He smiled. Reaching out to her, he pulled her close against him. Katsa wrapped her arms around him, surprised, and tried to rub some warmth into his shivering shoulders and back. “That’s it, exactly,” Po said. “You must keep me warm.” She laughed and held him tighter.
Po said, “Let me tell you something that’s happened,” and she leaned back and looked into his face, because she heard something new in his voice.
“You know I’ve been fighting my Grace all these months,” he said, “trying to push it away. Trying to ignore most of what it shows me and concentrate on the little bit I need to know.”
“Yes.”
“Well, a few days ago in a fit of, well, self-pity, I stopped.”
“You stopped?”
“Fighting my Grace, I mean. I gave up, I let it all wash over me. And you know what happened?” He didn’t wait for her to guess. “When I stopped fighting all the things around me, all the things around me started to come together. All the activity, and the landscape, and the ground and the sky, and even people’s thoughts. Everything’s trying to form one picture. And I can feel my place in it like I couldn’t before. I mean, I’m still overwhelmed. But nothing like before.”
She bit her lip. “Po. I don’t understand.”
“It’s easy, Katsa. It’s as if when I open myself up to every perception, things create their own focus. I mean, think of us now, standing here. There’s a bird in the tree behind me, do you see it?”
Katsa looked over his shoulder. A bird sat on a branch, plucking at the feathers under its wing. “I see it.”
“Before, I would have tried to fight off my perception of the bird, so as to concentrate on the ground under my feet and you in my arms. But now I just let the bird, and everything else that’s irrelevant, wash over me; and the irrelevant things fade away a bit, naturally. So that you are all of my focus.”
Katsa was experiencing an odd sensation. It was as if a nagging ache had suddenly lifted and left her with a stunning absence of pain. It was relief and hope together. “Po. This is good.”
He sighed. “It’s a great comfort to be less dizzy.”
She hesitated, and then decided she might as well say it, seeing as he probably already knew it. “I think it’s time you started fighting again.”
He smiled slightly. “Oh? Is that what you think?”
She rose nobly to the defensive. “And why not? It’ll bring back your strength, improve your balance. Your brother makes a perfect opponent.”
He touched his forehead to hers. His voice was very quiet. “Calm yourself, wildcat. You’re the expert. If you think it’s time I started fighting, then I suppose it’s time I started fighting.”
He was smiling still, and Katsa couldn’t bear it, because it was the smallest and the saddest smile in all the world.
But as he raised his fingers to touch her face, she saw that he was wearing his ring.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
It became a kind of school. Katsa made up drills for Skye and Po that were first and foremost a challenge to Po’s strength. Skye was satisfied, for the drills favored him. Katsa was satisfied, for she could see Po’s progress. She set them always to wrestling, rarely to proper hand fighting, and reminded Po constantly, in his mind and out loud, to muscle rather than Grace his way out of every scrape.
Alongside the grappling brothers, Katsa taught Bitterblue to hold a sword, and then to block with one, and then to strike. Position and balance, strength and motion, speed. The child was as awkward at first with the sword as she had been with the knife, but she worked stubbornly, and like Po she made progress.
And Katsa’s school grew. The guards and messengers couldn’t resist the spectacle of the Lady Katsa teaching swordplay to their young queen, or the Lienid and his brother wrestling each other into the ground. They gathered round, asking this and that question about a drill she fabricated for the princes, or a trick she taught Bitterblue to compensate for the queen’s lack of size and strength. Before Katsa knew it she was teaching the trick to a pair of young soldiers from Monsea’s southern shore, and devising a drill to improve the opposite-hand swordplay of Bitterblue’s guards. Katsa enjoyed it thoroughly. It pleased her to watch her students grow stronger.
And Po did grow stronger. He continued to lose at wrestling, but each time his defeat took longer, and still longer.
His balance, his control, improved. The battles became increasingly amusing, partly because the brothers were so evenly matched and partly because as the snow melted the yard turned into a morass of mud. Of course they liked nothing better than to smear the mud in each other’s faces. If it weren’t for Po’s eyes, most days the brothers would have been indistinguishable.
———
The day came when one of the mud-covered princes pinned the other to the ground and shouted his victory and Katsa looked over to find that the brother on top was, for the first time, Po. He leaped to his feet, laughing, and shot a wicked grin at Katsa. He wiped mud from his face and crooked his finger at her. “Come here, wildcat. You’re next.”
Katsa leaned on her sword and laughed. “It took you half an hour to pin your brother, and you think you’re ready for me?”
“Come mud wrestle with me. I’ll flatten you like a spider.”
Katsa turned back to the exercise she was teaching Bitterblue. “When you can beat Skye easily, then I’ll mud wrestle with you.”
She spoke sternly, but she couldn’t hide from him her pleasure. Nor could he hide his own. He comforted his poor moaning brother, who recognized, from his vantage point on the ground, the beginning of the end.
———
Katsa found him changed as an opponent – less because of the sight he’d lost than because of the sensitivity he’d gained with his growing Grace. When they fought now he could sense not just her body and her intention but the force of her blows before they struck, the direction of her momentum. Her balance and imbalance, and how to capitalize on it. He was not back to full strength yet, and sometimes his own balance still tricked him. But there were times now when he caught her by surprise, something neither of them was used to.
He was going to be as good a fighter as he’d been before, if not better. And this was important. The fights made Po happy.
Bitterblue did not stay long past the start of spring. Skye followed her sometime thereafter, summoned by his father to Leck City to assist with the imminent coronation. And finally Katsa and Po made the journey themselves to the city that was soon to assume Bitterblue’s name. Po bore the traveling well, a bit like a child who’s never traveled before and finds every experience fascinating, if slightly overwhelming. And indeed, when it came to traveling with his new way of perceiving the world, Po was an infant.
In their room in Bitterblue’s castle, on the morning of the great event, Katsa suffered herself to put on a dress. Po, in the meantime, lay on the bed, grinning endlessly at the ceiling. “What are you grinning at?” Katsa demanded for the third or fourth time. “Is the ceiling about to cave in on my head or something? You look like we’re both on the verge of an enormous joke.”
“Katsa, only you would consider the collapse of the ceiling a good joke.”
There was a knock at the entrance to their room then, and Po actually began to giggle. “You’ve been in the cider,”
Katsa said accusingly as she went to the door. “You’re drunk.”
And then she swung the door open and almost sat down on the floor in astonishment, because before her in the hallway stood Raffin.
He was muddy and smelled like horses. “Did we get here in time for the food?” he asked. “The invitation said something about pie, and I’m starving.”
Katsa burst into laughter, and then into tears, and once she started hugging him she couldn’t stop. Behind Raffin stood Bann, and behind Bann stood Oll, and Katsa hugged them and cried over them as well. “You didn’t tell us you were coming,” she kept saying. “You didn’t tell us you were coming. No one ever even told me you were invited.”