Linn’s head snapped to him. “Yes,” she said in surprise. “You know it?”
The old Temple Master’s expression shuttered, like a shadow falling over the sun. “That is troubling.”
Linn had found that whereas Cyrilians and Bregonians tended to exaggerate in their speech, Kemeirans reveled in subtlety and understatements.
Her chest tightened. “Why? What is it?”
Gen turned to look at her, and this time, his expression was dead-eyed and calm, the sharp blade’s edge of a warrior. “Listen carefully to me, Daughter. No matter what happens here tonight, you must promise Gen one thing. Go to Bei’kin. Warn the Temple Masters that these Cyrilian invaders seek the Heart of the Gods.”
“But is the Heart—”
A cry rose from the clearing. Linn snapped her head back. The gold-haired woman had grabbed one of the female Temple Masters and splayed her hand on a rock. Without hesitation, she raised her dagger and swung it down. Linn heard the crack echo across the clearing, saw red spurt across the stone.
The Temple Master bent over, teeth gritted and face twisted in agony.
The gold-haired Cyrilian stepped back, wiping her face in disgust. “Deities curse them,” she spat. “Getting blood all over my cloak.”
Linn’s hands shook on the hilts of her daggers.
“Are you ready, Daughter?” Gen whispered. His eyes shone, dark as the deepest circle of hell. “Are you ready to dance with Gen?”
Linn had only a moment to process her confusion before Genmoved.
Quick as a viper, the old man uncoiled and sprang forth. He clasped his hands behind his back and, to her horror, walked right into the middle of the clearing as though he were going for a morning stroll. Linn bit down a cry, frozen in indecision as she watched.
The Whitecloaks didn’t notice him until he was several steps from them. And then one of them looked up, stared at Gen for two, three seconds, before addressing him.
“Oi! What in the—who are you?”
In response, Gen’s weathered face cracked into a smile. He lifted his hands, and that was when Linn understood what he meant bydancing.
When Gen began moving again, he looked completely different. It was as though the old man Linn had encountered had been only a shadow of the soul inside. Shoulders straight, arms out, muscles corded, graceful as though guided by the touch of the gods themselves, Gen stepped forward like a snake shedding skin.
The first Imperial Patrol he came across sliced a sword through the air with enough strength to sever a man’s head. Linn blinked, and Gen had bent backward, his expression placid as he watched the blade curve harmlessly overhead. In an extension of that same move, he swung round.
The Wind Masters had taught Linn that fighting was the act of wielding and giving—the pillars that founded Kemeiran culture and principles. Action and counteraction. Harmony.
Gen’s arm lashed out like the head of a snake, whipping across the Imperial Patrol’s neck. A single bite, so fast that it was a blur.
The Imperial Patrol fell to the ground, his sword clattering uselessly to his side.
There were shouts from the other soldiers as they drew their weapons.
The Temple Master moved through them like water past rocks, weaving and wending, giving and taking, never striking first, always standing last. Time seemed to slow as he spun in a dance of his own, and as Linn watched, her disbelief turned to incredulity. At least four decades her senior, and the old man moved twice as fast as she.
Between the flash of blades, Gen shot Linn a smile. He raised a hand and beckoned at Linn.
Are you ready to dance with Gen?
Linn swept her fingers over her knives. They leapt into her palms as she began to run, her feet flying into a blur beneath her, the wind whistling in her face and whispering at her back.
Linn burst from the clearing and leapt into the fray. For a brief, glorious moment, she was airborne, a mere slip of a shadow in the night as the Imperial Patrols continued to fight below her.
And then she was landing, her knife sinking into its first mark, parting flesh and spilling blood as red as cinnabar. She’d leapt away even before the soldier crumpled, already making for her next opponent. Dodge. Swipe. Duck. Stab. Tuck and roll.
She leapt up, her back to Gen, knives out as they circled together, yin and yang, in perfect harmony. Linn was panting, sweat beading at her temples. Behind her, she could sense Gen’s chest rising and falling faster. They had taken out ten thus far. More closed in; an ocean of gleaming gray armor and pale white cloaks.
Gen moved with her with a seeming instinctual sense as to where the blades were and where each soldier stood. This was true mastery of his ability, Linn thought, to be able to detectmovement of exposed parts of the Imperial Patrols’ bodies—faces, necks, and hands—that were not encased in a thick layer of blackstone.
