Page 22 of Winds of Death (War of the Alliance #4)

Chapter

Twelve

F ieran buckled his swords onto his back over his fatigue shirt, the morning chill wafting around the flap to his tent door. When he stepped outside, the gray dawn held the scents of damp earth, yet a promise of the warmth to come built in the humidity clinging to Fieran’s skin.

He glanced at the tent next to his, but Merrik didn’t step out to join him as he had every morning practice they’d gone to at Fort Defense.

Giving himself a shake, Fieran strode alone through the hangar and into the hills on the far side. When he crested the rise, he found Dacha standing alone. Uncle Iyrinder was likely somewhere nearby, but Fieran didn’t spot him.

As Fieran approached, Dacha’s gaze flicked over him, as if assessing his movements.

Fieran halted and spread his arms. “I’m fine, Dacha. The healers patched me up just fine.”

“Yes.” Dacha drew his swords. “But we will not engage in a battle today. Instead, we will stick to the basic sword forms.”

“Is that really necessary? I’m fine .” Fieran drew his own swords, adjusting his hands. They were sure to be sticky with sweat soon thanks to the humidity.

“You were healed by elven healing magic, which prevented your muscles from weakening from a long recovery.” Dacha held out his swords in the first sword stance, a guard with one sword raised, and the other in a block.

“But such healing still takes a toll on your body. You are healed, yes. But your body will not be back to full strength for weeks yet.”

Fieran copied the movements, as he’d done so many times before. This was, after all, how Dacha had trained him since the very first day Dacha had pressed a pair of wooden swords into Fieran’s small hands and guided him through the motions.

Yet as Fieran held the first stance, he could feel the ache in his muscles that came far sooner than it should. Perhaps Dacha had a point.

Of course he did. Dacha was, after all, speaking from experience.

After holding the first stance for a full minute, Dacha gracefully swept into the next form.

Fieran matched him, stepping forward into the movement. His shin bone twinged, reminding him again that he wasn’t as recovered as he might feel. He had, after all, crashed only two and a half weeks ago.

Dacha would gladly perform the whole routine in complete silence. But Fieran wasn’t going to manage it. Not when he still had so much to tell Dacha. The brief phone calls while he’d been recovering hadn’t been enough.

Fieran tried not to let his arms quiver as he held the stance. “Thank you for protecting my squadron while I was gone.”

Dacha gave a nod, though he didn’t glance at Fieran, too focused on his sword. “They are clearly important to you, and you are important to them. I saw that after you crashed.”

Meeting new people wasn’t Dacha’s preference, and yet Dacha had actually made an effort to get to know Fieran’s squadron in the past two weeks. He’d flown with them. Made a point of figuring out why Fieran loved flying so much.

Fieran worked to stuff back his smile. If Dacha would go to such lengths with the squadron, how much more would he take the time to get to know Pip? “I’m courting Pip. Officially now.”

That made Dacha’s sword stance wobble, just a moment before he caught himself. He cleared his throat as he glided into the third form. “Good. I…good. You will have to invite her to join a morning practice, once she returns to Fort Defense.”

Fieran had asked her once before, more a joke than a true invite since he’d known Pip would refuse.

But it was a big deal for Dacha to extend the offer. Morning practices were nearly sacred. Only for family or those so close they were like family.

“I’ll do that.” Fieran grinned as he matched Dacha’s stance, his arms and legs already aching. But it was a good ache. “Thanks for seeing to it that she was sent to Aldon with me. And that she is coming back to Fort Defense.”

Dacha gave another throat clearing noise. “Your uncle Lance did most of the work for her return. Rather reluctantly. He, Bennett, and Louise were quite impressed with her.”

“She is impressive.” Fieran clamped his mouth shut before he waxed eloquent on all of Pip’s many amazing attributes and skills.

The two of them lapsed into silence as they moved through several more forms. The familiar routine was strangely soothing, even as his muscles burned with the exertion.

Perhaps it was the silence or the peace of the morning. But Fieran found himself blurting, “While I was in the hospital, I had a talk with Nylian. About those dizzy spells.”

“And?” Dacha glanced at Fieran, giving him that raised eyebrow look that never failed to make Fieran confess whatever he might have done wrong when he’d been young.

Fieran moved into the next form as Dacha did, sweeping one sword down and the other out.

“He doesn’t think they’re caused by the fact that I’m half-human.

He said I might simply need to increase my magical stamina or that they might be caused because I’m trying to wield my elven magic like a human. ”

For a long moment, Dacha remained silent as he swept into the next stance. Then he exhaled a sigh in time with his movements. “Sason. I—”

“My doubts aren’t your fault. Yours or Mama’s.

” Fieran cut his dacha off before he could apologize.

Perhaps some of Fieran’s struggles with his magic were because of the way his parents raised him.

Maybe his dacha had been so focused on making sure Fieran didn’t experience the same trauma with his magic that Dacha had growing up that he instead made other mistakes.

But Fieran wouldn’t trade his childhood for anything even with its imperfections, and he wouldn’t have his dacha apologize for what Fieran wouldn’t want changed.

Instead, he shrugged, making his stance wobble for a moment. “I don’t know why I don’t feel enough like an elf. Or why I can’t seem to embrace that side of myself the way I can my human side.”

Dacha sighed again as he moved into the next form. “When you were born, your macha and I feared that you would struggle, being half-human, half-elf. We hoped that the fact that you would be surrounded by others like you growing up would help, but it seems you all were locked in the same struggle.”

Not that Merrik seemed to struggle with it the way Fieran did. Or perhaps his struggles were simply the opposite of Fieran’s.

“It did help, I think.” Fieran matched Dacha’s movements. The sun peeked over the horizon, already burning away the coolness of the night. Sweat slicked down his back, and he tried not to let his muscles shake. “I never had such problems growing up. Or I was too happy to realize I had them.”

Dacha let another pause fall. Then he glided into the next stance. “Close your eyes, sason.”

Fieran did as he was told and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Feel the slight breeze in your hair. Breathe in the scent of the earth. Plant your feet on the grass and feel it beneath your boots.”

Fieran tried. He really did. But the sun was hot, and he was sweating. “It’s not working.”

“No talking, sason. Just listen.” Dacha’s voice remained even. After a moment, the grass crinkled, and Fieran guessed Dacha had moved into the next stance.

Fieran eased his arms and feet into the next form, holding it as he breathed slowly, steadily. The whispering breeze was scented with dry grass and dust, gunpowder and grease.

This wasn’t working. He wasn’t going to magically feel more connected to the earth or whatever elven lesson Dacha was trying to teach him.

There was a whisper of fabric and crackle of grass as Dacha moved again.

“When I was growing up, I felt out of place. I was illegitimate. Most elven magic involves healing and growing, and yet mine killed and destroyed. I hated my magic. The more I hated it, the more I lost control. And the more I lost control, the more I hated my magic.”

Fieran had heard all of that before, yet now he actually understood in a way his younger self hadn’t.

“There were many times I did not feel like a true elf. I was not like those around me.” Dacha’s voice remained as steady as his movements.

Now that hit harder than Fieran would like to admit.

Except that Fieran hadn’t always felt like this. Or hadn’t realized those feelings were buried deep inside him. Yes, he felt lacking. But he felt it because he couldn’t measure up to his dacha, not because he felt alienated from everyone and everything.

“I needed your macha’s help and more years of perspective before I finally came to terms with my magic.

” Dacha gave a sigh, and there was a tightness in his voice that betrayed just how much emotion was behind those words.

“It took seeing your macha wield my magic and eventually you and your sisters before I began to love my own magic. I could not hate it when wielded by her or by you, and thus I could not hate it when it was wielded by me.”

Fieran risked cracking his eyes open and peeking at Dacha.

Dacha had his eyes closed as well as he moved into a new stance with fluid movements, his hair floating across his shoulders. His jaw was hard in a way that gave away just how hard the words were for him.

Fieran squeezed his eyes closed again and hurried to match Dacha’s current stance.

“The truth is that all elven magic has the ability to kill and destroy, not just yours and mine. Plant magic can kill trees as easily as grow them, and elves with that magic have used it in battle for generations. Healing magic can kill, and such killing is considered so terrible that healers take oaths to prevent it.”

Fieran hadn’t considered elven magic in quite that way before.

“If all elven magic kills, then all elven magic also protects. Plant magic’s purpose is to protect the forest. Healing magic protects the body.” Dacha’s voice strengthened again, that edge of emotion disappearing. “And our magic’s purpose is to protect the kingdom’s people.”

Fieran had experienced that aspect of his magic many times over now. He’d come to terms with that long before now.

“If my magic has essentially the same purpose as all elven magic, then I am just as true an elf as an elf with plant magic or healing magic.” Dacha’s voice changed, as if he’d turned toward Fieran. “And you, sason, are just as much a true elf as I am.”

Fieran opened his eyes and dropped from his stance as he faced Dacha. “Half of me is a true elf.”

Dacha lowered his swords and held Fieran’s gaze. “You cannot always divide yourself, as if dissecting yourself into the pieces that are human and the parts that are elven. That is not how a body or soul works. You are an elf. And you are a human.”

“I’m not a whole elf or a whole human either.” Fieran shook his head before he sheathed his swords. “I’m a messy mix of both, and apparently that is messing with my magic.”

Dacha’s gaze searched Fieran’s for a moment before he, too, sheathed his swords. He waved a hand in the direction of the hangar. “Why is your squadron named the Half-Breed Squadron?”

Fieran blinked at the non sequitur, but he shrugged. “Because we have so many half-breeds as a part of the squadron, including me as their leader.”

“Yes, but from where I stand, the name means more than that.” Dacha gestured again. “Your squadron is itself a half-breed. Half-elf, half-human. And yet it is a whole squadron. One unit, undivided, made all the stronger because of its mixed parts.”

Ah, now Fieran saw what his dacha did there.

He huffed a sigh and gazed in that direction. There wasn’t much he could say to argue against that metaphor.

But that still begged the question. How did he embrace his elven side the way he’d managed to embrace both halves of his squadron? And would that fix the problem he had with his magic?