I knew he thought I had chosen Ironclaw over him and was avoiding me, but it was better that way if I could manage to save his life.
Plus, I shouldn’t get too close. What I had wanted with Ironclaw was basic, sensible for a woman like myself who didn’t belong in Landsome and would be sent home eventually. (Read: physical.)
With Draw, I felt myself sinking in deep.
“Good morrow, Lord Draw.”
Despite his serious expression, I saw a flash of humor in his eyes. My attempts at medieval speech were rubbish.
“Did you sleep well?” I asked.
“Yes. Fine,” he said, stiffly.
Jerrald watched the two of us, one hand on his black beard. “Okay, enough with the sparkling conversation, let’s get moving.”
Though he was guilty of doing it to everyone else, I could tell Draw didn’t like being dissected so quickly by Jerrald, the awkwardness between Draw and me fully apparent. Draw’s defense was always the verbal offense. “I really don’t think this is necessary—”
“What’s necessary?” I asked. Draw seemed to know why we had been called there by Jerrald.
“I should be drafting agreements for the valley tribes,” Draw continued.
Jerrald fixed us with a pointed stare and we both broke off.
“We’re at the Dark Mage’s doorstep. Contracts and a vague ‘knowledge of the future’—” he quoted me “—isn’t going to cut it. Dottie, as the queen’s sole magical champion, you’re a target for kidnapping or assassination. Lord Draw, unlike other members of the royal entourage, you haven’t completed any military training. Hence, you both need to undergo drills.”
“Everyone else has done training? What about Ariana?” I asked, surprised. An image flashed to mind: her vulnerable and tired in the Maidens’ Chamber, worn out from all the queen’s demands.
“Ariana?” Jerrald repeated. “Trust me, you don’t have to worry about her. You’re the one I’m concerned about—we’ve got to teach you how to use that thing.” He pointed to the dagger I had belted to my waist. “And Lord Draw, you need to have a passing ability at fighting if you’re going to be on the front lines.”
Draw didn’t care about any of that. “This is my cousin’s area of expertise. What’s necessary is that I take advantage of our few hours off horseback to prepare some documents.”
Jerrald frowned. I could tell he wasn’t ready to give up. “I don’t have guards to waste protecting you when the battle comes.”
“We’ll complete your training,” I said quickly. “Both of us.”
Draw scowled at me, but Jerrald was right, especially with what I knew was coming. If Draw had basic combat skills, couldn’t that make the difference in keeping him alive at the end of book five?
“Good,” Jerrald said. “Today, you’re starting with these.” He led us over to a wagon and withdrew two wooden planks not much more than a handgrip and long, dulled length.
“Practice swords?” I grumbled.
“I’m not a squire,” Draw claimed.
“No, you’re worse than squires—you’re adults with no training. I’d like the both of you to have all your limbs at the end of this.”
Jerrald led us to a grassy square between tents, showed us how to grip the practice sword, and ran through a set of drill stances. In his hand, the wooden sword moved swiftly through the air like an extension of his arm. I hadn’t been collected enough to watch him fight against Lionsgate. He was graceful.
Draw and I tried next, Jerrald demanding we loosen our grip while simultaneously telling us to hold the practice sword more firmly. When we had the drill movements memorized, he left us with orders to keep at it until he was back.
It was silly how basic the drill was compared to Jerrald’s fancy moves just a moment before. I held the sword at my right hip, swung it aloft over my left shoulder, then spun it to my right and brought it down to repeat. My shoulders were quickly burning and I stopped to untie my real dagger from my waist and set it on the grass.
“Dottie,” Draw began. He had stopped too but wasn’t doing anything other than looking at me. “I was hoping we could talk soon. Or rather, I’d like to apologize. I realize I wasn’t...celestial cats,” he swore under his breath. He wasn’t at a loss for words often. “I wasn’t so gallant that night at the castle. I’m sorry. I misunderstood and I pushed you too far.”
He really did look sorry. With being slightly out of breath from the drills and his hair falling loosely at his shoulders, he was much less collected than he usually was.
I didn’t want him feeling as if he hadn’t had consent—I had given it eagerly. More than eagerly. Surely, he remembered the way I pulled his face to mine.
“I wanted it too,” I said quickly.
