“You needn’t worry about that.”
I look down at the knife in my grip. It’s not very big, the blade no more than five inches long. But it looks mean somehow. “Is it sharp?”
“Of course.”
“What if I cut you?”
“You won’t.”
“You sound awfully sure about that.”
“Why don’t you prove me wrong?”
Grimacing, I adjust my angle on the blade for the downward blow. “Bend your knees,” he says, and I do as I’m told. Then, with a short intake of breath, I swing my arm, just as he demonstrated. Perhaps not as fast or as vicious as he intended, but it seems like a strong stroke to me. Valtar easily draws back while simultaneously flicking out his hand and touching me with two fingers along the forearm. I feel the brush of his fingertips on my skin, burning like a brand.
I gasp and draw back, nearly dropping my knife. I look downat my arm. There’s no mark, no scar, no actual burn. But I can still feel where he touched me. It all happened so fast, so smoothly, my eye couldn’t follow it. “How did you do that?” I ask, lifting my gaze to his.
“Practice,” he answers with a shrug. “Were I wielding a knife of my own, I should have cut the tendons of your arm, forcing you to drop your weapon.”
Licking my lips, I take the wide stance once more. “Show me again. Slowly this time.”
He does. I lunge at him, a careful arc, and he performs the simple maneuver a second time. Then a third. After a fourth and fifth iteration, he makes me take his place as defender. His empty fist wields an invisible weapon, bearing down on me in the moonlight. I try to move my body as he did, flashing my blade.
“You’re holding back,” he says.
“I’m afraid I’ll cut you.”
“I already told you not to worry about that.”
The certainty in his voice is galling. But as we practice, as I gain confidence and speed, I begin to wonder if he’s right. No matter how many times I flick out my blade, he’s always just out of reach.
“Better,” he says after what feels like the hundredth iteration. “But we cannot linger on a single cut. You must follow through on your first stroke, and when my shoulder is down, go for the muscles of my upper arm. If you cut the triceps, your opponent will no longer be able to extend his elbow, effectively crippling him. It is a pattern. One”—his arm stretches out sharply—“two”—retracts close to his body—“three”—thrusts out once more in a deadly slice.
He makes me assume the role of attacker again, demonstrating the follow-through stroke with the same fluid ease. It’sbeautiful, the way he moves, like a dancer, every muscle of his body under perfect mastery. I could watch him for hours and not grow bored.
But Valtar has other ideas in mind. Having demonstrated the technique, he makes me attempt it. I find it easier than the initial blow. It’s as though once I’ve committed to the first stroke of violence, the second stroke comes more naturally. On the fifth time through the routine, I manage to snag Valtar’s sleeve with the tip of my blade.
“I got you!” I cry, forgetting my fighting stance and staggering back several paces. I can’t decide if I’m shocked or delighted. I point at the bit of dangling fabric trailing from his upper arm. “I did, I got you!” Then I gasp and put a hand to my mouth. “Did I hurt you?”
Valtar touches the tear in his garment. “No blood,” he says a little wryly. His eyebrow tilts as he catches my gaze. “In time, you may yet make a formidable warrior.”
An exaggeration, to be sure. Nevertheless, a glow of triumph fills me up from somewhere deep inside. Inspired, I urge him to show me a third form and a fourth. Losing all track of time, I move through the paces, the poetry of movement, trying desperately to match his otherworldly grace. By the time we’re through, I’m hot and perspiring, despite the chill in the air. Still—panting, exhausted, my hair all tumbled, my muscles aching with exertion, this is the best I’ve felt in weeks.
When at last Valtar declares our first lesson finished, I smile, wipe sweat from my forehead, and offer him back his knife by the hilt. “Keep it,” he says, and hands me a small leather sheath. “The purpose of this exercise is to make certain you’re not helpless.”
I smile a little wanly. “I can always get a knife off you if I need it, can’t I?”
“I might not always be there.”
There’s something in the way he says it. Something meaningful. I don’t like it, don’t want to contemplate what he might be trying to communicate without actually saying what he means. At the banquet tonight, I had wondered if he wouldn’t show up at all, if he’d given up on this whole mad endeavor and…and I won’t let myself wonder just how I would feel if that were to happen.
So I smile a little more broadly and slip the blade into its sheath. “In that case, I accept your gift and will endeavor not to disappoint you the next time some assassin makes a play for my life.” I mean the words to come out jokingly, but they ring rather hollow in light of recent events. Turning from him, I gaze out across the dark expanse of forest once more. The moon has moved across the sky, and I don’t know how much longer I can remain out here before Philippa grows worried and alerts Captain Norlan to my absence. But the idea of descending back down that lift, back into the darkness and pressure of the palace below…it’s more than I can bear. For the moment at least.
“Do you think there’s any chance of climbing down this mountain?” I ask quietly as another blast of wind freezes the sweat on my brow. “Or of forging a path through that forest?”
“No,” Valtar replies.
“You’re such a killjoy.”
