‘With a great deal of effort,’ he responds, not even slightly out of breath. ‘I used to practise for hours every day with my crew. I’d switch hands too, so my opponent would never know which one was dominant.’
‘And which is?’ I ask, taking another swing.
Fox blocks it before my arm is fully extended. He grins as he tosses Soulkiller into the air with his right hand then catches it in his left. ‘Both.’
I flip my hair over my shoulder and concentrate, remembering what he taught me. Wherever he goes, I go. Whenever he moves, I move. Although Fox seems to be intent on driving me backwards. The soft mud stretching along the bank of the Creek proves slippery underfoot. I slide around in it, cursing, while he remains entirely centred.
‘Balance, Storm Weaver.’
‘I’mtrying.’
I swipe, he blocks. He feints left, I nearly lose a boot in the mud.
When I finally manage to right myself, he’s already closing in, his eyes glinting as brightly as the talisman round his neck. I tighten my grip on Silverclaw as he leans in close, then closer still – almost as if he’s going to whisper something, as if he’s going to …
I seize my chance. Drawing my arm back in one smooth arc, I lunge for him. Only Fox is quicker, darting out of reach, while the force of my swing is enough to throw me off balance. All I can do is gasp as I trip, slip, then topple backwards into the Creek.
Coldness closes over my head. For a moment I’m so shocked that I just allow myself to sink. Then I come to, kicking my legs and breaking the surface. Water sluices off my clothes as I heave myself up and on to dry land, dagger clamped in my fist.
Staggering up the muddy bank, I catch sight of Fox. He’s standing a few yards away, Soulkiller dangling loosely at his side, laughing so hard he’s doubled over.
‘You think this is funny?’ I growl, suddenly conscious of the way my wet shirt is clinging to every inch of me. I fold my arms across my chest in an effort to keep some dignity intact.
Fox only laughs harder.
Seething, I attempt to storm away, only my waterlogged boots sink further into the quagmire with every step. I glance down, then back at Fox, struck by an idea.
The clump of mud hits him square in the face, stunning him into silence. He even drops his dagger.
My methods may have been unconventional, but I’ve succeeded in disarming him. I watch him wipe away themud with his gloved hand, blinking it out of his eyes. He bends over to retrieve his knife, and for one foolish, fearful heartbeat, I wonder what he might do.
Then, to my surprise, he grins.
‘So, Storm Weaver,’ he says. ‘What is it you wish to know?’
22
Elva
Every evening this week Hal has called a meeting in the observatory, and much to my ongoing frustration, I’ve had very little to report. The Eyes certainly know how to be discreet.
Yet the revelation that my sister may be alive has only strengthened my resolve, and I’ve combed the palace from top to bottom trying to determine which members of the Imperial Court are loyal and which are treasonous. The dark circles beneath my eyes could almost rival Hal’s, though not quite. His health appears to have declined even further since his uncle announced his official bid for regency.
King Balen is playing a very clever game. For if he were to usurp the throne, the people would rally to Hal’s cause. But instead, by offering himself as regent, he is sending a clear message – that Hal is in need of one. Rumours continue to spread across the empire, calling Hal hesitant, soft, weak-willed, and as yet unwed. An alliance with Thaven is his best chance at victory, but King Merrick has made it plainthat he will withhold his support and his daughter until Hal proves himself the stronger ally. That’s part of the reason he decided to invite the Court of Flames to Cor Caval. Hal doesn’t care much for Ember Harglade, but, flanked by two members of his Council, he is presenting a united front.
The Ignitia Court’s arrival yesterday morning threw the palace into disarray. Matron was barking orders, arranging for chambers to be readied, food to be prepared, and bottles of wildfire wine to be fetched from the cellars. Much to everyone’s amusement, Ingra managed to swipe a couple when Matron wasn’t looking. Despite how occupied I’ve been lately, I haven’t failed to notice Ingra’s pattern of unexplained absences though whenever I ask her what she’s up to, she only asks me the same question, and of course, I can’t answer.
Tonight, Hal is throwing a banquet in Ember’s honour.
Elaith seems more subdued than usual as I help her dress. Perhaps it’s all the time she’s been forced to spend with Marina. The dislike between them is evident, though not as blatant as Marina’s contempt for me. Zephyr, meanwhile, seems to have mellowed. Several nights ago he winked playfully at me before flitting right in front of Elaith, causing her to jump about a foot in the air then burst into peals of tinkling laughter.
She’s not laughing now, though. Her expression is tense, and she keeps rubbing absent-mindedly at her wrists.
‘Is something wrong?’ I ask.
‘What?’ Her head snaps up. ‘Oh no. No, I’m fine.’ She peers at me in the mirror. ‘You look tired, Elva. Just because you’re now an Eye doesn’t mean you can’t shut yours.’
I manage a half-smile. ‘I’ll bear that in mind, my lady.’
