Page 74 of War

My mother’s books had most of the answers, I just had to get creative in how I applied them.

“So you’re self-taught,” War says. He looks impressed, and I’m uncomfortable at how good that makes me feel.

I nod.

“And your fighting skills? Also self-taught?”

I shake my head. “There were some older soldiers who taught me a few basic skills.” Soldiers like my mother. It used to be that most Israelis joined the army for at least two years. But by the time I was of age, there was a new political regime, one that didn’t believe in training women for war. So I had to work with what my mother had taught me, and what a few other, older Israelis were willing to teach.

“They taught you how to shoot a bow?” War says, incredulous.

“Well, no.Thatwas self-taught.” Before the Arrival, guns were the weapon of choice. It was only when firearms stopped working properly that bows and arrows, swords and daggers, maces and axes all came back into fashion. “Why do you want to know?” I ask, self-conscious.

“You are a curious creature, that is all.” He flashes me a sly smile. “A curious, dangerous creature.”

Chapter 20

By the thirdday, I’m moving up and about again. After another night of War’s warm hands on my skin, I feel nearly back to normal. There are still aches and pains—like if I twist my torso a certain way, my rib injuries flare to life—but if I tread carefully, I can pretend I’m healed.

Which is exactly what I do once I wake up and find War gone—undoubtedly off hacking away at more doomed people. I get up and move about the horseman’s tent, and I’m not going to lie, I snoop theshitout of the place.

I lift pillows and flip through the stack of books piled on a side table. I peer at oil lamps and open some of the horseman’s chests, disappointed when I end up staring down at weapons and more weapons.

Honestly, War’s innermost life is notthatintriguing. I was hoping to find that he secretly likes to cross dress or collects Russian nesting dolls or some other weird shit like that.

Instead, I find old maps with cities crossed out. I swallow when I see them.

I throw open the last of his chests, and I exhale when I see what’s inside.

His blood red armor sits at the bottom of it.

His sword, I notice, is absent.

I pull out a vambrace, turning the arm guard over in my hand. The leather is once again in pristine condition, despite the fact that I swear there were bloodstains on it yesterday. I guess at the end of the day, God washes away all sins.

Why isn’t War wearing his gear?

The answer comes a second too late.

“It’s light, isn’t it?”

I jolt at the sound of War’s voice. When I glance over my shoulder, he’s in the doorway of his tent, staring at me, his expression inscrutable.

God, how guilty I look, crouched in front of his chest, holding a piece of his armor.

“You don’t expect that from armor,” he says, heading towards me. “My brothers all wear metal armor, but on the battlefield metal is heavy and cumbersome.”

I set the arm guard back inside the chest and close it. Then I turn to face War. He wears a black shirt, the hilt of his sword peeking out from over his shoulder.

“What about that?” I ask, my chin jutting to his weapon. “Isn’t that … cumbersome?”

“Quite. But I’m fond of it.”

Behind him, the tent flaps rustle open, and a soldier walks in, carrying a tray of food and coffee. He sets the items down on the table, then leaves.

Once we’re alone again, War walks over to the table and pulls out a chair for me.

“Who taught you to offer a woman a seat?” I ask, following him over. I sit down, my eyes on the table setting.

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