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‘You’re telling me this isn’t your fate carved here?’
She shook her head, stomach lurching. ‘No.’
‘Whose is it, then?’
Thea fought to keep the lie steady on her tongue, hoping that it was an answer that dissuaded more questions. ‘Someone long gone.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he said earnestly. ‘But thank the gods that thing doesn’t belong to you.’
The hair lifted at the back of Thea’s neck. ‘Why do you say that?’
Hawthorne’s attention was on the fate stone he held in his open palm, where her hand now touched his. ‘Because,’ he replied quietly. ‘Those things are more trouble than they’re worth.’
Thea’s hand lingered, and she found herself leaning into his scent, a current passing through her where their fingers met.
‘But that doesn’t matter, because it’s not yours.’
Thea slowly pulled the fate stone from his grasp, tucking it into the front of her shirt.
‘No,’ she assured him. ‘It’s not mine.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Thea woke to find her hand engulfed by Hawthorne’s. He lay on his bedroll less than a foot away, his arm stretched out between them. She didn’t move, instead, she watched the rise and fall of his broad chest and studied his face, its harsh lines softened by sleep. Long, dark lashes rested against high cheekbones and she had to stop herself reaching across and tracing the gentle curve of his lips. She didn’t know who had sought whom in the early hours of the morning, but she was glad for the touch of his skin – if only to ward away the guilt from the lie she’d told. Even now, her fate stone dug into her sternum, a cruel reminder.
‘It’s not mine…’ she’d said. But what good would the truth have done? At best it would have earned her pity, at worse, it might have jeopardised her newfound place as a shieldbearer. For what good was an investment that expired after three years?
Thea dared to run her thumb across the back of Hawthorne’s hand, the skin there soft, littered with tiny scars like her own.
No, she wouldn’t feel guilty. Not now. She pushed the thought to that dark crevice of her mind where she kept such things. The fate stone might rule her death, but it would not rule her life.
Hawthorne stirred, and Thea closed her eyes, letting her face relax, the picture of sleep. She had already decided that she’d save him from any embarrassment this time around.
Slowly, she felt the Warsword wake beside her and his hesitation upon discovering their joined hands. There was a long pause and Thea wondered if he now studied her as she had studied him. Then, he slipped his fingers ever so gently from hers. A few moments later, a blanket was laid carefully over her and the quiet crunch of grass told her he’d left.
Thea waited some time before palming the sleep from her eyes and sitting up, smiling to herself. She set about tidying the campsite and making sure Dax had some water and food. When she was sure Hawthorne was decent, she sought him out.
He was a few yards away, working through his morning exercises. But this time, Thea didn’t sit and watch. She snatched two decent sized sticks from the ground and went to take a position nearby.
Surprisingly, the Warsword didn’t growl at her. Nor did he laugh or reprimand her. Instead, he continued as though she wasn’t there.
Thea followed his movements, clumsily at first, but slowly finding the rhythm in each strike, each parry. Her sticks carved through the air as his blades did, her sticks flew when his swords swung. She knew from Esyllt’s shouting at the shieldbearers that footwork was half the battle with swordplay, so she watched Hawthorne’s feet. Each step was crisp and clean, there was no dragging, no shuffling to be seen. He struck powerfully at his imaginary opponent as he moved, keeping his torso and shoulders squared to the line of engagement, allowing both swords equal opportunity to rain down blows.
It was a dance, a glorious dance.
Thea mimicked the steps, but felt clumsy despite her small size. The massive warrior moved with a graceful agilityshe couldn’t match. But Thea persisted. How many more opportunities would she have like this?
Thea lost herself in the patterns, revelling in every step and every thrust of her makeshift weapons. She only wished she could feel the true weight of the steel in her hands, knowing that her upper body strength was something she would need to work on as soon as possible in order to wield a longsword herself.
When she stumbled over her feet for a fourth time, Hawthorne actually changed positions and slowed his movements, so she could better see what he was doing. And when she next faltered, he was suddenly beside her.
‘You’re thinking too much,’ he told her, his voice low. ‘You have your own natural rhythm, trust it and it will serve you well. Try again.’
Thea planted her feet as he did and followed his guidance through the range of motions, her sticks sweeping alongside his blades.
‘That’s it,’ he murmured. ‘Again.’
And so they ran through the drill again. Step, swing, parry, thrust, block.
