Harper shoots me a murderous glare. If I oppose, she will likely claw my eyes from my face. I know we need Zephyrus’ help. I just don’t want to accept it.
“Let him do what he wants,” I snap, hitching my pack onto my shoulders and striding past them. “I care not.”
14
THE SHINING BLADE PARTS THEmist rolling across the dense wood. I whirl, arm extended, imagining the dagger carving flesh—hip, gut, chest. My weight carries me through the arcing strike.
I am a blade.
If I were tougher in nature, I would not bend, and I would not break. I’d sting and sever, slice and wound. All who met the tip of my blade would weep blood.
As I move through the moonlit glen, striking and dodging an invisible opponent, I settle into the strength of my body, the power in my large, muscled arms. Duck, twist, deflect. I grip the leather-wrapped hilt with surety. The lightweight dagger appears weak, easily overlooked. Maybe that is why I love it so.
Sweat slithers down my cheeks and neck, but the mist kisses my heated skin, the cool air disturbed with each swinging arc. And if I imagine my target as Zephyrus’ head? No one but me is privy to that information.
The West Wind travels with us now. He is our keeper, our guide. I question my good sense in having agreed to his company.
To my surprise, Harper has been amenable to this arrangement, proceeding to spend the days chatting his ear off. Most of the stories are lies. No, she did not invent the spinning wheel. Neither does she know how to speak four languages. But I’ve held my tongue.
A flying leap around a tree, and my dagger thwacks into the solid trunk. I yank the weapon free, panting heavily, and repeat the exercise despite my wobbly thighs, the cramp searing white-hot up my back.
Why should I care about their burgeoning friendship? Zephyrus is free to converse with anyone he likes. If he chooses to speak with Harper, it is no concern of mine. Nor are his lingering glances at her; I should expect such behavior from someone whose depth goes no further than the skin.
No, my concern is Meirlach. At our current pace, we should arrive at Under in one day’s time. From there, it is another four days to the Grotto—or so Zephyrus claims. Who can say for certain how many days or weeks will have passed aboveground by the time we reach our destination.
Out of curiosity, I’ve been thumbing through the Text for additional information about the Stallion. The Book of Power contains tales of strange creatures underground, in the blackest depths where evil lurks. Apparently, the Stallion guards a massive hoard of valuables: jewels and weapons, silks and armor and rare poisons.
I have not forgotten my mission. I must kill the beast to obtain the fabled blade. When I ponder what awaits me, I’m almost inclined to return to Thornbrook empty-handed. The true danger of this quest, I believe, has yet to present itself. And as I complete the final exercise, I end with my arm extended, the dagger’s iron point catching the throat of an imaginary foe.
Drenched in sweat and thoroughly fatigued, I return to camp.
Harper and Zephyrus sit beneath the lean-to, shoulders brushing as though they have had years to grow comfortable in each other’s presence instead of days. I’ve warned her not to trust him. Unsurprisingly, she has ignored my advice.
I pay them no mind as I search my pack. The fire snaps merrily in broad daylight, though the smell of cooked meat makes my stomachturn. We live a vegetarian lifestyle at Thornbrook. Meat belongs to the old, the infirm. I should eat the hare Zephyrus has trapped and skinned, considering our dwindling food supply, but I’ve little appetite today.
Harper murmurs something inaudible to her newfound friend, who releases a warm chuckle reminiscent of summer. At some point, she must have removed her cincture, for I spot the white cord dangling from a branch, holding her pack off the damp earth. I bite the inside of my cheek at the sight. She might as well spit on the church altar.
Pulling my last clean dress free, I stand and clear my throat. “I’m—”
“Tell me more about your brother, Eurus,” Harper cuts in. She angles her body toward Zephyrus, who uses his cloak as a makeshift blanket, the laces at his collar loose, fabric gaping at his throat.
I swipe the dampness from my face in frustration. Harper has hoarded Zephyrus’ attention for days. I can barely get a word in.
“What were you going to say, Brielle?” The overcast haze has muddied the jewels of his eyes, though they appear no less direct. I swallow, and his gaze dips, tracking the motion.
“It’s obvious she doesn’t remember,” Harper snipes, tugging his hand toward her leg. The motion ensnares me. There are his fingers, in dangerous proximity to Harper’s thigh. She voluntarily touches a man, yet condemned his presence in my room?
“Calm, Harper.” He tugs free of her grip. “I was talking to Brielle.”
Her teeth snap shut with an audible click.
“I’m going to bathe,” I announce, my clean, dry garments gathered in hand. “I won’t be long.”
Harper watches me beneath lowered lashes, spite razing her features. My heart skips at the sight, but I’m likely imagining it, anticipating the lash before it falls. As I turn to leave, however, Harper’s voice cuts across the clearing, her words horribly familiar.
“Sometimes, I question my worth as a novitiate,” she reads, with blatant mockery. “I question whether I am needed here, whether I will ever make a difference, or if I am only taking up space.”
My own words slap against my back. Heat flees and cold proliferates, scouring my insides, closing my throat.
