Page 8 of A Court of Masks and Roses
I step back and scowl. “You think this is funny?”
“You living and training with a herd of boys? Not at all.” Leaf’s round hazel eyes strain with the effort of holding back laughter. After the strict distance the scouts kept at the estate, the close living quarters of the keepwilltake a bit of getting used to. Leaf pulls on her lip thoughtfully. “Do you think they walk about the barracks naked? More to the point, can you betrusted to live amongst real humans without going feral and biting someone?”
I check the straps on my throwing knives and pull my jacket sleeve over them. “Not worried about it. Just focus on keeping up Lady Lianna’s facade while I’m gone. She’s a sickly, frail girl who must rest in her rooms, but for the occasional foray into society.”
“And she studies botany,” Leaf adds.
My head snaps to her. “She what?”
“Studies botany,” Leaf says nonchalantly as she stuffs some fruit into Kal’s sack. “That’s why I am having a few things I can repurpose for my research brought to the room. I’ll instruct you on what Lianna finds.”
“Would this be the end-the-Drought research, the soil-fertility research, the Kali-magic-connection research, or the general furthering of study in the arena of living stones?” I ask innocently.
Leaf frowns. “All of the above. But they’re not nearly as distinct as you make it sound.”
“Fine. Just make sure there are no wasps taking up residence in Lianna’s plants.” I wave my hand and holster my sword at my waist. I prefer distance weapons, but guards all carry swords. Leaf’s mouth twitches. “Stars, Leaf, what is so amusing?”
“You. Going to a training hall like a little untried boy. I’m imagining their faces when you knock the lot of them on their rears.”
Rolling my eyes at her, I pull back the rug closest to the fireplace and run my fingers along the floor until I feel the latch. A trapdoor leading to the underground passages that Firehorn described clicks open silently. “I’ll see you later,” I tell my sister by way of farewell, and I climb down the ladder into the musky catacomb. The scents of stone, dust, and mold hitmy nose, but despite their staleness, the passages are tall and wide enough for two people to walk abreast. The catacombs have the phantom feel of a space once used but long abandoned and forgotten by all but the dead.
Another trapdoor releases me into the West Wood, at the bottom of a hill overlooking the keep. Despite what I said to Leaf, my heart races as I crest the hill and survey my battlefield. On my left, tucked into the corner of the North and West Woods, the castle rises proudly toward the sky. On my right, past the keep grounds, the city of Delta begins its busy sprawl. And in the valley directly in front of me, the keep’s training grounds stretch out, with their graveled yards and buildings of old white stone. On the parade field, scarlet and blue flags fly alongside each other. The Order of the Goddess has certainly climbed the power ladder in the last decade, to have its Holy Guard share the king’s training space.
Compared to the misty, isolated grounds of Lord Gapral’s estate, the keep is living chaos. Young men prowl around the training grounds like drunken wolves, shoving and gesturing to each other crudely. I’m surprised they aren’t pissing on building corners to mark their territory. Or maybe that’s an after-feeding-time kind of activity. I haven’t taken a step among them yet, and I’m already feeling crowded.
Go,I order myself, forcing my body into motion. The din gets louder with each step, and soon I can smell the reek of sweat that clouds the keep like a blanket. Spotting a pair of boys walking in Holy Guard scarlet, I quicken my steps to come alongside them. Time to go to work. “Can you tell me where new trainees are to report?” I ask.
The holy guardsmen stop in unison. Posture rod-straight, they touch their fists to their hearts before the taller of the two looks from the blue diamond sigil on my uniform to my eyes. “To the Dark God’s underworld.”
“Good to know we all get along,” I say under my breath, ignoring their shoves as they move past me.
Down at the main courtyard, I find a jeering crowd of trainees watching four men with practice swords square off against each other. Three shirtless men—full guardsmen, judging by their ages—stand together, sweat running down the muscled grooves of their backs. The fully clothed fourth man, I recognize from my arrival.
Wearing a pale-blue shirt that clings with sweat to shifting muscles, Trace moves with lupine grace as he herds his opponents around the ring. Behind his dark eyes, the world shimmers with violence that sends a shiver through me. I wonder whether the maneverrelaxes.
The squat guard closest to Trace cuts his blade so fast that I cringe at the inevitable crack of Trace’s collarbone.
Trace spins smoothly, his silver-blond hair streaming behind him, and parries the blow before it touches flesh. The clap of wood on wood is loud as thunder, and the guard who made the attack stumbles from the impact.
Trace seizes the moment to dip the point of his sword toward the man’s sternum and lunges in.
The bare-chested guardsman gasps, bending double over his abdomen. Trace grabs the back of the man’s head and shoves him face first into the sand. A heartbeat later, a second guardsman falls to Trace’s foot sweep, slapping the ground with his palms to dispel the impact of the fall. Trace finds the fallen man’s eyes and the two exchange quick nods before Trace steps away to square off against the last man left standing, this one with mussed red hair and a fox-like grin. They circle each other, Trace sparing a moment to brush sweat off his forehead. His movements are unlike the other guards’. Unlike anything I’ve seen while training with Lord Gapral. Wherever Trace trained, it wasn’t in Dansil.
Tucking that thought away, I turn my back to the fray, find the guard master’s door in the larger of the four buildings surrounding the central training field, and let myself inside. The man grunts in annoyance at my appearance in his dusty study.
“Your tuition buys your useless carcass a space in the keep,” the guard master growls at me, shoving a key and a paper for me to sign in front of my nose. “Whether you spend your time training or scrubbing latrine troughs with your bare hands is entirely up to you. The rules are simple. One: You will train with the other diamond boys until one of the full guardsmen condescends to sponsor you, and then you will train with him. As that is as likely as you shitting flowers, you should get used to the sound of my voice. Two: Get caught fighting with any roses—the holy guardsmen—and you answer to me. Three: Bring a female into my keep, and you’ll regret your own birth. Finally, the armory and black powder are off limits. I guarantee that whatever idiotic idea you have for explosives will leave you missing limbs. Any questions?”
I shake my head mutely. The guard master indulges in several wet coughs before standing up and lumbering to the door. “Luca! Get your hide in here.” For a man who seemed too occupied to breathe properly a moment ago, the guard master has a voice loud enough to summon the dead.
A few moments later, the red-haired guardsman that I last saw circling the sparring ring with Trace sticks his head into the room, assesses the situation, and crooks one finger at me. By the time I’m outside, he’s busy using his shirt to wipe sweat off a very clearly defined abdomen.
“Pleasant, isn’t he?” Luca says, jerking his chin at the guard master’s closed door.
I hesitate a heartbeat, giving Luca a chance to clothe himself—only to realize the man has no intention of doing so,being fully content to walk around shirtless and glistening with sweat. About the same age as Trace, maybe twenty years old, Luca is tall and leanly muscled, with the aura of an easily amused, overgrown puppy. His auburn bangs are long enough to cover his right eye and too short to stay tucked behind an ear, despite his ongoing attempts to make them do so.
Giving up the hair battle, Luca motions for me to follow him to the barracks. “I’m Luca, as I imagine you’ve put together by now. One of the guards on the king’s personal detail.”
The king’s personal detail? The puppy must have more teeth than he shows. I grunt in a manly way. “Kal Cassidy.”
