“What about Brycon?” He seemed to have been in accordance with Ricca’s initial skepticism toward Lory, but hadn’t shown the same hostility as the woman.
“The only thing Brycon loves more than the written word is hearing himself recite the written word.” Thal drained his water glass and set it down on the table, murmuring, “Damn knowledgist.”
“Knowledgist? That’s what you call his gift?”
“Or a real know-it-all.”
At his response, Lory chuckled under her breath, allowing herself a glance at the elevated area at the front of the room where the last of daylight filtered through the massive stained-glass window featuring the battle scene with the leonthor emerging from the fire. After a meal of successfully avoiding to check if Falcrest was there, her stomach had tied into a painful knot, and finding his chair empty didn’t ease the sensation.
At least, she wouldn’t need to wait for him to leave before sneaking into the second-floor corridor.
“Make sure you check your bed for deadly surprises,” Thal said with his usual humor back in place.
“Likewise.” With a quick smile at the young man, Lory got to her feet and headed for the door, already minding her steps before she entered the quiet hallway. With a few strides, she was at the first turn, sneaking along the gray stone walls, watching her shadow flicker in the dancing torchlight.
She was halfway toward the line of twirling limestone columns framing the balcony around the training yard when her pulse picked up pace and her palms started sweating the way they used to when she stalked one of her targets in the streets of Dunai. It was fear, she told herself—fear of being caught, fear of ending up at the tip of a blade and being marched to her death at breakfast the next morning. Fear of Ashthorn Ward and its cruel ways.
At least, her black attire allowed her to blend into her surroundings. No wonder the most secretive institution inall of Brestolya had chosen pitch black as its signet color. Black, not only for the veils of mystery surrounding every last facet of the academy, but for death stalking its hallways.
Lory reached the first column, ducking behind the solid railing to spy past the curly form connecting the floor to the balcony on the next level. The yard was empty, the sparring area abandoned except for a bundle of fabric sitting at the edge of the training parcours where Lory and her fellow ashlings had put their lives at risk, climbing the facade of the fake building and practicing the leap to the adjacent platforms. There, right where Ronan had plunged from the roof, a figure in black was scaling the wall so fast the thought of it alone made Lory’s muscles ache. Smooth and elegant, each movement sure and deliberate, despite the neck-breaking speed, the person climbed, then jumped from the roof to the platform after a run that had Lory’s stomach quivering with the anticipation of something going wrong.
One loose rock, one slippery spot, and they would tumble over the edge of the platform.
Carefully, Lory inched along the railing to get closer to the parcours, her eyes glued to the form racing across the deadly obstacles like it was nothing more than a path in the sand. Only when they made it to the highest point did the figure slow and turn around.
From this distance, Lory couldn’t tell who it was, but the form, now coming to a halt, was definitely female, and the woman’s face was dark enough to swallow what little light the moon provided. Lory nestled deeper below the railing, praying that the faint glow reaching her hiding place behindthe windows on the ground floor would not expose her.
Not Falcrest. This was definitely not Falcrest, even when the person moved as efficiently and gracefully as he did and seemed to have as little regard for life—or death—as he.
Lory’s heart almost stopped as the figure stepped over the edge of the platform, disappearing between the various pillars, bridges, and walls. Only when someone clapped down in the yard did she dare breathe again, and her heart stopped beating for real when Captain Falcrest stepped out of the shadows beside the parcours, applauding the woman jogging toward him from the heart of the cluster of obstacles.
“Nicely done, Anees,” he praised when she stopped in front of him, picking up a bottle of water from the ground and draining half of it before handing it to him.
“That was nothing,” the woman chimed, much to Lory’s dismay, sounding not even half as winded as she’d expected. Was there anything Anees didn’t excel at? Including telling lies and misleading people?
The woman playfully swatted Falcrest’s arm, gesturing at the combat training area. “Now the real fun begins.”
Nine
HadLory thought Falcrest was intimidating when she’d watched him leap off the pyramid side or march ashlings to their death at breakfast? As the captain and Anees went to work in the training ring, narrow, silver swords in their hands, he became a whirlwind of midnight black and flashing steel. Yet, every step was precise, every attack deliberate, every parry the product of skill and years of practice that couldn’t possibly fit in his lifetime.
“You’re getting sloppy.” He lowered his sword to repeat a sequence of blows that Anees failed to parry, forcing him to stop his blade mid-air over and over again. “Perhaps youshould pace yourself.”
“I don’t need to pace myself.” Anees twirled on the spot, bringing her sword down on Falcrest’s in a practiced dance. “Working with the ashlings takes time away from my own exercise. I need the extra hours so I can keep up with you.”
“No one can keep up with me,” Falcrest said with a smirk that made Lory wonder if there was more between them than just being sparring partners, and with a pang of annoyance, Lory realized that the thought bothered her.
Anees’s laugh echoed through the yard, perhaps the first real, unleashed laugh Lory had heard since her arrival at Ashthorn, and for a heartbeat, she wondered if staying in death’s vicinity long enough would make her forget his presence the way the older students seemed to have.
Turning on her toes, Lory crept a little farther along the balcony, her hand on her hip where the knife she no longer owned used to sit. Just a few more feet and she’d have a clear view of Falcrest and Anees. Lory told herself certain curiosity was to better understand the messenger of Eroth she was dealing with on a daily basis, but the sight of his face brought a different sort of thrill to her blood. One she hadn’t felt since she’d last sought distraction in the arm of a man. Not that any of the few guys she’d taken to bed could be calledmenin comparison to Falcrest.
Just as she dared peek out from behind the banister, Falcrest was taking off his shirt, the tip of his sword stuck in the ground before his feet. Lory’s mouth went dry at the expanse of sweat-slicked muscle spreading across his back and shoulders, the defined cords along his arms, the ripple of strength moving through his torso as he drew thesword out of the ground to face Anees again—Anees, who had tugged up her sleeves and tied her shirt under her breasts. Damn, if those two weren’t made for each other, then who was?
“How many of the Ashlings are worth watching this year?” Falcrest asked as their swords locked once more in a spark-inducing clash.
Anees shrugged, pulling back her blade, then sheathed it, wiping her forehead. “All I can say is, your little street rat seems more trouble than she’s worth.”
Falcrest raised a brow. “So far, she’s drawn everyone’s attention once.”
