“Drop both blades,” Ahgony barked.
Without missing a beat, he threw them away, confronting his opponent barehanded.
Tohrture came at him holding nothing back, neither speed nor strength, and Wrath became very still. At the last second, as the Brother’s war cry was sounded out and echoed in the torchlit cave, Wrath flattened to the ground and caught the fighter at the ankles with an explosive lunge.
Tohrture fell forward—and as Wrath had learned, the last thing you wanted was a Brother with a sword in his hands on top of you. Scrambling himself out of the way, he jumped back to his feet. This was critical. Always back to your feet.
Tohrture was the same, upright a moment later, sword held high, eyes level. Both of them were breathing hard, and now, after how many fortnights into training, Wrath wasn’t the only one with bruises.
The sword made a throaty whistle as Tohrture began to twirl it front to back on both sides of his massive upper body.
Wrath wasn’t even aware of the assessments he was making—where the weight of his opponent was apportioned, where those eyes were looking, how the small muscle groups were contracting. But it was all part of his training, things that had once seemed foreign and were becoming second nature—
From out of nowhere, he was attacked from the back, an enormous weight taking him down to the floor. Before he could draw air, he was flipped over and held by the throat as a spiked glove made a fist.
Crack!
The impact stunned him senseless, his arms flopping to the packed-dirt floor.
“Call!” Ahgony yelled out.
Instantly, the weight was off him, Night jumping back out of the way, his face showing concern the now, not aggression.
Wrath forced himself to roll over and brace his upper body off the ground. Struggling to breathe through his bleeding mouth, he let the sanguinary rush clear out onto the dirt flooring with gravity’s aid.
The pain had flared red-hot in his face, and as he waited for it to fade, he remembered back in the beginning of all this—how the sensation of injury had once flustered him, scared him, distracted him. No more of that. Now he knew the pattern of relief: how the numbness would inevitably come, how soon enough his mind would clear and he would be back on his feet.
Drop. Drop. Drop.
His blood was bright red as it formed a widening puddle under his face.
“That’s enough for tonight,” Ahgony announced. “Fine effort, sire.”
Wrath pushed himself up upon his knees so his torso was upright. He knew better than to attempt to stand yet. His skull was too light for that. Wait … wait …
“Here, sire, allow me,” Night said, offering his palm.
“Shall we call for the healer?” someone said.
Wrath closed his eyes and felt his body caving in. But then he pictured his beloved shellan, lying on their bedding platform, her skin the color of clouds.
Standing up on his own, he spit the remaining blood out of his mouth. “Again,” he told the assembled. “We do it … again.”
There was a beat of pause, the torchlight flickering over the other males in the secret training cave.
And then the Brothers bowed unto him in a way he had noticed they had recently started doing—not courtly, no, as it was not when greeting and leaving, as was aristocratic custom.
This was with respect.
“As you wish, my lord,” Ahgony said. Before shouting once again, “Call!”
SIXTY-EIGHT
“Wither goest thou?”
Abalone paused in the process of pulling on his coat. Closing his eyes, he composed his expression before he turned around and faced his daughter.
“Nowhere, my darling.” He smiled. “Are you proceeding about your lessons—”
“Why this letter?” She tapped the opened envelope in her palm. “Where are you going.”
He thought of the proclamation that hung above the fireplace. The one that bore his father’s name. And then worried over what she held in her delicate hand.
“I was summoned unto the King,” he said tightly. “I must obey.”
His daughter paled, crossing her arms around herself. “Are you coming back.”
“I do not know.” Walking over, he reached out and pulled her close. “That is up to his majesty…”
“Do not go!”
“You shall be provided for.” Assuming the assets once given to his father by the current King’s sire remained hers. But even then, he had hidden much in secret places. “Fedricah knows all and shall care for you.” He stepped back. “I cannot shame our bloodline. Your future depends upon this.”
If he did not make good on his cowardly action, he knew she could be next. And that he would not abide.
“Be well,” he told her in a shaken voice.
“Father!” she screamed as he turned and headed to the door.
Nodding at the butler, he couldn’t watch as the doggen stepped in and held his daughter back.
Outside, he could still hear his beloved young yelling his name and wailing. And it was a while before he was able to summon the concentration to dematerialize—although eventually, it happened.
Proceeding unto the address that had been given to him, he re-formed in front of …
Well, if this was where he was to be executed, it was an elegant enough place to lose one’s life. The mansion was in the very best part of Caldwell, a Federal beauty with light glowing out of all of its windows and a cheerful lantern hanging in front of a beckoning entrance.
He could see figures moving inside. Large ones.
With fear tightening his throat and weakening his knees, he walked up to the front door. There was a button for chiming by the brass door handle, and as soon as he hit it, the broad portal was opened wide.
“Hi! You must be Abalone?”
All he could do was blink. The brunette in front of him was wearing loose clothes, her hair curling at the ends, her bright, blue eyes friendly and attentive.
“I’m Beth.” She stuck her hand out. “I’m really happy you came.”
He looked down at her hand and frowned. Was that … the Saturnine Ruby on her finger? Dearest Virgin Scribe, this was the— Abalone fell to his knees before her, bowing his head nearly to the polished floor. “Your Highness, I am not worthy of—”