Page 37 of Of Kings and Thieves

I’d noticed the Deviant didn’t say much that wasn’t serious. He was more stoic than Col and Magnus, and I wondered what he was thinking about all the time. If at one time I had thought Col was brooding, he had nothing on Killian.

I knew it took years of study to become a Deviant, but Killian looked like a man in his prime, not much older than Col or Magnus. I wondered if that was a trick of magic, or if he had been an exceptional case.

How old is Killian? I asked Col.

Thirty-four or so. Why?

He seems young to be as powerful as he is.

The Deviants trained in the mage training grounds near Arcanfell, far away on the other side of Harrowfell to the east. To survive the training—indeed, to even get there—required skill and cunning that few people possessed. Or so I had heard. I wondered how much of it was true.

I think Killian began his training early, Col said after a bit.

How old are you? I asked, realizing I didn’t know. I had assumed late twenties, but he had those lines around his eyes that made him look older.

Thirty.

I looked back at him in feigned shock. He had taken a break from riding and was leading his horse.

What? he asked with a smirk.

I just didn’t think you were so old.

Yes, I’m ancient, as evidenced by my aching back and bad knees.

I smiled at him and then turned back to watch the road. You don’t have bad knees.

Will you still like me when I do?

I always will, I said to myself, but he must have heard my thought because our bond thrummed with warmth. How old is Magnus?

Just a year younger than me, I think.

I patted Sprite’s neck as she took me through a particularly narrow gap between towering stones. My knees barely escaped being banged against the rock. All the men were leading their horses now. You’re supposed to know the age of your best friends.

I’ve been a bit preoccupied, Col said. I’ll apologize to them as soon as we stop.

I snorted with laughter.

There wasn’t much to do other than think, and beyond occasional conversations with Col, my thoughts drifted to the previous night. Not just because of the aggravation that riding caused my lady parts, but because reliving my time with him was a pleasant way to pass an otherwise boring day wandering over rock and stone. And I wanted to think about him, rather than examine the yawning abyss of darkness in my heart. So I passed the day fantasizing about Col and looking forward to the training he’d promised tonight.

* * *

“I’m ready,” I said, gripping my sword tightly, eager to prove I could be more than just a half-breed siren. That I could earn my place among these warriors.

Or at least, that I could protect myself so they didn’t have to. I didn’t want to be a burden.

The stars twinkled above our makeshift campsite, set in a small clearing surrounded by towering trees. A fire crackled as Magnus poked at it, the flames casting dancing shadows on his scarred and tattooed body. Satisfied with the fire, he began to sharpen his ax with a whetstone, the sound of metal scraping against stone serving as a steady rhythm to our evening. Killian, ever the enigma, sat with his staff, silver mask resting near his leg, a silent observer.

Col stood facing me, no shirt even in the cold night air, Bloodsong resting lightly in his grip.

“Let’s start with the basic sword stances we’ve practiced,” Col said, pointing his sword at my feet.

I nodded and took my position, trying to remember all the advice he had given me. Thanks to Col’s previous “lesson” with a sword on my backside, I had no problem remembering how to pivot out of the way.

I eyed the flat of his blade, and he grinned. “Afraid, my little siren?”

“No,” I blurted, acutely aware of Magnus and Killian’s presence. My muscles tensed as I prepared for the impending strike.

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