping into a more careful expression for a moment—but still managing to keep a remnant of his easy grin—and a small, tense part of her relaxed as he nodded in acknowledgment. “I’ll be there.”

  He knew what she’d just invited him to. Sparring, not courting. Though she had a feeling he might throw in some of the latter, anyway.

  She’d quickly disabuse him of that.

  “You look skilled,” Bellfort said. “Tenth Circle?”

  Her gaze drew back to his, arms still crossed. After a moments’ study, she gave him a nod. “Twelfth.”

  His eyes widened briefly, but he hastily hid the surprise—or, rather, channeled it straight into his grin. Her skin prickled when his gaze dropped down again. “Are those spell runes? What do they do?”

  “Spells,” she answered shortly.

  He made a sputtering noise in his throat, and his mouth formed an unhappy downturn.

  Beside him, she noticed the prince was still watching her.

  The old anger sparked again.

  Princes. They just took what they wanted without thinking of the consequences.

  Her fist clenched.

  Fuck it.

  Ice pricked through her skin, and a breath of snow split the air. An image of the ice lizard came to her as she drew out his magic, cold and blue in his cave, eyes a pale white, the frill of his crests like the jagged pieces of an ice shelf, the translucency of a glacier crevasse glowing a million shades of blue and silver around him. She gathered it into herself, let the power build.