Page 15 of A Court of Masks and Roses
“Halt.” Trace’s large, calloused palm braces the back of my head before my back hits the earth. “You already made your point yesterday. We meant to finish these before you came.”
I pull away from Trace and rise to my feet, an unsettling shiver running down my skin.
“To be clear,” Trace hefts his practice sword into his hand and motions for me to choose one off a nearby rack, brought out for morning training, “this arrangement isnota partnership. You will accompany Luca and me on select assignments with Prince William. I will be your trainer, your evaluator, and your commander. Understood?”
I nod mutely and move to select a wooden blade from the arsenal of offerings. I will always prefer my knives but canmanage a sword without stabbing my own foot. No one would expect much more from Kal, but having seen Trace spar, I little wish to make a fool of myself. My fingers trail the wood in search of something light, easy to handle, and—
I freeze mid-motion. There is someone behind me, reaching for me, for my back. My chest tightens, my fingers grasping the nearest blade. The sun, the fresh-cut grass, the green training grounds filled with uniformed boys, they all blur into a sudden nothing. My body uncoils like a whip, the blade an extension of my hips and arm. The wooden practice sword flies free of the rack, arcing and snapping down at my assailant.
Trace’s blade intercepts mine, stopping me a hair short of fracturing Luca’s wrist. The crack of wood on wood echoes through the yard, turning heads.
“Holy bloody stars, Kal.” Luca withdraws his hand slowly, his tawny eyes wide. “I was just going to wish you luck.”
“Don’t. Touch. Me.” The words escape before I can stop them, my chest heaving with my racing pulse. The confusion in Luca’s face demands an explanation, but the truth—that my upbringing wasn’t one where people patted shoulders for luck—would raise more questions than it satisfied. Hells.
I force a rueful half smile to my face, as if nothing of significance has happened. “Forgive me, Luca. My back is bothering me this morning.”
The two men exchange silent glances. Trace tilts his head.
Luca shrugs. “I’ve something to attend to,” he says, saluting us both with his practice blade before swaggering off to provoke a nearby guard into a sparring bout. If being assaulted and dismissed bothers Luca, the man lets none of it show as his natural grace morphs into a deadly dance of blades.
“You lied to him,” Trace says.
I turn, raising my palms in shameless innocence. I may owe Luca an apology, but Trace has nothing to do with this. “Not at all. My back hurts. Would you like to see the marks?”
Trace’s lips press together into a line. “No.”
I bring my blade to ready guard. “Then I’m at your command, sir.”
Trace obligingly salutes and swings his sword at my skull. I’ve seen enough of his fighting skills to know he could splatter my brains across the grass anytime he wishes, so the only reason I manage to block the assault is that he allows me to do so. I’ve enough wits to angle the blade, letting his attack slide off my parry instead of pitting my muscle against Trace’s. His next blow targets my sword arm. Then the right hip. The knees. A full circle around my body to probe my skill, which falls several measures below his and Luca’s but is at least more solid than what I note of the other trainees.
Trace nods and quickens the pace, the smell of fresh grass now giving way to salt and sweat. The tip of my blade ducks down to defend my legs. Right, left, right. My wrist protests the harsh angle that low parries require but moves in reflexive obedience to the attacks. My pulse and lungs quicken and steady, fueling my body, and I savor every caress of cool wind. Right. Left. High. Low. Step. Pivot. Lunge. Within a bell’s time, it’s hard to be angry or annoyed or do anything but justbe. The practice blades find a rhythm, beating like a metronome in a forever-even song of Trace’s choosing.
If this is what sword practice can be like, I understand why so many prefer the weapon.
Another bell. Another hour. My muscles burn; my shirt clings to my body. My breath comes in short bursts.
And of course, this is when Trace decides to speak. “Yesterday,” he feints a blow to my head, switches mid-arch,and slices at my left flank instead, “I was asking for nothing but the truth.”
I snort. “You knew the truth.” I block the left attack, but it’s a close call. “You were asking... that I turn in... someone else... to save my own hide.” The words come in hard-won bursts, and I’m unsure why I feel the need to justify myself to Trace at all. The hilt of my sword drops too far and Trace’s next blow cuts through the weakly posed blade.
He raps my side lightly, but my flesh is sore and I wince.
Hooking the underside of my wrist with his sword tip, Trace expertly guides my hand back into proper position. His eyes are distant and he says nothing while he repeats the attack I failed to parry earlier, his movements crisp and practiced. “How old are you?”
Almost eighteen. But Trace is asking Kal, not me. “Sixteen,” I pant between moves.
Trace’s hand tightens on his sword, the knuckles bone white, but he doesn’t speak.
“Would something be different . . . if I were fifteen . . . or seventeen?”
“No.” Trace pulls his next attack mid-blow and sheathes his blade. “That’s enough for today. You are free until tomorrow morning.”
I blink once, then brace my hands on my thighs, my mind scurrying to catch up with what just happened, what the importance of Kal’s age might be. I don’t ask. The less I talk, the less opportunity I have to say something stupid.
Reaching into a satchel on the ground, Trace tosses a tin into my hands.
I open the lid and take a careful sniff. The tang of willow bark, mixed with a few leaves I vaguely recognize, tickles my nose. An analgesic salve to soothe shallow cuts and deep bruises.
