Page 26

26

A LITTLE BLOOD AND SWEAT

Darina

I don't sleep. After a while, I stop trying. I don't even want to, given what happened the last time I tried.

The iron shackles cuffing me to the headboard aren't uncomfortable, precisely; they're lined with thick, padded leather so as not to cut the skin. Loch said they were made for prisoners of noble stock--the rabble don't get such luxuries. But they're still firmly keeping me in bed, and since I decided there's no point in attempting sleep, I call for help.

Ryther is locked up tight elsewhere with shackles of his own, and Rachel's asleep, but my brother should be within hearing range.

"Loch?"

He's the one with the keys, in any case.

I hear footsteps, but it's Caenan who walks in. "He's in bed." After a beat, he adds, "With your sister. But he left me the keys."

"With my sister?" I echo as he approaches to under my bounds. "I thought they'd murder each other."

"They still might. But for now they’ve found other ways to vent their frustration, I suppose."

"I can't imagine those two together," I say honestly.

I know the kind of guy Rachel usually goes for. The Bens of the world. Safe. A little boring. Men she can control. The very opposite of Loch.

"People don't have to be compatible to enjoy each other's company," he replies wisely.

I decide it's a good thing. At the very least, it suggests I don't have to worry about one of them throttling the other right now.

"You really ought to rest, though," he tells me once the bounds are off.

I sigh. "I wish I could. There's just too much going on. Too many uncertainties. Plus, sleeping is apparently not safe for me."

He nods like he understands. "Well, there are ways to rest the mind other than sleeping and fucking."

* * *

"I shouldn't have let you convince me to do this," I whine. "Give me a moment."

Caenan, cruel creature that he is, shrugs off my plea. "Do you think an enemy would give you a moment? Again."

It's been at least two hours. In fencing club, each bout lasts a few minutes, less than ten. But he comes at me again and again, expecting me to parry each attack. I'm too green to hope I might actually go on the offensive, and as he pointed out, anyone attacking me would likely be much stronger than me. My job is solely to ward off their onslaught for long enough to get rescued. Like a damsel in distress. Ugh.

"My arm is going to fall off," I grunt after deflecting again.

"Fine," he allows. "Let's call it a day."

I drop on the floor where I stand, in the small parlor we commandeer to train away from the others.

He laughs, and joins me on the ground. "You're not that bad, you know. I don't think I handled myself as well at twenty-four."

"Truly?"

He nods. "But we ought to find some time for training each day. Then, maybe you might actually manage to hit me in a century."

"Where did you learn? Swordplay."

"Same place as everything else—reading, writing, spells, politics, music. Ryther taught me. As a general rule, fae lords don't truly bother with their children until they're seven. By the time I was that old, I'd been sent to the wild. Ryther…" He smiles, seeming lost in memories. "He doesn't believe in hiring a bunch of tutors and forgetting about kids until they can drink wine, you know? He kept me around. Taught me either by letting me watch what he did, or by showing me how. He'll be a good father, when you have children."

I'm startled into speechlessness and Caenan is content to remain silent.

"I've never thought about children one way or another," I finally say. "I mean, I thought I couldn't have any. But if I truly can, well, it's not something I want now. Not for a long time."

"Good thing you already have an heir, and a literal eternity to live, then."

That's true; Loch can succeed me. And he’ll do a better job than me, no doubt.

"So long as I survive all the lords who want me dead. And you know, my own mate."

"Yes, that," Caenan agrees.

“I had an idea about that,” Ryther’s voice calls from the shadows moments before he appears.

I jump a little. Christ, how long has he been lurking?

“How would you like a change of partner?” he offers. “I figured, if we spar with each other?—"

“Maybe we’ll be less likely to want to kill each other in our sleep?” I finish for him. “I don’t know. It doesn’t sound…safe.”

Even as I speak, a flurry of intense feelings war inside me. I want this—what he’s offering. I want to hurt him. And I can’t trust that.

“Come on. We’re awake. And fucking seems to alleviate some of their influence. Fighting might work just as well. In any case, Caenan pulls his punches too much with you. You won’t learn much if he keeps going easy out of deference.”

My trainer grimaces in agreement. “Yeah, somehow I can’t bring myself to actually try to hit the queen.”

“There’s no crown on her head yet,” Ryther corrects. “What do you say, queenspawn?”

“All right. But if it’s too much…”

“I’ll stop,” he vows. “Besides, it’s not like you can actually hurt me, with your pretty little manners and your slow, predictable blows.”

He’s trying to provoke me.

“Fine.” I retrieve the sword discarded against the wall. “Choose your weapon.”

He chuckles, removing his cloak and his doublet, and even the shirt underneath, until he’s standing in the simplest, thin, almost sheer layer of fabric—maybe linen, or silk. I notice a number of straps around his arms fitted with tiny vials holding potions, herbs, maybe iron, knowing him.

“Like I need one against you.”

He has the gall to smirk. I don’t even warn him, striking the arrogant ass. If he’d been wearing the kind of protective gear my club used to train in, I’d go for a more deadly blow, but I aim for his left arm. Thick as his biceps are, it’s a large enough target. I’m faster than ever, and my aim is true, but shadows cover the spot where his arm was moments ago, and my blade strikes only air. As I expected to hit him, I lose my balance a little, and before I can find my footing again, he appears right behind me, and with one single finger, pushes my shoulder.

I start to fall, wincing as I expect to land face first, but Ryther’s arm is around my waist, catching me.

I swat it away, my pride demanding I stand on my own two feet. “Dick.”

“Stop trusting your eyes. They deceive you. You’re used to certain movements, you expect specific reactions, and the folk will not fight like your little friends in the iron world. Feel it. Feel me.” He dissolves into shadow again. “Where am I? You know. You will always know.”

I don’t. Because I’m watching the shadows, and they gather around me, confusing me.

I make myself close my eyes, against all my instincts.

“That’s it. Feel the matter around you. Understand it. Where is my energy shifting to? Where will I appear?”

His voice comes from everywhere and nowhere at once. Another sense I can’t trust.

“Don’t think. Just hit. Now.”

I let my arm guide the next strike, thrusting straight, a little upward.

“Oh, god.”

I drop the sword in my hand, horrified.

Ryther blocked the blow with a wave of his hands, but not before my blade found its mark, slicing him from forehead to cheek, in one harsh, downward gash.

“I’m so sorry. Let me see.”

“Whatever for? It was a good blow. The first you’ve struck in hours.”

I’m on my tiptoes, my hands on his face, pushing his hair away for a better view of the wound. Even as I watch, his flesh knits itself together at an insane speed. I step back, awed. In a minute, it’ll be like he was never cut.

“You heal…crazy fast.”

“Faster than most,” he admits. “It was only a scratch, and not struck in iron. Let’s see if you can do better.”

It’s wild. He really, truly wants me to try to hurt him. And I think I must, if only to understand how I can do it.

Fighting Ryther at speed is like playing chess; moves have to be calculated. Faster, more instinctive, anticipating not his movement, but his essence.

He’s not even trying to hit me back, sticking to defense. And something tells me that it’s because he can’t. If he tries, he’ll succeed. And I’ll be dead.

He only nudges me back with an elbow when I enter his space, and I fly several paces, almost hitting the wall behind me. I land on my ass, realizing one thing. This man is terrifying.

I watch him put his hands on his hips and cock one eyebrow. “Is that all you’ve got?”

I jump back to my feet, ready for another round.

I don’t know when this perilous dance takes another tone, but all of a sudden, my back hits the wall, pinned by his strong hands, and I jump up, lifting my legs to his waist. I tug at his top, which is unfairly completely dry while I’m covered in sweat, and he pulls my shirt up, my breeches down, under my hips. He’s deep inside me with a single powerful thrust, filling me at an exquisite angle.

“Erm!” someone loudly interrupts. “Can this be wrapped up fast? We have a coronation to get ready for, people.”

I don’t think Ryther or I much care about the company. Caenan left somewhere around the third time I attempted to skewer my mate, but Loch’s arrival doesn’t stop Ryther from thrusting into me, or me from grinding against him, desperate for release. We both ignore my brother, concerned only with driving each other insane, climbing into one another’s skin, which, if you ask me, seems to be the most efficient way to go about this.

This world is insane. It’s dangerous, and archaic, and positively barbaric, but this? This, I wouldn’t exchange for anything. Not my old, safe, boring life, when I didn’t know what I was. Who I was.

This is where I belong.