“It’s true,” Adena adds to Red, waving at Jeran to translate for her. “If you ever end up lost in the woods, this is the one you want with you. He could cook a meal out of twigs and make you crave it.”
Now Jeran is blushing and beaming at the same time. “Wild sugarweed. It’ll flavor anything, especially a good filet of white fish.”
Red glances down at them. The expression in his eyes is so searing that Adena’s hand rests back on her hilt again. The instinct that tickled the back of my mind at the arena flares up again now. What had the Federation been doing with him? What made him flee?
“No fish,” Red then says, his accent thick.
We all stare blankly at him.
“Well, we’re set,” Adena says. “He can say ‘no fish.’ We’ll all be chatting together in no time.”
“Here,” Jeran says to Red, cutting the other leg off the roasting bird and tossing it to him. “Try this instead.”
Red catches the leg, steps toward me, and takes a seat. He pushes the bowl of fish stew carefully away and bites into the meat. I watch him curiously as he eats. He stops only to pull a few strips off to lay them next to his mouse. I look on as it grabs the meat with its foot-paws and digs in.
Finally, Red holds up the leg bone and gives Jeran an approving nod. Jeran’s chest puffs up in pride.
“We’re at the warfront now,” Adena says as she studies Red. “You know anything about fighting?”
Jeran translates, and Red puts down the bone, eyes fixed on Adena as she talks.
“Yes,” he answers on his own.
Adena smiles a little at the way he enunciates the word. “What kind of fighting?”
He doesn’t answer, so I dust my hands of crumbs and stand up. My hand tightens around the hilt of one of my swords. I yank it out with a flourish—and the instant I do, I see Red tense, his body moving instinctively into what looks like a fighting position.
Adena notices too. “So youdohave some training,” she says.
“Decent training too,” Jeran adds, nodding at Red’s posture.
A warning buzzes in the back of my mind. We are skirting the edges now of who he must have been in the Federation, prodding at the mystery of the title they had given him.Skyhunter. What does a Skyhunter hunt?
I nod at him to get up. When he narrows his eyes at me, I hold my free hand open and give him what I hope is a trustworthy look. Then I pull out my second blade and toss it to him.
He catches it without hesitation, like it’s an instinct he’s been waiting to use. We all stare at him as he handles the first weapon he’s had while inside Mara. He turns the blade in his hand, as if he can’t quite believe I’ve given it to him, and then looks back up at me.
I get over my surprise quickly enough to lift my blade at him. “Practice,” I sign.
Even without Jeran translating, Red seems to understand. He lifts the sword too, the weight of it effortless in his hand, and touches the blade to mine.
I twist my sword suddenly, attempting to disarm him, but he anticipates my move and spins his blade out, tossing it to his other hand with ease. He steps toward me with the blade raised.
He stops the sword an inch from my chest. I sidestep and yank out a dagger, pointing both blades at him, and spin low, ready to catch him on his legs. But he anticipates that too, shifting out of the way and bringing one of his boots swiftly down on my dagger. He moves much faster than his height would suggest. It reminds me uncannily of the size and speed of Ghosts, and I find myself swinging out at him less in play now, and more in defense.
He dances with me, parrying in sync, seemingly as used to a blade as any soldier I’ve ever fought. The others have gone quiet now as theywatch us. Red is no Corian—we haven’t had years together to train, to match up our every move. Nor is his style at all like a Striker’s. He doesn’t move quietly in the same way we do, doesn’t test the sound that each of his steps makes. But he’s good—really good. Good enough that I think he might be toying with me, intentionally holding his true skill back.
I make a final move, arching back to twist my dagger toward his neck. He catches my hand by the wrist. His skin is as shockingly warm against mine as it had been in the prison, as if he were running a constant fever.
I know immediately that, if he wanted to, he could break my arm with a single snap—but his grip is gentle enough that I realize he’s only holding me in defense.
We stay still like that for a moment, our eyes locked, neither of us wanting to step down. From the corner of my eye, I can see Jeran’s shocked expression and Adena’s wary one. My cheeks flush in frustration at the strength of Red’s grip. I’ve fought many much larger than me—but his brawn feels less like a human’s and more like a steel vise. Why couldn’t I be fast enough to stop him? How can he move so quickly?
In Red’s eyes, I see a hint of the same amusement that had been on his face when his damn mouse scurried up my arm. Then he releases me and takes a step back, giving me a subtle bow of his head. My skin tingles where he’d held me, the warmth of him seeping into my bones. Is he mocking me now? He isn’t even trying.
Again, I find myself thinking about what must have been done to him in the Federation. What had they meant him to become, before he escaped?
It’s my last thought before the air splits with the wail of a battle horn.
