He can’t avoid the foot sweeping past his ankle, or the numbing blow to his wrist. Steel clatters to the floor when Karis loses his grip on the sword, and a final training ground lesson kicks in: rolling up as he falls backwards, so he doesn’t hit his head.
His back meets the ground with a slap that knocks the breath from him.
After the burst of movement, the sudden stillness is dizzying. Leth kneels over him, gloved hand at his neck, for a perfect slow count of three, just like Karis and his fellow squires were taught.
“Yield,” Karis gasps.
Leth stands up and backs away.
Light applause sounds from the sofa, and a hand appears in Karis’s vision. He grabs it to rise up, and registers only when he’s already on his feet that this isn’t Leth helping him up, but Ronan. Heat seals their bare hands together, and Karis’s heart is racing by the time they part.
“That was excellent!” Dansa says from the sofa. She isn’t talking to Leth; she’s talking to Karis, the one who just took a direct route to the floor.
“My ego isn’tthatsensitive,” Karis says helplessly. Sure, it stings a little. But the praise only makes it worse. He’d rather just have a minute to nurse his bruised pride, and not have to banter about it. “You don’t have to flatter me when I lose that badly.”
Coira waves dismissively. “None of us can beat Leth in a sword fight. You lasted an entire minute, that’s pretty fucking good.”
Leth, entirely unruffled from the fight, opens his mouth like he’s about to say something. Before he can, Evain chimes in, “Are you feeling all right, Leth? Such a long fight must have tired you out.”
Expressionless, Leth turns to Ronan. “Where are we meeting, sir?”
“Downstairs. Actually…” Ronan glances at Karis. “Kitchen.”
“I’ll get the maps,” Dansa says.
Everyone disperses in various directions, except for Karis, unsure what he should be doing, and Ronan, who lingers beside him. When everyone else is in motion, Ronan puts a hand on his shoulder and leans into his ear.
“You really did well,” he murmurs.
The touch lingers, and the words melt into the depths of Karis’s veins. Suddenly, the loss doesn’t sting at all.
?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
RONAN
“We’re going to run two simultaneous operations.” Ronan gestures at the map of Charain. “Fort Tarhaeg and Melody.”
The kitchen table’s been cleared of dishes, laden instead with maps and a few books. There aren’t enough chairs for everyone, and Coira and Evain lean against the counter behind Melanne. Dansa sits across from Ronan at the other end of the table, with a pen and a well-worn leather notebook. Leth is between her and Karis, more distant and collected than Ronan’s ever seen him—and that’s saying something.
Karis grabbed the chair directly to Ronan’s left, and Ronan is constantly aware of his presence. He’s quiet now, listening, all of his bratty attitude gone. The intensity in his eyes is far worse for Ronan’s composure than any strip show or drunken kiss. When he’s serious like this, his smooth brow furrowed and his hands folded on the table, Ronan realizes with a lurch that he’snota kid. Maybe first impressions have colored Ronan’s perspective for too long.
“Do we need a full operation in Melody?” Melanne asks. “If we get the right rumors to the right people, we can still make them think we’re heading for the flute, without risking manpower on a feint.”
Ronan cuts off his musing and returns to the meeting at hand. “We don’t have enough of the right people. Leth is our only connection to the army, and we need him to get into Tarhaeg. He knows the entire layout, and he’s confirmed where they’re keeping the Dravansword.”
Coira sips from a mug that may or may not have wine. “Any new books, Leth?”
The sword-witch has a habit of stealing books from his family’s library whenever he visits Fort Tarhaeg. Grimoires and strategy guides. He redesigned the base’s ward spells based on one of his borrows.
“Just one this time,” Leth says. “A journal belonging to one of my illustrious forebears. It could be very interesting, or very dull. I won’t find out which for a while—it’s written in Tariel code, and I’m a little slow at reading that.”
Karis taps the table, getting their attention. “What was that about a feint?”
His shirtsleeve has ridden up on his wrist. Ronan counts freckles as Dansa answers, “The Songbird’s Flute that the high bards have is a fake. We already have the real one.”
Karis blinks. “You stole it already? Wouldn’t the high bards know the difference?”
