Page 24 of A Court of Masks and Roses (Royal Scout #1)
Adjusting my grip on the practice blade, I square off against Trace while the rest of the training yard clatters on through morning routine.
The guard master’s wet cough and rhythmic orders, directing trainees through parries and lunges, rumble across the open space.
Beneath my feet, the lush grass is starting to get too tall for comfort .
“Any year now,” Luca drawls.
Trace does nothing.
Fine. I send my sword sailing at the man’s skull.
Trace blocks.
I spin with the impact, reclaiming my footing in a fluid motion that Luca drilled into me. My feet grip the overgrown grass, my knees bending as my sword tip aims at Trace’s heart. My breath slows, in and out, as I hunt for the right moment. The right shift in the man’s weight. A tiny opening.
There.
Blade extended, I throw my whole body into the lunge. Fast. Deep. Hard.
Trace steps out of my reach. Just steps. No parry, no answering attack. Nothing.
My heart pounds. Heat rises to my face, setting my skin ablaze. I swing for Trace’s knees, his head, his shins.
The same response greets me always. A passive move, a calm shift of weight, a mocking nothingness.
My teeth grind together and I let my practice blade fly wild, leaving my right side open wide enough for a blind man to land a blow. I’d rather have pain than this silence. When nothing comes again, the thin tether keeping me civil finally shatters.
“Enough.” I plunge my practice blade into the dirt between us. “This isn’t training—it’s a child’s cat-and-mouse game.”
Trace shrugs, the even cadence of his breath showing his lack of exertion. “I’m defending.”
“Why in stars’ name would I ever fight an opponent who isn’t bloody fighting back?” I demand.
Luca clears his throat. “I’m going to go check on His Highness’s plans for the day,” he says, backing away from where Trace and I glare at each other over a stretch of grass. “Send someone with word when my standing beside you no longer poses a danger to my life and limb.”
Neither Trace nor I answer, our eyes still locked while Luca strides away.
After a night of divulged secrets and three days of avoidance, we are down to glares across practice grass.
Wooden blade still in hand, Trace stands tall, blocking most of the training yard from view.
Not that anyone is watching. Despite the pairs working drills, the clank clank clank of practice swords, and the occasional dull thuds and pained grunts, the keep feels as empty as Lord Gapral’s estate.
“What is this, Trace?” I ask, finally breaking the silence. “Since when do you dance around a sparring ring like a child playing keep-away?”
His face is unapologetic stone. “I will not strike a woman.”
“I’m the same trainee I was a week ago. Nothing has changed.”
“Everything has changed.” Trace sheathes his practice blade with more force than required. “You can’t honestly believe it hasn’t. I will keep your secrets, but do not ask me to compromise my decency.”
My chest clenches even as a small voice inside me laughs bitterly.
What did you expect, Kali? You think scouts work alone by accident?
The budding camaraderie between Trace and Kal was an illusion based on a lie of my own making.
Stars, just over two weeks away from Lord Gapral’s estate and I am already making the very mistakes he trained me to avoid.
“It’s your choice, of course, sir. Have you anything against my joining in with the other trainees in the morning?
I’m keeping up enough farces without adding the illusion of sword practice to morning routines. ”
Trace’s jaw tightens. “Denied. I don’t want other men assaulting you either.”
“Very well, then.” I swallow and cross my arms over my chest, my heart pounding against my ribs so hard, I hear the rush of blood.
“Just one question, if I may. Since you refuse to actually train with me, or let me train with others, what do you imagine will happen when Kal needs to defend the prince? Or is compromising Wil’s safety for the sake of your decency an acceptable tradeoff? ”
“If there is an attack, I will protect you both.” Trace’s nostrils flare. “Enough. I refuse to strike you, in training or otherwise—and if you classify that as a bad thing, I recommend you find the common sense you appear to have misplaced.”
“I’ll start the search at once.” I give Trace a mocking bow.
My whole body strains to stalk away from him now, but responsibility tugs at my conscience.
My mission has never been about sword training—it’s been about protecting the throne.
I’m not yet so spiteful as to keep information from the man charged with guarding the king.
“I listened to the roses’ chatter during the post-attack premises sweep,” I tell Trace with quiet coolness.
Read their lips actually, but I’m not in the mood for specifics.
“I’ve also followed Samuels these past few nights, and his conversations corroborate the roses’ earlier remarks: The Holy Guard is planning for some sort of imminent prisoner influx. I thought you’d wish to know.”
Trace cocks a brow.
“No,” I add in response to the silent question, “I’ve no additional proof that Samuels is with Viva Sylthia. But I do find it irregular that the Holy Guard is transporting prisoners in secret. Especially when the roses’ duties are supposed to entail guarding temples. Don’t you?”
Trace’s jaw tightens, his gaze flickering east toward the Temple of Dansil and the Eye on its peak. “Do you know when these prisoners are expected?” he asks finally. Reluctantly. As if it pains him to share in my information.
“No.”
“And the prisoners’ identities? Origins? Numbers?”
“No.” My pride winces, but my face remains steady as I wait. When Trace fails to comment, I prod the ground with the toe of my boot. “Well?”
Trace shakes his head, his silver-blond hair shimmering in the sun. “Stay away from Samuels. And the roses. If your suspicions are correct, your being in the Holy Guard’s proximity is too dangerous. If they are incorrect, your being there is irrelevant.”
The fire simmering in my blood turns to molten lead. I step forward, coming close enough to ram my index finger into Trace’s chest. Coiled muscle beneath a blue tunic presses back, the subtle earthy scent of male sweat touching my nose. “The king brought me here—”
Trace catches my arm, his large hand encircling my wrist like a shackle.
“I don’t give a damn why Firehorn brought you here,” Trace hisses into my face.
“I am the captain of the king’s guard. If something needs to be done, I will do it.
Not a young woman. Not on my watch.” Trace’s nostrils flare and he lowers his head, his lips a breath away from my ear.
“If you want to put yourself in harm’s way, I suggest you shout both our secrets off the rooftops—because having me executed is the only way you’ll get past me. ”