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Otis cut inland down a narrow track, and Keris guided his mount after him, urging the horse to more speed. He liked to ride. Liked to ride fast, which was rarely an option with an escort. But whilehe’dnever be allowed out of the city without an escort, Otis suffered no such limitations. Not with his reputation as a warrior and the respect that went along with it.
Reaching a wider spot in the path, Keris dug in his heels, surging past his brother and laughing when Otis lifted his hand in a vulgar gesture. Neck and neck, they raced their horses east until they reached a copse of trees, only then slowing to a walk.
“This will do,” Otis declared, swinging off his mount, Keris reluctantly following suit. With the horses tethered to some trees, his brother pulled out his sword.
Keris eyed the weapon. “Must we?”
“Yes. There’s a difference between people believing you’re skill-less and actually being so, and that difference is survival.”
“I prefer knives.”
“Pretend it’s a very big knife.”
Sighing, Keris extracted his own sword, hating the weight of it in his hand. Knives had purposes beyond violence, but the blade glittering in the sun was good for nothing but killing. Holding the sword felt like tempting fate.
If you truly believe in something, you should be willing to suffer for it. To die for it, if need be. Which tells me that you either don’t believe your own words or that you are a coward.The memory of her words simultaneously angered and inspired him. All his adult life, he’d been espousing the virtues of peace and been called a coward for believing in such ideals.
But never once had he been called a coward for not acting on them.
Otis moved to attack, and Keris half-heartedly parried, going through the motions that he’d been forced to learn as a child. The clang of steel against steel set his nerves on edge, sending flickers of memories through his thoughts. Memories of his father screaming at him that Veliant men were warriors and to be otherwise was womanly and soft. How he’d shrieked at Keris that he was a weakling for refusing to learn, not seeming to understand that learning would’ve been the easier path.
How many beatings would it have spared him? How much mockery and vitriol would have gone unvoiced if he’d become as accomplished with the weapon as Otis and his other brothers?
Except juxtaposed on those memories was the one of his father strangling his mother to death and the oath that he’d sworn on her lifeless body that he’d die before becoming anything like the man who’d sired him.
Otis snapped, “Quit defending and attack!”
Grinding his teeth, Keris lunged into a feeble offensive, his brother countering it with enough force that his weapon was knocked from his hand.
“Pick it up!”
The words filled Keris’s ears, except it wasn’t his brother’s voice he heard but his father’s, and red filled his vision. With a snarl of anger, he dived under Otis’s upraised blade, tackling his brother to the ground with violent force. They grappled, rolling across the ground, their fists flying, but he managed to get his arm around Otis’s throat. Squeezing, he waited until his brother frantically tapped on his arm, then held on a moment longer for good measure before shoving him down to the dirt. “I don’t like swords.”
“Fine.” Red-faced, Otis dragged in several breaths, then shook his head. “How someone as lean as you can be so godawful strong is a mystery to me.”
“Books are heavy.”
Otis huffed out a laugh, then his eyes narrowed. “Are you hurt?”
Keris was rubbing the shoulder he’d injured catching Valcotta the night of the fire. Grappling had done it no favors. “It’s nothing.” And knowing that given the chance, Otis would fret over him worse than one of their aunties, he unfastened the hamper attached to his brother’s horse, peering inside. “Did you pack me a picnic lunch? How sweet. If not for our shared blood, I might be starting to question your intentions toward me.”
Casting his eyes skyward, Otis muttered what sounded like a prayer for patience, but before he could say more, distant screams filled the air. And as the wind blew over their faces, so did the smell of smoke.
16
ZARRAH
Despite the exhaustion plaguing her, Zarrah had slept only fitfully, her mind unwilling to let go of her conversation with the Maridrinian. Not only the words, but that she’d had a conversation with him at all.
While many Valcottans tolerated Maridrinians, in commercial and occasionally social contexts, Zarrah only engaged with them on the battlefield. She had long believed herself honorable in her refusal to have anything to do with Maridrinians that didn’t involve steel and staff andtheirblood. And yet last night, she’d talked to one of them aboutpeacebetween their nations. Had called him a coward for not pursuing it.
And he, peculiarly, had called her anidealistfor believing so.
A less accurate word for her character, she didn’t know. Her life was dedicated to the Endless War and to exacting vengeance against the Veliant family, and she’d crossed the border more times than she could count, leaving Valcottan justice in her wake.
Except what if it hadn’t been justice at all?
The idea infuriated her, but as hard as she tried to shove it aside, it kept returning to her mind. Kept scratching at her conscience with the suggestion that in trying to avenge what had been done to her as a child, she’d instead made herself the villain in the stories of countless Maridrinian children. That in trying to defeat Silas Veliant, she’d become him.
