1
FOR SOMEONE WHO hated fighting, Clare was getting pretty good at it. Sage now had to break a sweat to defeat her friend, which was impressive today, given how cold it was. The massive stone walls of Vinova, Demora’s outpost fortress, offered shelter from the winter winds that swept across the eastern plain but did little to hold in warmth. Repelling invasion and resisting siege had been first in the builders’ minds. Now that the southern nation of Casmun was opening diplomatic talks, it was the location that mattered for Sage’s position as ambassador. Self-defense was important for life in general, however, and so Sage insisted her best friend and companion train in combat.
Clare’s face contorted into a scowl of concentration as she gripped a lightweight sword in one gloved hand. Her eyes narrowed over the shield on her left arm, but that wasn’t what Sage was watching.
Beneath her knee-length skirt, Clare’s boots shifted in the dirt, and Sage unconsciously leaned to the right, bracing her own feet on the frozen ground, still waiting for the movement that would give her friend away. Rare was even the most seasoned warrior who could attack without some warning in body language. At not quite seventeen, Clare was nearly two years younger than Sage, and she’d begun her training only a few months ago.
It was a sharp, slight movement a split second before Clare lunged that gave her away, but it was enough. Sage met her on the left and blocked the swing with her shield before catching Clare’s sword with her own, lifting the blade up, around, and back down. The motion drew them up against each other as their hilts locked. This time Sage left herself open to a countermove.
“What are you forgetting?” she asked, bearing down until the tip of Clare’s sword touched the ground.
In response, Clare pivoted and rammed her shield into Sage’s exposed side.
Your shield is also a weapon.
Sage grinned as she fell back, but her friend didn’t smile as she jerked her head to toss her thick braid over her shoulder. Her brown eyes flashed in silent challenge, and her slight frame trembled with something other than cold. “You don’t have to keep telling me,” Clare spat.
She was angry now. Which meant things were about to get interesting.
Rage was useful in a fight—Sage knew that firsthand. It heightened the senses and brought strength and endurance, but she’d also experienced the recklessness that easily took over. Clare’s lack of control could force Sage to react in a way that might hurt one or both of them.
“Anytime now,” taunted Clare, her words muffled behind the shield.
Sage moved several careful steps to the right, forcing Clare to adjust her stance and give herself more time to think. What would Alex do?
The thought of him brought an involuntary smile to her lips. Last year Sage had lashed out in anger while sparring with Alex, and he’d disarmed her and smacked her rear end with the flat of his blade in a single move. Alex wouldn’t escalate this. He would stay methodical, meeting her at her level, never forcing her back too much but never conceding ground, either.
Clare was waiting for her to make a move. Sage shifted to walk to the left side, twisting her curved sword in a lazy arc, briefly reflecting a ray of sunlight that had escaped the blanket of clouds above.
Her friend didn’t take the bait. She was in control right now, but it wouldn’t take much to tip that balance.
Sage began running through a series of basic arcs, slices, and parries, stripping her movements of the personal style she’d developed over the last year and a half. She imagined herself as the clock in the chapel tower—gears and pendulums and arms rotating but anchored firmly from the center and therefore restricted and predictable. The only sound was their heavy breathing and the steady clash of metal on metal.
With only the slightest twitch in warning, Clare broke from the rhythm, countering a parry with a slash across Sage’s leg close enough to catch the fabric of her breeches. Clare’s eyes widened in shock, but Sage didn’t acknowledge it, refusing to leave enough time for fear to get ahold of either of them. Their sparring dropped all feel of formality and rote practice. Even if neither truly wanted to hurt the other, it suddenly felt real, and they danced around each other with intense concentration and vague smiles.
Sage pressed Clare hard, slowly draining the reservoir of rage. Her friend managed to hold her temper in check, and there were no damaging hits to either side other than a few earsplitting shrieks as swords grazed across shields.
After nearly twenty minutes, the fire was spent. Sage rested on a bale of hay outside the horse paddock, fiddling with the hole in her breeches. The cold had begun to make itself known again, starting with her nose. Next to her, Clare’s breath frosted in the air between them as she slowly came back down from the exertion. Every few seconds she cast a guilty look at Sage’s leg, but Sage studiously ignored her concern. She didn’t think the skin was cut, though it was hard to tell with gloves on. Either way, her friend shouldn’t feel bad about it.
“I think your clothes give you an advantage,” Sage said casually. “It’s harder to see what your upper legs are doing. Makes you less predictable.”
“Finally, something I have over you,” Clare said, pulling her skirt down as far as it would go. The hose she wore underneath was thick enough to hide the shape of her legs, but she was still self-conscious. There was no bitterness in her voice, though, only weariness, which was good.
Sage shivered and ran a hand over her head, pressing down the hair that had escaped the short horsetail in the back. She could tell by her shadow that she looked like a half-drowned cat. Clare’s mahogany braid was flawless, as usual. “We still have time for a bit of tashaivar,” Sage said, glancing at the angle of the sun.
Just then the chapel bell tolled, its pulses echoing off the bare stone of the fortress and its surrounding walls, declaring three hours past noon. Clare hopped up, energy restored. “No, we don’t.”
Sage groaned inwardly, but a deal was a deal—Clare submitted to Sage’s combat training and Sage took lessons from her friend in diplomacy. Besides, a hot bath was what she needed now. Cold had seeped into her toes, and the dampness under the Casmuni-styled clothing she wore for sparring chilled her skin. The loose breeches and jacket were meant for desert wear and dispersed body heat quickly. Though her teeth had begun to chatter, Sage volunteered to put Clare’s weapons away so her friend could clean up first.
Clare was done by the time Sage entered the dressing room connecting their suites. When they’d taken up residence at Vinova several months ago, Sage had worried at the cruelty of putting her friend in rooms meant for the wife of the ambassador stationed at the border stronghold. After all, Clare was supposed to marry the son of the previous ambassador, Lord Gramwell, who was expected to be an emissary in his own right someday. She’d spent nine months living with her betrothed’s family, preparing for the role.
It would never happen now.
A Kimisar arrow may have killed Lieutenant Lucas Gramwell, but Sage could never forget that he’d taken it in protection of her. Clare didn’t blame her, except perhaps in her worst moments, which—thankfully—were becoming more rare. And it wasn’t as though Sage had come through the battle unscathed. She and Clare spent many nights sleeping in the same bed, comforting each other through nightmares. Now they occurred maybe once a week, and more often it was Sage who woke screaming and thrashing.
Copyright © 2019 by Erin Beaty
