Page 122 of The Black Table
When I’m not carrying in bags, surprisingly light for all the metal inside, I’m scanning the stands for Morgan. Finally, I see her, smack in the middle, wearing a bright red sweater with a heart-shaped windowpane right above her boobs.
“Let’s go, Knights,” she cheers, using her hand as a megaphone.
I bite back a laugh. It’s funny to see her turn into a sudden sports enthusiast.
The only one I haven’t talked to, of course, is Kingston.
Emrys has given us another assignment, but ever since Kingston dismissed me summarily from class on Monday, we haven’t spoken more than two words to each other, which is impressive considering we live in the same houseandshare an intensive class together.
Maybe it’s for focus, I tell myself, same as last time. He can’t deal with anything schoolwork related until after we’re done, and that would make sense because tonight the banners hanging above are for Caliburn and a school I know only by reputation, the St. Ignaty Seminary.
“They’ve been here for over a week,” Callahan mutters. “Getting over the time change, or so they claim.”
“What, you think they’re spying on us?” Lanz says, smiling, as he buckles on his jacket.
“Yeah, like flying little Sputniks overhead or something?” Kaicracks his neck and traces an imaginary satellite path through the air. “Be for fucking real.” He jump squats and rolls his shoulders out. “I’m gonna turn them into goulash.”
“Goulash is Hungarian,” Callahan says. “Not Russian.”
Kai rolls his eyes. “What fucking ever.”
Amid all the chaos and their joking banter, my eyes drift to the other end of the bench, where Kingston sits, alone, straight backed, focused. His eyes are shut, his palms flat on his knees. And not for the first time, I wonder what it takes to be that dedicated to this sport or to anything.
I’m a passionate person, sure, and can arguably go overboard when I care about something, but not with any kind of regularity. Not with any system, not with a kind of unyielding dedication that neither rain nor sleet nor dark of night can shake me from. I love a good Latin translation, but I also love sleeping in on Saturdays, and maybe even cutting class on a warm spring day.
Kingston, though…
My train of thought is cut off by the announcement of the officials. We stand again for the usual ceremonies, the acknowledgements, the opening prayer, and then it’s the first round. Sabre.
I open up the case, but Kai beats me to it. He grins like a devil, rolling his lip ring between his teeth.
“Here we fucking go,” he says, and slips on his mask.
He strides onto the piste like he owns it, blade loose in his hand, easy, until the official calls for them to go en garde, and he’s all tense and taut, like a tiger waiting to pounce.
It’s a bloodbath. From the jump, his movements are aggressive, cutting fast. He wins decisively in what feels like no time, and the crowd roars. It feels different from this side, more energizing, more like, even though I had nothing to do with it, something I earned.
And for all I’ve been trying to shrink out of view, to keep to the side and not have anyone look at me, let alone notice I’mthere, I can’t help but sit up a little straighter when Kai swaggers back to our side.
“Nicely done,” Kingston says, the first words I’ve heard him utter all day.
He nods at Kai, who nods back, a rare show of brotherly détente.
“Thank you.”
Kai’s breathing heavy, but grinning like the cat that got the canary, and sits heavily at the end of the bench, swigging from a bottle of water.
“Give him hell out there, O’Brian.”
Callahan, of course, says nothing butthank youas he pulls on his own mask and takes the piste.
This time, it’s slower, more methodical. The St. Ignaty fencer is deft, with a good amount of flourish to his movements that seem to propel him rather than waste energy. And it takes Callahan a while to catch up.
They go touch for touch, until finally he finds his rhythm and racks them up three in a row, a little masterclass in control.
The second round of cheering is more invigorating than the first. I nudge to the edge of the bench and clap wildly, thrilled and proud for him as I was for Kai. Glowing when I see him slap Lanz’s hand as he pulls off his mask, their eyes locking for just a fraction of a second longer than they might otherwise. A little bit of a secret only I might know about.
And a strange feeling comes over me. Not a bad one, just…one I don’t know how to parse.
