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“A Sandseed horse?” Sandseed horses, like Kiki, were picky about who they allowed to ride them.
“Nope. One of those new Bloodgood breeds. I was gonna send him back because he’s been a real pain in my ass, but he took a liking to the boy.”
“Is Quinn enjoying his lessons?”
“I don’t care. He shows up on time and has improved. That’s all I care about.”
“Did he miss his last lesson?”
“No. Why?”
And there went another lead. “Flann looks like he needs a workout.”
“Tell that to the Master Magicians. Quinn’s too busy to do more.” The Stable Master hooked his thumb toward the bay. “You’re welcome to try.” He patted Kiki’s neck with affection. “I’m sure Kiki here won’t mind. Will you, girl?” He slipped her a milk oat then left without saying goodbye.
After he left, I scratched Kiki behind her ears. She closed her eyes and leaned closer. Sadness panged deep inside me, radiating out with pain. The loss of our connection hurt the most. And I cringed at the thought of riding another horse. It would also be an unnecessary risk. Kiki rested her chin on my shoulder as if consoling me.
“I’ll figure this out,” I promised her.
She nipped my ear playfully then left the stable. I followed her out. She hopped the pasture’s fence, joining the other horses. I scanned them. Silk, Irys’s horse, and Leif’s horse, Rusalka, nickered a greeting to Kiki.
Exhaustion clung to me, but horse hair and slobber coated my clothes and hands. I stopped at the bathhouse to wash up before I trudged to my apartment in Irys’s tower.
Each Master Magician lived in one of the four towers of the Keep. Irys occupied the northwest tower and Bain had the southeastern one. The northeast tower belonged to Zitora Cowan, Second Magician, even though she’d retired. We all hoped she’d return. The southwest tower still remained empty. Roze Featherstone, who had been the First Magician, had lived there until she betrayed Sitia. After the Warper battle, she was killed and her soul trapped in a glass prison.
When I was no longer considered a student of the Keep, Irys offered me three floors of her tower to use. A generous offer. My few belongings had all fit on one floor, but I had since expanded to another, setting up guest quarters for visitors. So far, only my parents had used the space.
I lumbered up the three flights of steps. At least I hadn’t been gone long enough for my bedroom to be coated with dust. I glanced around. The single bed, armoire, desk, chair and night table all appeared to be undisturbed. My footsteps echoed against the hard marble walls. I hadn’t had time to install tapestries and heavy curtains to absorb the harsh sounds. Good thing since now I’d need to hear an intruder in order to wake up in time to defend myself.
Bending down, I checked under the bed and then opened the armoire. Yes, I felt silly and paranoid, but sleeping would be impossible unless I ensured no one hid in my room.
Satisfied, I tossed my cloak over the chair and crawled into bed. The chilly air swirled as I drew the thick blankets up to my chin. If I had any energy, I would light the brassier nearby. Instead, I drifted to sleep.
And for the first time in years, I didn’t dream.
* * *
I woke a few hours later when the late-afternoon sunlight streamed through my window and touched my face. Without thinking, I reached for my magic and encountered deadness. The desire to curl into a ball and remain in bed pulsed through my heart. But I refused to give up. Plus I needed to speak to Leif. I flung my blankets off.
The training yard was located next to the glass shop. I leaned against the fence and studied the various matches. Most of the students held wooden practice swords or wooden machetes since they were only in their third year at the Keep. They wouldn’t use real weapons until their final, apprentice year.
Leif sparred with a tall lanky student. I smiled at the mismatched pair. His stocky, powerful build, black hair and square face were the opposite of his opponent—a lean, lithe, blonde woman with a pointy chin. She used her longer reach and sword to stay out of his machete’s chopping zone. Moving with the quick grace of a Greenblade, she dodged Leif’s strikes.
However, experience won over fancy footwork and Leif ducked low and rushed her, knocking her down while unarming her. He grinned and helped her to her feet, then explained his strategy.
I waited as he wrapped up the session and lectured the group on where to focus.
“Don’t stare at their eyes or shoulders,” he said. “Watch your opponent’s hips to anticipate his next strike. You’ve seen how a machete can counter a sword with the right moves and tactics. Do you think a machete can fight an opponent with a bo staff?”
A resounding no sounded from the students. Leif’s eyes gleamed and he picked up a five-foot wooden staff that had been lying next to the fence.
“Yelena,” he said and tossed the bo at me.
Instinctively, I caught it in my right hand.
“Let’s show them how it’s done.” Leif set his feet into a fighting stance. “Unless you don’t want to be embarrassed in front of a bunch of juniors?”
His challenge cut right through all reason and logic. It was physically impossible for a younger sister not to rise to her older brother’s bait. Shedding my cloak, I hopped the low fence.
I faced Leif and slid my hands along the smooth grain of the staff out of habit. The action helped me find that zone of concentration that allowed me to sense my opponent’s movements. This time, my fingers rubbed an ordinary piece of wood. No connection flared to life.
Could I still fight without my magic? Everyone had gathered to watch the match—not the best time to experiment. And Irys’s comment about keeping a low profile rose in my mind too late. Oops.
Leif stared at me with an odd expression. His nose wrinkled as if he smelled an offensive odor. Great. Guess I’d have to rely on my training, my experience and the thousands of hours of practice I’d sweated through. My magic couldn’t be that vital in my fighting. Could it?
Despite my worries, I clutched my weapon at the third points and twirled the bo into a ready position. As soon as the match started, I advanced, swinging the tip of the staff toward Leif’s left temple. He backpedaled and blocked my attack. I aimed for his right temple, then left. Right. Left. Feint right. Rib strike. Leif countered with ease.
“Predictable,” he said.
“I’m just getting warmed up.”
My next series of attacks aimed for his ribs, then temple. Rib. Temple. Rib. Chin strike. Leif jumped back with a laugh. Then he advanced. I scrambled to keep his thick blade from chopping my bo in half. When he swung at my neck, instead of blocking the weapon, I ducked and swept his feet out from under him. He landed with an oomph.
Pleased, I relaxed my guard. Big mistake. Leif grabbed my ankle and yanked. I joined him on the ground. And the advantage of having a longer weapon ended there. From that position, his machete had a greater range of motion, and within a few strikes, he disarmed me.
Far from being triumphant with his win, concern creased his face. I shook my head and signaled for him to keep his mouth shut. Valek had taught us both hand signals to communicate when talking would give away our hidden positions or our plans to an enemy listening nearby.
He sprang to his feet and gestured to me while addressing the students. “See? A machete can defend against a bo staff if you can get in close. Yelena let me take her down in order to demonstrate to you one way to gain an advantage. Normally, she isn’t so easy to beat. That’s it for today.”
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The students picked up the training swords and talked in groups as they returned the weapons to the armory connected to the yard. I wiped dirt from my pants.
Once everyone left, Leif turned to me. “Okay, spill it. What’s wrong? You smell...”
Leif’s magic smelled people’s intentions and emotions. He frequently helped with solving crimes due to his unique ability to sniff out criminals. When we’d been reunited after fourteen years apart, he’d proclaimed to our entire clan that I’d killed and reeked of blood. Nice, eh?
“What do I smell like?”
“You smell like death.”
6
VALEK
Valek studied the figure standing behind the Commander. Five feet eight inches tall, about one hundred and forty pounds, either a young male or female—hard to tell when the only thing not covered with black was the assassin’s light gray eyes. Armed with a dagger, which was currently pressed against the Commander’s throat, but Valek guessed the assassin carried more than one knife.
The Commander frowned with annoyance.
“Impressive,” Valek said, sipping his brandy. He tightened his grip on his knife, suppressing his anger at the Commander’s security detail for not stopping the intruder. He’d deal with them later.
“Move and I’ll slit his throat,” the assassin said in a gravelly voice.
Not a natural tone, and Valek suspected the person wished to hide his or her true voice. It was an empty threat. If the assassin had wanted to kill the Commander, he’d have been dead before Valek had turned around.
“I’m not the one you should be worried about,” Valek said.
Ambrose moved, grabbing the attacker’s wrists, yanking the blade down and away from his body. He spun, trapping the assassin’s arm. Within a minute the knife clanged to the floor and the Commander had the intruder at his mercy.
“Good show, old man,” he said even though Ambrose was only about seven years older than Valek. “You still have the best knife-defense skills in the Territory. Do you want me to dispose of...that for you?” He set his drink down.
