“Sorry,” I hear her say, and she grips one of my hands to haul me back onto my feet. With my other hand I clasp the spear, and in a flash take out her legs; now she’s on her back.
I clamber up, dusting grit and straw off my hands. Rhema grins.
“Well played,” she says, and we face off again, both prepared this time. I have to admit, she has impressive agility and an admirable range of fighting skills. She’s even better than my last Guild trainer, and he was excellent. She’s more nimble than I was in my prime, but I’ve always had sharp instincts that allow me to anticipate my opponent. These are acts of imagination rather than violence—that’s what my aunts used to tell me. A good fighter lives on her instincts, and fights on her nerves.
In the background, I’m conscious of a familiar voice. Cal is with the new soldiers in the courtyard now, barking commands at them. When I first hear him, I lose my concentration and end up with one arm twisted behind my back, Rhema breathing down my neck.
Hearing his voice gives me a twinge that’s half pleasure, half panic. It’s always strange to encounter him in a public place, where we have to be circumspect, and I have to remind myself not to smile or even look at him for a moment longer than necessary.
“Again, ma’am?” Rhema seems to burst with energy. She assumes a crouching pose, ready to pounce, and I hold up my hand.
“Just give me a moment,” I say, pretending to be winded. Really, I just want to listen to Cal as he puts the lumbering recruits through their paces. He’s shouting at them to drop to the ground and then spring back up, and I’m guessing that the dropping is taking too long, and the springing back is more like a slow climb.
“Will you hurry up!” he bellows, and I struggle to suppress a smile. “If this was a real battle, you’d be dead by now, lying facedown in a ditch with a spear through your guts and an arrow in your eye!”
Crows caw and swoop overhead, and the men under Cal’s ferocious watch grumble. I wish I could find a way to speak to him at the end of my training, but I can’t just wander over. I’m the queen, and I have my circle of guards who must shuffle everywhere with me. All I can do here is fight, getting out some of my frustration at being cooped up inside for too long.
“Right—again, please,” I tell Rhema, and she swings at me before I have my staff in position. But I react in time, whacking at her own weapon so hard she spins away and almost falls onto a bale of hay. It’s not just frustration that I need to get out of my system: It’s pent-up aggression. A swipe with a fighting stick is a smack for the Small Council; a kick to the chest is a blow against the rumor-mongers spreading despicable stories about me and my supposed dark magic. I wish some of them were here in the courtyard so I could practice on them. I wouldn’t be rusty or out of breath anymore.
By the end of my session, my face burns with the heat of strenuous activity, and I know my arms and legs will be stiff tomorrow. This is what I’ve missed—the brisk fresh air, the breeze on my face, the freedom to jump and run. My new Guild trainer bows and thanks me for a good session.
“Impressive, ma’am,” Rhema says, and it doesn’t feel like flattery when she follows up with criticism. “With more work, your reaction times will improve, and your arm reach will be more extended.”
“Well, let’s fight again in a day or two,” I say before she can come up with any more helpful advice. Rhema nods. She’s red-cheeked as well, I’m pleased to see. She may be fit, and a little younger than me, but I can still hold my own.
The new soldiers have been dismissed and are loitering in the courtyard, some bent double or crouching on the cobblestones. Cal is conferring with one of the officers, pointing to the unfortunate recruits.
One of my own guards hands me a flagon so I can take a drink, and I pretend to be standing around because of exhaustion. It’s such a long time until I’ll see Cal again tonight. Sometimes I long to speak to him during the day or share a meal with him. Just be in his presence rather than waiting until my ladies have gone to bed and I’m half asleep.
Rhema wanders away toward the stables, unlacing the leather guards wrapped around her forearms. But she stops for a moment and glances over at Cal. She grins at him and he notices: He smiles right back. The sight of this small exchange, nothing more than a moment, unsettles me. Cal’s smile is broad and true. He must respect Rhema. He must like her.
So why has he never mentioned her to me?
Rhema strolls over to Cal and slaps him on the shoulder. Now they are smiling and leaning toward each other to exchange a few words like the colleagues they are. But my heart is speeding; I have to swallow back bile in my throat. She can touch Cal in public; I can’t. Jealousy wrenches at my stomach. She is so young and so pretty and surely reminds him of me when we first met. When we first fell in love.
“Return!” I bark at my guards, and march back toward the main door of the hall keep. Their smiles are like red clouds blotting out the brightness of the day.
Chapter Four
Caledon
Lilac was out there in the courtyard, Cal knew, but he couldn’t see her. He was alerted to her presence by the stomping of her personal royal guards, ringing their queen to protect her from the eyes of common soldiers. Such was the racket in the yard, he couldn’t even hear the clacking of staffs when Lilac took on one of the Guild fighters. All he could hear was the grunting and huffing of this sad band of new recruits, country lads who resent being dragged away from the harvest. Most are terrified at the prospect of marching north. The stories from Stur grow wilder by the day.
Just this morning Cal overheard one youth telling another that when lightning flashed there, it revealed a picture of the queen’s face—her mouth twisted as though she were cackling like a witch. He dragged the stupid oaf out of the line himself, shoving him toward the captain of the guard for punishment. Gossip was one thing. Sedition was another.
Rhema, one of his latest recruits, was Lilac’s trainer today. Cal only realized this when he saw Rhema walking away from the queen’s guards, red-faced and looking pleased with herself. She’s a smart young woman, Rhema, and never happier than when she’s in action. Cal likes her work ethic as well as her skills as a fighter, and he also likes that she’s always respectful and attentive to Jander. Some of the apprentice assassins have too much swagger and see meek, quiet Jander as nothing more than a boy and a stable hand. They have no idea of his history and his knowledge. They have no idea what he has witnessed and survived.
They have no idea of the curse on his head, placed by King Phras so many centuries ago, condemning Jander to an eternal life, trapped in a boy’s body.
The ranks in the courtyard clear for a moment, and Cal glimpses Lilac disappearing into the royal apartments, flanked by her personal guard. Maybe she hasn’t seen him out here. It’s chaos—marching, shouting, training. Recruits are leaping from the battlements onto bales of hay, practicing the best ways to fall and roll. Some dolt has managed to shoot an arrow into a commanding officer’s shoulder, and the braying and bellowing from that part of the courtyard is as loud as cattle stampeding across a field.