Mather surveyed the rest of the room. Hollis faced the target again while a few paces to his left Trace and Phil sparred in the sad excuse for a sword ring. Nothing but a circle drawn on the floorboards in ash, the line blurred with every session as the boys slid over the boundary to avoid each other’s mock blades, thin lengths of wood scavenged from the cottage’s walls.
It had been four days since William had enforced Noam’s order to cease training the Winterians—something Mather himself had suggested not long ago. But Mather had only meant it was pointless to train men who could barely hold down nutritious food, let alone hold a blade. The older ones, the fragile ones. He hadn’t meant they shouldallstop—and honestly, most of what he had said since they had returnedto Winter had been out of anger. Everything he had said to Alysson, to William—ice above, even to Meira.
But Mather had sixteen years of proof that even the smallest of groups could inflict damage. The six of them were better than nothing. Well, five, but Mather knew Kiefer would cave and start training eventually—already his brother, Eli, had given in, and sat against the wall next to Hollis, watching him work through each throw.
Thus far, it had been easy to evade William—so easy that Mather wondered why he hadn’t tried to do it sooner. As long as he intermittently stopped by the cottage he shared with him and Alysson or was seen rebuilding the occasional structure, Mather was left alone.
Getting supplies was another issue, one he still worked on—the only usable weapons in Winter rested with the Cordellans, and he couldn’t steal them without drawing attention, but he would figure out a way. He’d already managed to steal some knives at meals.
Trace swung his mock sword down onto Phil’s. The force cracked Trace’s blade in half, one piece staying in his hands, the other flipping up into the air. Mather cursed softly at losing another brittle sword when Trace’s hand snatched the other piece of wood in flight.
Now equipped with two forearm-long pieces of wood, faux knives instead of mock swords, Trace’s face lit up like a fantastic revelation had occurred to him. He stabbed at Phil, who had barely managed to regain his balance andheld his sword with wobbly arms. Trace slashed and lunged, a flurry of wood and limbs that made Phil stagger back.
Finally Phil collapsed, his mock sword skittering out of the circle as he threw his arms over his head. “I surrender!”
Trace pulled back, face streaked with sweat. His gaze flashed up to Mather and he grinned, panting. “Black suns, that felt good.”
Mather beamed. “You should definitely fight with knives,” he said, and nodded to Hollis, who watched with fascination. They had all shared that expression at least half a dozen times since Mather had started them on this insane venture—when someone blocked a blow, when someone hit a mark. More often they shared the flash of disappointment Hollis had shown when he’d missed the target. They needed to savor moments like these, when someone succeeded.
Trace marched out of the sword ring, still grinning as he joined Hollis.
Phil grimaced up at Mather. “Does this mean I have to spar with you again? I don’t think my pride can handle so many losses in one day.”
Mather laughed and walked forward when someone else beat him to the ring. Feige, who had been nothing more than a silent, observant shadow in the corner, smiled at Mather as she picked up Phil’s discarded mock sword.
“I’ll spar with our Once-King,” she said.
Mather had made sure she knew she was welcome to train, but Hollis always made an excuse for her. Mather could never figure out why he didn’t want her to fight, nor why Feige gave in to her brother when she had shown so much fire that first night. Since then, in fact, she had been nothing more than Phil’s all-too-fitting nickname for her—a ghost lingering just beyond their interactions.
Hollis passed the throwing knife to Trace. “Feige, I don’t think that’s—”
“I didn’t challenge you,” she replied, voice cold. “I challenged the Once-King.”
Mather felt Hollis’s gaze on him, a weighty presence off to his right. His muscles twitched, and he already knew he would do this. The soldier in him needed to know what kind of a fighter she was that Hollis kept her chained, if that flicker of eeriness in her eyes extended to more than wise words.
Without a word, Mather picked up a length of wood as Phil scrambled to get out of the way. Hollis hissed in protest, expecting Feige to obey him, expecting Mather to be smarter than this. Everyone else fell silent, and even Kiefer leaned forward with interest.
Feige entered the ring, biting her lower lip as she appraised Mather. He took her in too, keeping his feet just outside the charcoal line. Her clothes hung loose around her skinny frame—the baggy fabric would be a hindranceto her, as would her loose hair. She either didn’t realize these obstacles or didn’t care.
A burst of coolness lit within Mather. Eagerness mixed with adrenaline, and he stepped into the ring.
Feige dove at him, her mock sword singing through the air. Mather danced back, staying on the defense. She had grace, her movements fluid and methodical, like she had worked out every motion before she’d even stepped into the ring. Maybe these days of watching them train had let her develop her own series of attacks. Whatever the reason, she fought with a need that Mather had never seen before. Or, he had seen it, just never on someone other than an enemy soldier—bloodlust and desperation and hunger for a fight. Mather enjoyed the movements of fighting, using his muscles in a controlled, active way, but this girl enjoyed thefeelof fighting, the threat of blood being spilled by her hand.
The realization sent the smallest jolt of fear through him, and he returned her blows. However eager she might be to fight, she was still no match for him, and he saw her realize that as he slowly beat her back.
The glee in her eyes dimmed to confusion, her smile vanishing in a scowl. Now she fought him with anger, which only led to accidents. He needed to end this before she hurt herself or one of the boys outside of the ring, watching with wide eyes.
This was why Hollis hadn’t wanted her to fight. The others may have been broken and hurting, but none ofthem let that interfere with their training—if anything, their training seemed to help alleviate some of their strain. But Feige put every moment of her past into her fighting until Mather couldn’t tell if she knew this wasn’t real. Or if maybe she had set her sights on killing him just to see if taking this to its end would soothe her pain.
Mather swung the mock sword in what should have been a killing blow, the wood sailing through an opening and smacking against her exposed neck. But Feige didn’t surrender, just batted his sword away and lunged. Mather blinked, surprised long enough for her to swipe at his legs. She sent one buckling under him and flung herself on his back. Her mock sword stung where she pressed it against his neck, jerking his head so he stared up at her on his knees.
Mather heaved her over his head, slammed her onto her back, and pinned her with one arm across her chest. He tugged her mock sword away and tossed his own, his jaw tight.
“You could be a good fighter,” he snapped. “If you learn to control your anger.”
As Feige glared up at him, Mather’s instincts screamed. Once, as children, Meira had talked him into stealing a bottle of Finn’s Summerian wine. When William found them, he had taken the half-full bottle and smashed it into the fire, and the wine had urged the flames from steady fingers of orange into a burst of roaring heat. Mather sawthat now in Feige—flames shooting higher, egged on by primal fear.
She snarled up at him. “Get off me.”
