The Sharpest Blade
Page 44

I keep my guard up, still suspicious. “Are you patronizing me?”
“No,” he says, stabbing toward my stomach. I block his attack and turn sideways, making myself a smaller target.
“It takes fae years of training to develop muscle memory,” he continues, launching another attack, this time a low one aimed at my knees. “You’re developing it within hours. And you’re quick.” A jab toward my left shoulder. “Quicker than you used to be.”
I get what he’s saying, and even though this can be seen as a positive thing, the implication makes me uncomfortable. What else has the life-bond changed? And are all the changes for the better?
Kyol senses the dark path my thoughts are taking, so I give him a small smile, and say, “Good thing I’m bonded to the Realm’s best swordsman.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up ever so slightly.
“Is that a smile, Lord General?” I tease. “While you’re in the midst of a fight? Sloppy.”
I feign an attack at his midsection, but dodge around his block, balling my off hand into a fist, which I aim at his jaw. The move is smooth and natural, and the blow would probably hit if Kyol weren’t the best swordsman in the Realm. But he knocks my fist with his elbow and somehow manages to clip my chin in the process.
Ow.
I step away from him, reach up to rub my jaw. I yelp instead, seeing his sword arcing toward my calves. No time to block it so I try to leap over it and—
Fail. His blade hits so hard, he knocks my legs out from under me. I land on my right shoulder, my sword pinned beneath my body.
A twinge of guilt moves through the life-bond, but Kyol extinguishes it quickly.
“You were supposed to block that,” he says, kneeling in front of me.
“Yeah,” I snap. “I kind of figured that out.”
I sit up, then pull up my pants leg to look at the injury. Our swords are dull, but I expect to see a gash in my leg anyway. There’s not one. Just an angry red line that’s beginning to turn purple.
“Is it broken?” Kyol sets down his sword, then runs his hand over my calf.
“I’m not that brittle,” I say. I mean the words to be angry—an accusation of sorts—but his hand is warm, and a bright blue bolt of lightning skips to my skin.
Touching opens our bond completely, and Kyol’s lust rushes into me. I rock back, dizzy with the intensity of it, and my body flushes with heat.
It’s just magic, I tell myself. This feeling isn’t real. It isn’t. It isn’t. It isn’t.
Kyol meets my gaze. His hand is still on my calf, desire is still rocking through him.
I want another chance.
He doesn’t say those words out loud, but his emotions are screaming them.
I pull my leg away from him, and some emotion akin to hurt moves through the bond. It’s barely noticeable beneath the want, but it makes my throat burn. I can’t do this. I can’t keep hurting him.
“Kyol—”
“Again,” he says, grabbing his sword as he stands. A thick wall drops between us, silencing his emotions.
Swallowing, I get to my feet. I try to build my own wall. I try not to let him feel my frustration and angst, my regret that I can’t say the words he wants to hear. I focus completely on the moves he teaches me. My muscles remember them, even a few forms he hasn’t taught me yet, like the slight twist to my wrist I need to slip through his overly slow defense. I let my mind go blank, focus only on the movements of my body and his. I watch his eyes, the set of his shoulders. My peripheral vision is attuned to his sword. I block a third of his attacks, which is a huge improvement from the last time. His blows hurt when they hit home, but it’s a dull pain that I can shove to the back of my mind.
Circle and attack. Follow up. Parry.
I’m drenched in sweat, but I keep going, keep concentrating on the rote movement of my body and the soreness in my muscles.
Dodge a high swing. Counter with a low one.
My worries fall away, and I let my subconscious take over until Kyol lowers his sword, his eyes closing.
“There,” he says, tension pouring out of him.
I’m so, so tempted to attack while he’s vulnerable, but I haven’t felt him this relaxed since he formed the life-bond with me.
“There?”
He opens his eyes. “That’s how I keep my emotions from you.”
I frown. “How?”
“If I concentrate on the forms, on mine and my opponents’ movements, everything else falls away. That’s what you’ve just done, and it’s . . . peaceful.”
“You block your emotions when you’re not fighting, too.”
“I have decades of practice,” he says. “I’m able to re-create the emptiness. Most of the time.”
I nod slowly. “I’ll work on it.” I’ll work on it every second of my existence until I’m able to keep him out.
I raise my sword, ready to re-empty my mind.
“We’re finished for today,” he says.
“I have a few more minutes left in me.”
Before I have time to even blink, he disarms me. My sword flips once in the air and lands in his left hand.
“We’re finished for today,” he says again, this time looking pointedly at my hands.
I glare down at them, too, angry that they didn’t hold on to the sword. Then I see the blisters. Apparently, my emotions weren’t the only thing that I faded out. I blocked out the pain, but now that I see how red and agitated they are, they hurt. So does every part of me that Kyol hit, which is basically everywhere.
“I didn’t know you were available for lessons, Lord General.”
I turn toward the back porch. Lorn is there, leaning against a column. I wouldn’t say he looks great, but he doesn’t look half-dead anymore.
“I have a few fae who could use your expertise,” he says, when we approach.
Kyol doesn’t bother answering. He turns to me, tells me he’ll be back soon, then he fissures out.
My gaze locks on his shadows, and I itch to draw them out. I haven’t attempted to shadow-read since Tholm. The earlier worry I had about the bond bringing negative changes circles through my mind again. I wasn’t able to identify Nimael’s location, and I should have been able to. I need to sketch out a map again.
But Kyol’s heading back to Corrist. I don’t need a map to tell me that. As soon as the shadows completely disappear, I head inside.
Lorn tsks as he follows me in. “No thanks for saving your life?”
If I thank him, it’ll imply I owe him a debt, so I follow Kyol’s example and ignore him. I walk to the kitchen and turn on the faucet to wash my hands. Holy crap! The blisters burn.
“You at least owe me an apology, don’t you think?” Lorn says, hovering behind me.
At least he’s back to his usual, haughty self. And he’s found clothes. I don’t know how Nick is going to feel about Lorn raiding his closet, but the black slacks and white button-up shirt fit Lorn’s personality. The shirt is wrinkle-free and crisp, the cuffs buttoned.
“Lena’s the one who arrested you,” I say. “I just told her my suspicions.”
“Lena is a beautiful, vindictive chessra.”
I don’t know what that word means. Something not flattering, I’m sure. And I don’t see how she’s vindictive. She and Lorn worked together against the Court. They’re basically partners. On the other hand, Lorn isn’t the most altruistic person in the world. I’m sure he’s done something to piss her off.