Fireblood

TWENTY-THREE

An hour after supper, I walk stealthily through the chill corridor. Devlan follows silently behind. Our day out of Court was cut short by the crazed man. I still have no idea what was wrong with him, or what he was trying to tell me. If it meant anything at all.

They’re coming for you.

His forbidding words echo in my mind. The look in Larkin’s eyes as he dragged the man off haunts me. Larkin seemed to take too much pleasure in executing punishment, and it was as if that punishment had been directed toward me.

Larkin wanted to keep the original Rebel plan, and now it feels like he’s personally targeting me. I recall that day at my farmhouse, when I elbowed him and spoke out against the Force. Surely he doesn’t hold a grudge against me because of that? He’s not even truly part of the Force. No, that cannot be the reason. If anything, he allowed me to get away with my treasonous actions. Now, I understand why.

I shake the pressing thoughts from my head and look straight ahead as I maneuver through the castle. It’s late, and the majority of the servants and courtiers are in their chambers. I peek around the corner of the long hallway leading to the secret room before I round the corner. When I reach the end of the hallway, Devlan surveys it one last time, then presses his hand to the wall and the door swings in.

He steps into the shadowed tunnel and grabs my hand, pulling me in front of him before he closes the door. Devlan grabs the torch and moves in front of me to lead the way down.

“You know something is wrong with Larkin,” I whisper, feeling my way along the stone wall. “What if he’s really a plant for Hart? You must have seen the look he gave me. He’s not right.”

Devlan hits the last step, turns and faces me—his face now level with mine as I’m two steps above him. “He was doing his job, Zara.” His brow furrows. “I agree Larkin has a mean streak, and he’s not happy about the change in command. But he’s not a plant for Hart.” He steps down into the dim room.

I march down and plant myself in his path. “How do you know for sure? Everyone here is carrying around secrets. How can you be sure of anyone’s true loyalties? How can I?” As I say it, I’m hit with the realization that it’s the truth. I have only just met all these players.

Devlan’s chest rises and falls, taking in deep breaths. “You’re going to have to trust me.”

“I do.”

“You’re going to have to trust that, no matter what, I won’t let anything happen to you.” His eyes bore into me, and I bite down on my lip. “Even if I didn’t know for sure he’s not a spy, I wouldn’t let Larkin anywhere near you regardless.”

He adjusts his posture, shifting more to one foot. “The man in the market was affected by the Virus.” His mouth pulls down at the corners. “Larkin’s expected to act as a knight of the Force.”

My eyebrows pinch together. “My father didn’t behave like that man.”

“Feel lucky your father didn’t suffer so.” He gives me an encouraging smile. “Now, we’re short on time.”

His words are a small comfort. My father didn’t suffer so before, that’s true, but he suffers plenty now.

I don’t question him anymore as we walk down the dark tunnel. When we near the secret entrance to the stable, he veers left, taking me down a tunnel I hadn’t noticed before. It opens up to another secret room, smaller than the chamber under the castle, but large enough to use for training.

I glance around as he places the torch in an iron sconce along the wall. “I thought you said it was too unsafe to be anywhere near the castle. Why are we here tonight?” I understand why when his face screws up, his eyebrows knitting together. Larkin is in charge of deleting our log. “You don’t really trust Larkin at all.”

Devlan releases an audible breath. “I trust that he’s not a spy. I trust that he witnessed the Force beat his father to death, and saw his mother used as a sacrifice and ripped apart. And that he wants to rescue his sister, the only family he has left, from Outside. I trust that he’s devoted to taking down Hart.”

I cringe. Hearing Larkin’s lot makes my situation seem minuscule in comparison.

Devlan’s eyes land hard on my face, fiery with the reflection of the torch. “But when it comes to you, I don’t trust his intentions. I trust no one with your life.”

I bow my head, hiding my eyes from his intense gaze, and nod. “So we can’t train at the meadow anymore?”

He walks to the corner of the room and lifts up a dark canvas, revealing shiny metal. Swords. “We’ll go there twice before we commence the mission.” He picks up a rapier and turns it over and over, examining the blade in the torchlight. “You need to practice with a couple different people to get a feel for how others attack. And Fallon wants to evaluate your progress.”

For some reason, having the little Rebel leader—another girl—monitor me makes me nervous. I stretch my arms over my head, loosening my stiff muscles, then stare at the ground, hoping that Devlan only plans on sword practice. I ache already as I imagine hitting the stone floor.

Walking over to me, he hands me a lethal-looking sword. Its blade is long and thin, but not as long as Devlan’s. The dark steel of the hilt contrasts against my hand as I grasp it. I hold it out, feeling the balance of the weapon. It’s not too heavy, but I know I’m in for extremely sore arms tomorrow.

Devlan slices his blade through the air a few times, getting a feel for the sword he picked out. “In any other situation, I’d have you suited up properly with armor. But since it’s too risky, seeing as we’re trying to be as stealthy as possible, we’ll just have to take extra care not to mortally injure one another.” A slight smile curves his mouth, but I can see the concern that he’s trying to conceal behind it.

I nod through my own fear. “Why aren’t you using your own sword?” I say, noticing he set his in the corner. “And why can’t we just use the practice swords?”

“Because our weapons are inspected.” He takes a couple more swipes. “I don’t think they’d believe I was simply hacking at cherry trees for fun.” He crooks another smile at me. “Practice swords are counted and inspected, also. I don’t want to chance anyone noticing some missing. These are from the Rebel camp.” Then his face sobers. “Zara?”

I look up. “Yes.”

“Do you believe what Sebastian told you today?” He studies me a moment, then says, “Are you convinced of his ignorance of Outside, and that he really wants change?”

His gaze is disarming. I turn my back to him and search my conscience, seeing Sebastian’s golden eyes twinkle as he spoke to me in the square. Finally, I face him. “I do.”

He nods slowly, his eyes drifting to the ground. He’s quiet for a long moment, then he walks up and stands over me. I look up into his cool eyes. “When the barrier is lowered and Hart is gone,” he says, “we’ll need Sebastian to command the Force and the army against the attack that awaits us.”

I tilt my head. “Yes, Devlan. We’ve discussed this. What are you saying?”

His eyes hold mine. “That if you trust him—if your feelings for him have changed…” He shifts his stance. “… then there’s no reason that you can’t be with him. Truly be with him, and help him command.”

My mouth falls open. I always thought that the charade would end. That I would no longer have to pose as Sebastian’s betrothed once we freed the Taken. I would find my father, cure him, and then…

What?

The barrier will be down. We’ll all be exposed to Outside and its horrors. We’ll need to fight every day to beat back the darkness.

I pull myself up straight. “So you want me to continue to be with him in order to secure an army.” I nod my head hard. “That is all I am. A piece on a chess board to manipulate, or rather, to manipulate your future leader.” I cross my arms.

Devlan’s eyes widen. “No. That’s not at all what you are, Zara.” He steps closer to me, the shard of air between us charged. “If you care for him, I just wanted you to know that there’s no reason not to be together.” He bites down on the corner of his lip, slightly exposing the dimple along his cheek. “I thought this would please you to hear.”

No, it doesn’t. And I’ve heard enough.

I exhale heavily and raise my sword.

His hand lowers the blade slowly. “It’s important that we discuss this. We have yet to set a date to commence the mission.”

“What does this have to do with the date?”

His face hardens. “If you wish to be with Sebastian, then we don’t have to rush the mission to take place before your…” He drops the point of his sword toward the floor and adjusts his footing. “It doesn’t have to be before the marriage ceremony.”

I open my mouth, then snap it closed. My face burns as hot as the torch flame lighting the room. “You’re concerned about my wedding night?” As I say it, I want to hide. He can’t truly be weighing this as part of our mission.

He exhales, releasing a strained breath. “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to. Not even for the mission.” His eyebrows pull together. “The ceremony is still nearly two months away. I feel, if we work hard, you’ll be trained before that night.”

I nod, understanding. My eyes dance around the chamber, looking everywhere but at him.

“But,” he continues, “if you’re already feeling something for Sebastian—love, maybe—then there’s no reason why you can’t go ahead and marry him.”

I force my eyes to meet his. “Devlan, all that I have thought about since I saw my father on that damned monitor is saving him.” I grip my hilt. “There is no room in this mission for love, correct?” I study his face closely.

A muscle jumps along his jawline as his mouth tenses. “That’s how I see it. But—”

“Then it’s settled.” I turn my back to him and raise my sword. “I do not wish to marry Sebastian. I do not wish to bed him, not even for the mission. And I want to save my father as soon as possible.” I swipe my blade through the air, then face him. “Now, show me how to use this thing before I start practicing with it on your sour face.”

He blinks. “Right.” He nods once, his face unreadable, then his lips quirk into a slight smile. Clearing his throat, he takes a few steps backward. “But, Zara. Just know that you are free to do whatever you wish.” His firm stare backs his words.

I nod, and examine my sword. “How am I to stand?”

He slides his sword into his belt. Sidling up behind me, he reaches around and grasps my right hand. “You’re short.” I huff, and he chuckles. “It’s not an insult. I’m only stating the obvious, and that you must learn to do things differently than those twice, maybe three times your height.”

“Hah. Hah. Enough. I’m short.”

He chuckles and releases the sword. His hand brushes my hair over my shoulder, and his fingers skim the back of my neck. My skin prickles at the feel of his light touch, and I take in an uneven breath.

“It’s not entirely a disadvantage,” he says. I try to focus on his words as his warm breath caresses my neck. “If you own it, it can be a great advantage over a taller foe.” He covers my hand with his and points the sword straight out. “Always be in a fighting stance, or on guard. Have all your body parts tucked in tightly.” His foot taps mine, and I move it in, under my body.

“Now this”—his finger taps the metal bar above the hilt, just below the blade—“is your crossguard. It prevents your hand from sliding up the blade, and protects your hand by keeping your opponent’s blade from sliding down the blade. It won’t fully protect you, however, unless you’re also wielding a shield. But it gives some measure of defense. Since you’re smaller, you’ll handle a short sword more efficiently. You may go up against a knight wielding a longsword at some point, so I’ll teach you how to use your dagger to compensate for the difference.”

Already I feel my brain swallowing me. I practice holding my sword as instructed, and he moves in front of me, extending his. “Use your short stature to force your foe to expose weaknesses and openings to strike.”

He slides our swords together. The shrill ring of metal sliding against metal heightens my senses. “If I were fighting someone of equal height, I’d try to knock their sword to the side.” He demonstrates.

“But you want to confuse them. Tap up and to the side, opening their body to you. This will also force them to move slower, figuring out how to counter to deflect you.”

He nods encouragingly, and I tap his sword upward and over. “Good,” he says. “See, my center is exposed. Now lunge.”

I do, stopping the point of my blade right before his chest.

His eyes squint as he smiles. “Nice. Now, the torso is the main goal, but you have much more you can do by using your height to your advantage.” He slides our swords together again. “Targeting limbs is a wise move. You can’t best them with strength, so you want to disarm them. Force their arm down and at an angle so they have no choice but to expose their hand from around the guard.”

He does this by tapping my sword down, but I keep my arm level. “See, you have the advantage. You are already low to the ground.”

I glare.

“But they are not,” he adds quickly. “Because they must lower their sword, they expose their wrist, and it’s the quickest and closest body part to strike.” He nods. “Go ahead. Try it.”

I take a deep breath and tap his sword toward the ground. I see what he’s saying. Excitement flutters in my chest as his wrist becomes visible behind the crossguard. I eagerly thrust—only stopping my sword from connecting too late.

“Shit—”

“Oh.” I drop the sword. “Devlan, are you all right? I tried to pull it back.”

He wraps his hand around his injured wrist. “I guess I should’ve told you just how badly that hurts.” He shakes out his hand. A strained laugh escapes his lips. “Let’s stop it before, shall we?”

My face flames, and I anchor my fists to my hips. “Yes, wise teacher. Maybe you should explain thoroughly before telling your student to ‘go ahead.’” I scowl, but can’t help the smile breaking through my twitching lips.

Devlan crooks a smile, his eyes a light and clear blue. “Touché.”

After he shows me a few more moves, we dance back and forth over the stone floor. Forward and backward as we tap blades. I never knew sword fighting was so enjoyable. I love the feel of the sword in my hand, and the fact that my height doesn’t appear to be a weakness. Rather, I’ve learned I have more angles of attack; my foe will have to compensate, not me.

The side of Devlan’s blade swats my forearm. “In,” he orders monotonically, reminding me to keep my arm behind the crossguard.

I roll my shoulder and come at him again. He retreats, and I see his foot still in attack position. I quickly tap his sword upward and drive mine down, capturing his toe beneath the tip of my blade. “In,” I mock.

Devlan’s eyes gleam. Before I can gloat further, he knocks my blade to the side and circles it with his own, relieving me of my weapon. As it falls, he dives forward, catching it with his free hand.

He crosses the blades, his hands before his chest, and advances. I retreat until my back hits the wall. He blocks me in, blades on either side of my head.

“Never. Take. Your eyes. Off your opponent.” His own eyes lock with mine, and his heavy breaths fan my face, my lips.

His dark hair falls across his forehead into his eye, and I nearly lift my hand to brush it aside. Balling my hand into a fist by my thigh, I stop myself from reaching out. His smile fades as his eyes roam the features of my face. His lips part slightly, and his face moves closer.

My breath stills in my lungs.

He drops the swords to his sides. Then he tilts his head as his face nears mine. Our cheeks nearly touch—my skin a live current as his lips brush my ear. “You’ve forgotten about your secret weapon.”

My breath whooshes out. “Damn. I forgot about my dagger.” I could’ve easily grabbed it and…I don’t know. Maybe thrown it at him to get away.

Tilting his head back, his eyes stare at me through half-lidded slits. His finger traces up my arm, sending shivers dancing along my spine. “I wasn’t referring to your dagger.”

I squint, and his finger slowly backtracks down its heated trail. “A woman has a disarming weapon that, I firmly believe, no man is capable of resisting.”

My breath halts. My heart slams against my chest. I don’t breathe again until his lips stretch into an easy smile and his eyes shimmer with mock-humor, releasing me from his spell.

“I don’t believe I have the necessary skills, Devlan, to vex a man in that way.”

He backs away two steps and hands me my sword, then turns and heads toward the corner of the room. I release a frustrated breath, lay my sword to the side, and rub the still-tingling skin of my arm.

“Trust me, Zara.” His head snaps in my direction, his eyes devoid of humor. “You do.”