Page 94 of Taste of Thorns
“Oh, Beau, you truly think that? How damn flattering!”
She yanks her arm away, making a show of examining her skin. “A bruise from you is like a love letter,” she says.
“Are we doing this or not?” I snap.
She gestures for me to continue and we weave our way through the Palace complex, deeper into the heart of the inner sanctum.
There are more guards here and, though they don't say anything, my appearance is noted. I’m sure it will be reported to the Empress.
The door we want is guarded by two heavily armed guards and I have to give the required password before they unlock the door, reverse the protection spells, and let us through. The room is windowless and heavily fortified and candles flicker into life above us as we enter, casting a gloomy light over the contents of the room.
This was always our favorite place to come as kids. When we were allowed. Henny especially could while away hours in here, poring over, touching, and simply staring at all the oldassembled weapons. But only I’m the one with permission to enter. Without me, she can’t get in. And I bet she misses it.
Her eyes positively gleam and she bounces up on her toes, clapping her hands together.
For a moment, the mad woman she is disappears and the excitable girl I used to know appears. Although, maybe she was always crazy. Her love for old weapons and torture devices should probably have been a sign.
“I missed this,” she whispers, darting to her old favorite. The giant two-bladed battle axe mounted on the wall. The legend goes that the Emperor Edgar severed the heads of several battle dragons with this axe. There’s a chip on one of the blades and as kids we spent hours debating what must have caused it.
Henny runs her finger over the still-sharp blade, her face reflected in the polished metal.
I turn my back on her and stroll over to the far wall, to the weapons that always fascinated me: the swords of the old Emperors and Empresses. There are three that hang together, each made of a metal that is said to kill a demon on impact. They vary in size and design, but my favorite is the last. Unlike the others, it’s plain; its silver handle not encrusted with jewels but engraved with the picture of a dragon, curling around the hilt. The Empress herself has used this sword in more recent battles against the demons – although that was when I was younger and the Empress still fought. I’ve never seen her fight myself. Nor have I seen this sword used in battle.
As I stand there staring at it, soaking it in like the face of an old friend, I feel it pull at me.
I blink, rub my fists into my eyes. I’m imagining it.
However, the sensation remains undeniably in my gut.
I lift the sword from its mount and hold it in my hands like a child and not like a weapon. The metal is hot to the touch, not cold as I imagined, and I swear I hear it singing in my ears.
I twist my head to search for Henny in the gloom and find her swinging a pair of nunchucks around her head. “Do you hear that?”
She cocks her head to one side. “Hear what?”
“Never mind,” I say, shaking my head. “I thought I heard something, that’s all.”
I return my gaze down to the weapon.
“That’s not how you hold a sword, Beaufort,” Henny says with sarcasm as she comes to stand next to me, the nunchucks still in her hand.
“I know,” I say, taking a grip of the hilt with both hands and holding the sword properly. It’s much lighter than it seemed and my hands wrap around the handle as if it were made for me. I swing it around in front of me and it cuts through the air like shadow magic, hissing as it does.
“Thunderstrike,” Henny says, her tongue caressing the sword’s name, her eyes suddenly greedy. “It’s powerful.” She watches as I swing it through the air again. “It was made for you, Beau.”
Her words bring me back to my senses. I lower the sword reluctantly. It isn’t mine and I have no right to handle it, even if it seems to whisper to me, tempting me to take it away. I resist that urge and hang it back on its mount.
“Yes, it is powerful. But it isn’t mine.”
Henny studies it. “Yet,” she says.
I snap around in her direction. “Put those back,” I say, pointing to the weapons in her hands.
“That’s no fun.”
“They’re not toys.”
“Aren’t they?” she says.
