Page 121 of The Black Table
Gwenna sighs as the last of the sunlight fades behind the trees.
“Here.” I stand up, halfway crouch-walk over to where there’sa pile of good stones. “Take this. Chuck it in the water. You’ll feel better.”
She raises an eyebrow up at me, skeptical. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Come on.” I offer her a hand, which she takes. The brush of her fingers is electric.
“Like so.” I show her how to hook the rock in my index finger, snap my wrist back, and boom. It hits perfectly. Skips one, two, three across the surface. “You want a nice flat one,” I say, “like this.” I press it into her palm.
“All right.” Her brow knit in concentration, she shifts her weight back, withdraws her arm, and flings it wildly. It sinks like, well, like a stone.
I wince. “Yeah, you’re gonna need to practice. Gotta start somewhere.”
She licks her lips. Looks over at me. Well, up at me. Because as tall as she is, I’m still taller.
“Thanks, Kai.”
“Anytime,” I say.
“Thanks for…” Se blows out a hard breath, rolls her eyes, and blinks like she might cry again. “Not judging me about…my whole delusions of grandeur incident. Unlocking the secrets of the universe and all that. Being favored by God.” She laughs a shaky laugh. “I know that shit’s not real, for what it’s worth.”
The coldness returns to my blood.
“Yeah, no,” I say, not able to meet her eyes anymore. “You’re certifiable, Wednesday.” I flash her a grin, even though it pains me. “But that’s par for the course at Camlann House.”
She laughs again—soft, trusting.
Except now the sound hurts.
Makes me feel like a thief. Like a fucking liar.
Because that’s what I am.
Because she doesn’t know the truth.
THIRTY-THREE
GWENNA
Over the next thirty-six hours,I get the crash course in fencing I never thought I’d need.
Kai’s given me a drill down on all the different types of weapon: saber (his), epee (Callahan’s), and foil (Kingston’s).
Lanz has given me the rundown on the general shape of the meet—both what I already knew from watching one, and all the intricacies that happen offstage. And Callahan’s showed me the armories of the safety gear they wear, the jackets with metal thread to record touches, the knee-length trousers—“technically, they’re called knickers,” he says, a smile pulling at his lips—and, of course, the masks, covered in mesh and colored to match the Caliburn red.
“You look like beekeepers,” I say. “Besides, I thought you weren’t trying to hurt people, anyway? What happens if you just don’t wear the mask?”
Lanz and Callahan exchange a look.
“I’ll tell you what,” Kai says, grinning up at me from his crouch. “This.” He claps a hand over one eye and squints. “Remind you of anyone?”
Lanz gives me a tight smile. “That…doesn’t happen much anymore. In terms of injuries, modern fencing comes behind golf and synchronized swimming.”
Callahan lifts an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Not if you’re doing it right,” Kai grumbles.
In the late afternoon, it’s a dark, blue-purple kind of atmosphere, and the gym is packed. I don’t enter with the rest of the spectators this time, but with the team, sitting off to the side on one of the benches, as everyone around us buzzes with tense, excited energy.
