“Truce?” the king says in a gruff tone, and when I don’t immediately answer, my surprise evident, he continues. “I know you have no reason to trust me. But I cannot in good conscience send you back to Oryndhr without understanding what those cuffs mean for you. If they have been placed with your consent, that is a different matter. But if they haven’t, then you could be in danger.”
“How do I know that I’m not in danger here?”
A strange conflict rages on his face. For an instant, his black eyes glimmer gold before returning to their usual color. “You have my word that you will be safe,” he growls, as though his tongue is crowded by a mouthful of teeth. The sound of it doesn’t scare me, however. Oddly, it resonates with protectiveness... and a hint of need, surprisingly.
Is it similar to what I’d felt earlier? He looks as though he wants to grab me, throw me over his shoulder, and do wicked things to me, but then he turns on his heel and strides out of my room, muttering under his breath. By the gods, he’s so temperamental. Benign one moment, brutish the next. I frown, uncertain of whether to follow him.
“Suraya, I don’t have all day.”
I roll my eyes, but my feet move almost of their own volition, chasing his footsteps down the corridor. “How do you know my name?”
“I know everyone in my kingdom.” He glances over his shoulder, and I inhale a sharp breath at the utter perfection of his profile. My pulse trips. Sands, if he weren’t so surly, I’d be in a world of trouble.
I follow him down another hallway to a set of marble stairs that lead to a carpeted floor that feels like walking on a cloud. Another marble staircase takes us to the ground floor, more sparsely decorated but no less lavish. The furniture is polished to a shine; the mirrors lining the corridor are spotless. Golden sconces light our way, revealing massive, gilded paintings of bucolic scenes, stunning in both their size and their artistry. There are soaring azdahas and other magical creatures I’ve never seen depicted in them. I want to linger and study each of them, but the king keeps marching forward until we reach two massive doors leading outside.
At his punishing pace, we reach the training grounds quickly, with me practically running every few feet to keep up with him. We stop near a sweeping row of weapons racks; I’m trying to catch my breath when he throws me a sword. I fling my hand out, barely grabbing it before it impales me. I scowl at him, but he ignores it, pointing to a big man standing nearby. “This is Maxur, one of my generals. He will assess your skills.”
I swing the sword around to point at him and arch my eyebrow. “Afraid to test me yourself, Your Majesty?”
He steps out of the way as another blade—presumably Maxur’s—crashes down on mine, and I instantly parry as if I’ve known how to counter an attack all my life. I blink in shock, but am forced to defend another set of brutal thrusts in quick succession. Somehow, my body knows exactly what to do, steel meeting steel in an effortless dance.
I’ve known the basics of blade wielding for a long time, ever since I began making them in the forge. But I’ve never fought with such skill... or deadly precision.
HaveI?
Without warning, more memories erupt. Dueling in a courtyard, a fierce grin on my opponent.Clem.Hours spent together, practicing with many different weapons. The man called Aran appears again, this time interspersed with more of those silvery, iridescent ribbons shooting frommyfingers... likemagic.
Disoriented, I falter on my feet. The distraction costs me as a searing pain runs across my hand, the tip of a very real blade catching me unawares, and I let out a choked scream. Blood wells and pools as my weapon drops to the ground from my slackened grip.
A terrifying growl rips through the air.
“It was my fault, Sire,” Maxur yells out. “She stopped when I expected her to move.”
Suddenly, my body goes hot all over and the runes on my cuffs burst into crimson light. Warmth floods my veins, and the throbbing pain from the cut is... gone. That’s odd. Or maybe I’m in shock. From past experience of falling down a jadu mine shaft as a child, I know it can do that... make pain temporarily disappear.
“Show me,” the king demands, crowding my space.
I scowl at his tone and cradle my fist to my chest. “So you can make it worse? No.”
“It’s already healed,” he says. “Look.”
“No, it’s not, you fool,” I snap, hearing Maxur smother a sound of amusement. “I need a healer.”
“Suraya, look, please.”
It’s the lowpleasethat does me in. Gingerly, I wipe the tacky blood off on my leathers and I stare at my hand. And stare some more.
There isn’t a single laceration on my skin. There’s no slice, no gash, no evidence that I was injured at all. My palm is unusually warm with a faint shimmer that fades quickly... but the flesh is unbroken and perfectly healthy.
“Impossible,” I whisper.
My stomach roils the more I gawk at my blood-streaked and yet completely unscarred hand. I know what I saw, the pain I felt. I send a panicked stare to the hulking men at my sides. “Why are you both staring at me? I just hallucinated this wound healing itself. I’m serious! I am sick, and I need a starsdamned healer.”
The bastard of a king rolls his eyes before walking away, saying over his shoulder, “You’re not sick and you don’t need a healer. You’ve already healed yourself, because you have akasha in your blood. Now pick up your sword. Training’s not over.”
Mulishly, I open my mouth to retort, but then snap it shut. Is this why I healed so swiftly after the crash?
“I wonder if Ani will know anything about this,” I say aloud, bending to retrieve my fallen weapon.
