Page 148 of The Moon's Fury

Soft nickering met his ears as Zarian stepped into the stables where Lash stood tending to Najoom. Over the past few days, the horse had grown comfortable with him, and now Lash brushed his sleek, night-black coat, murmuring quiet encouragements under his breath.

“Lash.”

The boy turned.

His grin vanished as his eyes dropped to Zarian’s hands.

Setting his jaw, he resumed brushing Najoom.

“I don’t want yer pity.”

Zarian pulled up a stool. “Valtisaan is not safe, Lash. I’ve been there.” The boy kept his focus on the black stallion. “You can’t help your sister if you’re dead.”

At this, Lash finally turned. His gaze was hard, eyes fixed on what Zarian was holding.

“Your name isn’t Zem, is it?” he asked quietly.

Zarian didn’t answer. “This is for you,” he said instead. He pressed the hilt of the sheathed sword into Lash’s hands. “Try not to stab yourself.”

“Ya’re giving me yer sword? Don’t ya need it?” His fingers were gentle, reverent on the hilt.

“It’s Ahna’s sword, actually. And she has another one, now. This one was too big for her anyway. But it’s perfect for you. Once you grow into it.” Lash shot him a dark look, but he couldn’t stop the smile forming on his lips. “I can show you some maneuvers before we leave.”

“Thanks,” Lash said, pressing a hand over his chest. His eyes widened as Zarian reached into his bag and pulled out a heavy pouch. “No, no, no. Yer an idiot if ya think I’m going to take that.”

“You’re going to take it,” Zarian said firmly, pressing it into his hand. “Pay off your debt, then go. Leave the inn behind, and tell no one where you’re going.”

“And …whereare we going?” he asked, a crease marring his smooth brow.

Zarian shrugged. “That’s up to you. Minhypas? Thessan, maybe. You can decide what to tell your sister.”

Lash considered his words, weighing the heavy pouch in his hand. “I don’t want yer charity.”

“Consider it a favor. You can owe me one back, if that makes you feel better about it.” He didn’t look convinced, hand poised to return the pouch. “Lash. Please. Take the gold. For Ahna’ssake. Somehow, you’ve managed to weasel your way into her heart. She won’t have any peace if she thinks you’re in danger.”

War raged in Lash’s eyes, but Zarian could see he’d already won.

Zarian spent the rest of the day with Lash in the stables, teaching him various forms, strength exercises, and swordfighting techniques, while Layna watched, occasionally helping him demonstrate different maneuvers.

“Not going to pin me this time?” she teased, her sleek, new sword clanging against Zarian’s as she blocked his strike.

He grinned broadly. “Maybe later.”

Behind them, Lash groaned loudly, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like,Moons, spare me from these two.

Zarian leveled his sword at him. “You’re up.”

Brows furrowed, Lash stood opposite Layna. Without warning, she thrust her sword at his neck. He fought to block her strike as Zarian had taught him, his movements clumsy—but at the last moment, he managed to parry.

Strike, block, strike, duck.

Lash was a natural. Panting, he said, “Now I know why ya can’t peel potatoes to save yer life.”

She spun, ducking under his blade and coming up behind him, sword pressed to his throat. “And why’s that?”

“Yer partial to bigger blades.”

She laughed, sheathing her sword. Zarian stood nearby, arms crossed over his broad chest, observing their spar. When shestepped aside, he took her place, driving Lash straight into a grueling set of drills.