Page 27 of The Heart of Nym (The Twisted Roots Duology #1)
One, two, three. Smack. One, two, three. Thrust. One, two, three. Jab.
She'd learned Philter's routine by now. It was choreographed to perfection, never changing, over and over again until she could mimic his movements as if she were his reflection in a mirror.
When he swung, she ducked. When he charged at her with a sword, she dodged him and was able to smack his shoulder with the flat part of her own blade.
Philter was watching her now, assessing her as if she held power over him.
And by the way their skirmish was turning out, it seemed that she did.
By the time Philter worked her hard enough for sweat to be drenching every part of her body, he halted their training and demanded she drink water.
Nymiria plopped herself onto the ground, brushing the sweat from her brow before lifting her canteen to her lips.
She drank in large gulps, keeping her eye on her trainer as he scooped up discarded weapons.
Philter was a large man with unruly hair and a beard that fell down his chest in thick, black waves.
There was a single streak of silver through it, and that streak was braided, clipped with a silver bead.
From what she'd learned of him in their time together, he was a father of four young boys—each of them having taken roles in the Yaar Army.
He'd trained his sons, he trained the militia. He was one of Dorid's most skilled men.
"What can you tell me about Aziel?" She asked, her breathing still heavy with exertion.
The trainer paused his cleaning, but did not look her in the eye. "Nothing."
He also didn't talk a lot, save for when he was yelling commands at her or berating her for her incompetence.
But one thing Nymiria did best was aggravating someone enough to get them to say something.
And nothing was not something. "I just assumed that you may have trained him, considering his position and how he's rumored to be one of the most lethal men in the kingdom.
" She puffed out a breath of air, watching as it hit a strand of her hair and pushed it to the side.
"I once heard that he took on thirty men and killed them all in a matter of minutes.
How does one do that? I mean, if I am supposed to kill him, I should know how to fight him and not just you.
That's the only thing that's holding me back. I don't know—"
Philter finally looked at her, the line of his face etched with frustration.
She smiled. "I didn't train him." He tossed the handful of weapons off to the side and strode towards her, his face twisting into something grim.
"He refused his training. How he became the most skilled killer has nothing to do with his fighting strategies, but the power inside of him that his bloody mother used to claim was a gift from the gods.
" He scoffed and rolled his eyes at the mere sound of the words leaving his body.
Nymiria could have laughed in his face. It seemed as if he didn't believe what Aziel was capable of, but Nymiria had smelled it, felt it.
Whatever power Aziel was hiding was not just a rumor. "I think it's witchcraft."
Witchcraft? Nymiria frowned, taking up her canteen once again and drinking from it. "Witchcraft is outlawed."
"Sure is," Philter grumbled. "But it doesn't stop some of the royals from dabbling in it. If anything is available that promises more power, you best believe that those in political positions will seek to master it."
"Who in the royal family do you suspect of witchcraft?"
"Are you trying to get me killed, Celentas?" Philter growled.
Nymiria shook her head. "Not at all. Whatever we talk about stays between you and I. And if I am going to kill the bastard prince, I would like to know what I may be going up against."
The trainer took a seat beside her, his large form eclipsing her shadow. "My honest opinion is that I do not believe you will be able to kill Aziel Haze unless you are willing to work with magic. A dagger won't kill him."
"And how do you know that?" A look crossed over the man's face that looked like shame.
Nymiria didn't need for him to say anything to understand that Philter had probably been one of the first men commissioned to kill Aziel and failed.
She drew in a deep breath, her lip twitching downwards at one corner before she looked out at the horse stables.
"So he cannot be killed by a blade." She huffed.
"I didn't say that." Philter said lowly. "I said that a dagger won't kill him. Not the one that you have, anyway."
"What do you mean by that?" This was getting increasingly frustrating. Nearly every man in this kingdom made her want to throttle them—just grab them by the neck and shake the truth out of each of them.
"It is said that Mystics can only be killed by blades made by other Mystics.
Our human weapons will not work on him." Philter shrugged.
"But I don't know how much of that is true.
I can only tell you what I have heard, as any questions about Aziel's identity have been kept secret by many.
Those who spread rumors about him end up dying. "
Of course they did.
Philter didn't seem bothered when he ordered for her to put away the weapons and leave for the day. She did as he asked, placing each weapon in their designated location within the closets inside of the armory.
No one was supposed to know that she was training.
Dorid always made sure that her lessons were carried out at a certain time of day, so that there were no wandering eyes catching her in the sparring rings.
She was ordered to change and dress herself upon her arrival and her departure, never to be seen in the breeches and tunics the other soldiers and guards were required to wear during their training.
Glancing over her shoulder, she entered the washroom, quickly stripping off her clothes and turning on the faucet to the lone tub situated in the center of the room.
She scrubbed herself as quickly as possible, cleaning the dirt from under her nails and picking at the few sprigs of leaves that had embedded themselves into her hair at one point or another.
By the time her body was clear of all signs of what transpired in the sparring ring, she slipped back into her simple cotton leisure gown and skirted out of the back door of the washroom.
Her garden wasn't far from the training grounds and she just needed a moment of quiet before she was being thrust back into meetings and meaningless conversations held over pastries and tea.
The courtesans were set for social hour again in between lunch and dinner service, she didn't have to join them in the library for poetry.
None of them rarely ever paid attention to the poems being read.
They tended to either gossip or sneer at one another until the hour was finished.
Nymiria smiled when she saw a head of unruly black hair fluttering in the wind at the gate of the garden. Oran looked up from the basket he clutched in his arms, a dimpled grin forming as she approached him. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" Nymiria sighed.
Oran shrugged. "I couldn't find you in the library with the others. And then I remembered that you aren't like the other courtesans here and that you were probably out doing things that the others do not do." He chuckled. "I've been meaning to talk to you."
Her heart gave a small flutter when his hand pressed against the small of her back, warmth gathering in her cheeks as he guided her towards the edge of the woods. The usual fog was gone today, giving way to an unrelenting sun that could only be tamed by the presence of shadows.
She watched as Oran spread out the blanket he'd tucked into the basket and once they were seated, began procuring bowls of fruits and breads, placing them in between their outstretched bodies.
“You still haven’t answered my question.” Nymiria squinted at him, teeth sinking into her lower lip when that dimpled smile returned.
He plopped a grape into his mouth and nodded, humming around the juices on his tongue. “Ever the observant one. I was hoping you’d forget you asked me and just see this as a nice little snack shared between friends.”
“Friends do not usually go on picnics together.” She chuckled, tearing off just the right size of bread that was deemed acceptable.
Etiquette was the bane of her existence.
She’d gladly shovel everything into her mouth if she could, but even the king’s favorite was expected to uphold a certain level of poise. It was exhausting.
Oran’s brow arched in response. “You must’ve had horrible friends.”
“The only friends I ever had worked here. They couldn’t afford this luxury, I’m afraid.” She winced at the bitterness of her own words, eyes flickering up to his face just in time to see guilt settle into his features. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“No,” he shook his head. “You’re right. The treatment of the staff here is… detestable, to say the least. You have every right to feel the way you do. I’m the one who should apologize.”
“For what?”
He shrugged, flicking a tiny beetle away from an opened jar of jam.
“I forget that you’re a courtesan sometimes.
There’s something about you that…” She watched him closely as he sighed, roughly carding his fingers through his hair.
“You really aren’t like the others. You’re like royalty, almost. There is this aura you give off that exudes power, Nymiria.
And sometimes, it’s not in a good way. Not for you and I, at least.”