Page 25 of Tasteful Anarchy and Tangled Auras
I hand it to him hilt-first. It’s a small double-edged blade, short enough that I can just wear it on a forearm sheath. “My mother always called it a short sword. It was hers.” There’s no pommel or cross guard on the hilt—again, to accommodate wearing it on a smaller arm.
Bryn inspects its blade, then its balance. “A selkie with a sword? I thought they were peaceful.”
I shrug. “Not one who was half human and worked in the Dark Court.”
He tosses the sword in the air, catching it by the hilt. His eyes stay on the blade. “You don’t ever speak of her. What did she do to get sent to the Dark Court?”
I shrug again. “You know, the usual. Killed someone.” I try for flippant, but I’m afraid my voice is tight.
Bryn takes my blade by the tip and chucks it at me. I yelp but dive out of the way, somehow managing a graceful roll. I glare at him from the floor. “You could have actually gotten me, you know!”
“I needed to see how fast you are.”
I feel my anger rise. He turns around and walks to the racks. I follow, trying to come up with something to say about how this is not a good use of our time, but he spins and throws something at me. I catch it with both hands.
“How are you with a staff?”
I give it a few spins to show that I’m not uneducated. I’m proud I don’t drop it. My kendo sensei in Boston would be proud too. My staff skills are fairly recently acquired. Bryn raises hiseyebrows, then stalks to me and takes it. “Can you handle a blade larger than your knife?”
“At the very least, it’s a dagger,” I respond, slightly insulted. “And no.”
He eyes me for a moment. “It’s probably best not to try and introduce a new weapon,” he says and unsheathes his sword. “We’ll work on technique with your dagger and the staff.”
It’s a real sword, and it’s beautifully crafted. I swallow. I don’t really carry a blade to get into sword fights. I carry it to save my life, and it has. It’s been years since someone has tried to kill me, but it’s happened more than once. After a wound I landed on someone left an obscenely large puddle of blood near Grandmother’s throne, she had a bit of a fit, and the attempts ended. But I wouldn’t be surprised if they started again.
I hold out my blade as I was taught and try to breathe evenly. No worries, no worries. It’s not like he’s a trained soldier or anything.
Since our slightly disastrous meeting with the heads of the EA, Bryn has told me a bit more of his position in the organization and how he got there. The fairly ignored youngest male child of a large family, he yearned for space and freedom, hating the kowtowing that happened at Court. So, as soon as he reached majority at thirty-five, he set out, wandering our native lands. He learned what he could forage; how to hunt, clean, and cook animals; how to create shelters and all sorts of huntsman-y things. When the war broke out, he was deep inside his own natural world, actually having met and befriended a bodach who was teaching him all he knew of wildcraft. And then, afterwards, when The Call went out from all the leaders of Fae, he and the bodach were snapped to their respective Courts for the resettling.
He lingered at court here in Maine for only as long as we were on strict lockdown, hating every moment of it. The fakefemales, the expectations of males, the decadence. When I was maybe fifteen, too young to remember him, he left Court and started traveling the US. But not in the way I travel the US. In the “exploring the wilds” kind of way. He was part of the beginning discussions of the EA, out in FEC3 in southern California, when the Berlin Wall fell. From the beginning, with his knowledge of the land and their massaging of his killing skills, he was tapped to become their captain.
His blade slams against mine. I barely get a two-handed block up in time. The reverberation jars my arms; I feel it in my bones. “Damn, dude. Can’t you take it easy on me?” I snap.
“Dude?Dude?” he says as he spins and lands another blow that I just manage to block. He chuckles. “Your human speak is precious,” he purrs. “I love it. And no, I cannot take it easy. I want you to be able to protect yourself.”
OVER AN HOUR LATERand my, well,everything, is jelly. I swear that if I ever escape Court, I will train more back in Boston. Bryn drilled me for a good half hour with my dagger; showing me parries, blocks, and ripostes. Then, when he walked away, I sat on the mats, wiping sweat from my face, only to be swatted on the back with a staff. When I informed Bryn that that would bruise, he said, “Good. Stay on your toes.” The fact that I didn’t strangle him is a true testament to my restraint and sweet demeanor. Thirty minutes of work with the staff, and I threw myself down flat on the mat, panting. Bryn took pity on me, I guess, and walked out, only to return to offer me his hand up and an orange juice. “Good job,” he says.
I won’t consider how much my spirit sails at that one small compliment.
Chapter 10
