The Sharpest Blade

“I’ll be fine,” I assure him, and we start the long journey to Corrist. Nalst leads the way, and Trev brings up the rear, walking a few paces behind us.

By the time the sun touches the horizon, hovering beneath a few gray clouds, I’m thoroughly defrosted. An hour later, I’m actually hot. I strip off my cloak and start to fold it over my arm but Kyol takes it from me.

“Nalst,” he says. He instructs him to take the cloak to Corrist and to bring back a few things.

After Nalst fissures out, we sit down to rest and eat. It’s breakfast for the fae and dinner for me: warm bread encircling a layer of meat and an assortment of fruits from the bag Kyol’s carrying. I lean my back against a fallen tree and stare out at the sea below us. We’ve walked along the edge of a forest for most of the way, with the Imyth Sea to our left. We’re a good thirty feet above it. Our path has gradually risen, and the forest has thinned. Another hour, and it’ll be all open plain between us and Corrist.

Kyol stands when Nalst rejoins us. I do so as well, eyeing the two red-hilted swords Nalst hands the lord general. When Kyol then hands one of them to me, I frown down at the blade. The metal is cloudy, not bright like most fae’s swords, and the edge looks dull. The sword in the scabbard on my left hip is much better than this one.

“Hold it like this,” Kyol says, wrapping both my hands around the red hilt. “Hold it tight, but loose.”

“Tight but loose?” I echo. “What is this, Kyol?”

“‘This’ is something I should have done a long time ago.” His silver gaze locks on me, and I forget what I was going to say. Maybe the emotion betrayed in his eyes is just evidence of how determined he is to do this, but it could just as easily be passion, especially when my chaos lusters leap to his skin. They’re enticing, and something deep and familiar clenches low in my stomach.

I swallow. “Kyol—”

“When the fae attacked you in the tjandel,” he interrupts gently, “it terrified me. I was afraid again when Lee startled you at your apartment and earlier when you went after the elari. I need you to be able to defend yourself.”

Tenderness and affection leak through his mental wall. I’m not prepared for those emotions. My defenses aren’t up, so an echoing warmth spreads through my chest, and his feelings become my feelings. It doesn’t help that this is the way I felt about him for ten years. Standing here in front of him now, I want nothing more than to step into his embrace. He would wrap his arms around me and hold me like he used to. Like he wants to.

My chest rises and falls, and my entire body aches with a tangible need to move forward.

No, that isn’t right. This isn’t a tangible need; it’s a magical one.

I keep hold of the sword hilt but pull my hands free from his, biting my lower lip to extinguish the desire running through me.

“This isn’t going to help,” I manage to say. “You and half the Realm have trained with swords since birth. I can’t win a sword fight against any of you.”

“More than half the Realm, McKenzie.” Neither his tone nor his eyes betray any emotion, and now he has the leaks in his mental wall sealed up tight. “But you’re human, and you’re . . .” His gaze darts to Trev and Nalst, who don’t know about our life-bond. “You’re quick. Fae will underestimate you. They’ll be overly confident and careless. They’ll make mistakes. You need to be able to take advantage of those mistakes.”

I want to ask him if he’s attempting this because he saw how I caught the sword a few days ago at my apartment. The move felt like an instinct, and if I want to be honest, when I swung my sword at the elari back in Tholm, that, too, felt natural. I still doubt that I’ll ever be good enough to fight a fae one-on-one, but I’d love to be proven wrong.

“You’re the best swordsman in the Realm,” I tell him, a small smile on my lips. “Let’s see how good a teacher you are.”

“Basics first,” he says, then, as we continue on toward Corrist, he shows me how to protect myself and how to kill.

• • •

KYOL’S not a teacher, he’s a tyrant. A heartless, unrelenting, and unforgiving tyrant. The training goes well for the first few hours. He drills me on the forms in a cool, emotionless voice, and I put up with it until fatigue settles into my shoulders and biceps. And my back. I didn’t realize holding and swinging a sword used so many muscles.

I don’t complain, though. I keep practicing the forms, defending when Kyol orders me to defend. I’m waiting for him to call a stop for the day—he knows how tired I am—but he doesn’t show any signs of ending the training. When sweat begins to sting my eyes and blisters start to form on my palms and fingers, I lower my sword.

“I need to rest.”

“Pitch right,” he says, telling me how to defend his attack.

“Really, I’m done—ow!” He jabs the point of his practice sword into my rib cage.

“We’re continuing,” he says in the same level tone he’s used all morning.

I hold my side, glaring at him. That one almost drew blood. It’s definitely going to leave a bruise. It’s not the first one, though, and it won’t be the last, especially if we keep going. I’m moving twice as slowly as I was an hour ago, my hands hurt like hell, and pausing to fight so often is making the trip to Corrist take twice as long as it otherwise would.

“For how much longer?” I ask, trying to be patient. I want to learn how to defend myself, but I also want to be able to crawl out of bed in the morning.

Kyol calls out another strike. I barely knock his sword out of the way in time.

“Until you don’t forget the forms or until we reach Corrist,” he says.

I bite my lower lip. I didn’t forget the form that time. I just made a mess of it.

An hour later, we’re still going, and I’m seething with rage. I don’t try to hold back the feeling. I do my best to throw it in Kyol’s face because I’ve tried to stop twice now, and twice, he’s slammed his sword into my back, all without a trickle of remorse or concern passing through our bond. I’ve been awake for more than twenty-four hours now, but even if I were well rested and hadn’t been walking for half the day, I still deserve a break. Kyol was Atroth’s damn sword-master. He’s Lena’s damn lord general. He’s not attacking me with his full strength—not even half his strength, I’m sure—but he’s not slowing his movements either.

He swings again, his practice sword cutting through the air. I raise my blade and manage to throw his attack off enough to not get hit, but I lose my grip on my sword. When it lands in the thick grass, I glare down at the red hilt. I know why it’s that color now. The blisters on my hands broke a long time ago. They’re bleeding, but you can’t tell by looking at the sword.

Before Kyol orders me to pick it up, I grab it. Then I throw it at his head. Miraculously, he doesn’t get his sword up in time to knock it away. The flat side of the blade thumps into his temple.

Trev laughs at Kyol’s wince. I feel only slightly satisfied.

“I’m done,” I tell him. “I’m tired, I’m hurt, and I’m not touching that sword again.”

“Very well,” Kyol says, picking up the practice weapon. “I’ll meet you in Corrist.”