Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 169943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 850(@200wpm)___ 680(@250wpm)___ 566(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 850(@200wpm)___ 680(@250wpm)___ 566(@300wpm)
“I suppose.” Her smile grows broader as she gazes up at me. “Have you ever found something you wished you could keep?”
You.
The foolish thought bubbles up and I push it away, because it’s likely moon-induced. Ours is a marriage of convenience, nothing more.
TWENTY-ONE
ASPETH
17 Days Before the Conquest Moon
When night four in the woods arrives and we’re still doing drills, I decide they’re doing this to torture us.
We go up the stream.
Down the stream.
Up the stream again, but this time tied in a different formation.
We go up and down the stream with weapons drawn.
Without a lantern. All of us carrying lanterns. All of us carrying lanterns with our pack weight doubled to simulate if we found a stash of treasures.
Not even a few stolen touches in the tent can make this any better. Not that there’s been many of those lately, either. After that first explosive interlude when Hawk made me come, I’ve been aching for him to touch me again. Aching.
Instead, we just talk.
And while I find talking to him joyous and incredibly satisfying—he’s as fixed on Old Prell as me in some ways—I wish he would touch me again. I think it’s my fault. I told him I wanted to get to know him during rest times in the tent, and I think he interpreted that to mean I didn’t want to be touched until we knew each other better.
Is it greedy to want both? I certainly don’t think so.
Magpie grows steadily more ornery as the nights pass as well. She doesn’t look so good. Her hands shake with tremors constantly and she sweats even when it’s cold. Her face is pale, her eyes are hollows, but she’s determined to keep us moving. She’s grumpy, too. She yells at us constantly to pick up our feet, or to move faster, or to swing a sword harder. To make a fire faster.
In short, she’s horrible.
Hawk isn’t much better. He doesn’t speak much outside of our rest times inside our tent, alone, and when he does, it’s to point out something our Five is doing wrong. That we’re going to fail if we keep going as we are. That we need to shape up, do better. We’re giving everything we’ve got and yet it’s still not good enough for him, or for Magpie.
* * *
“You’re using your eyes too much,” Hawk tells me, batting aside my attempts to stab with my training sword. “I can predict where you’re going with your weapon. Quit projecting.”
“I’m not projecting.”
At my next stab, he makes another growl of frustration and bats me aside again, as easily as batting away a fly. “Eyes.”
“What else am I supposed to do?” I sputter, even as I stab and feint again. My vision is blurry and I’m focused more on shapes and colors than actual objects, but I can’t let him know that. “They’re eyes! They’re meant for looking!”
“And in the tunnels, your lighting is going to be almost nothing. The shadows are going to trick your vision. You need to rely on your other senses when you fight, Aspeth, or we’re going to have to break out the mucking blindfolds again.”
I make a frustrated sound and stab again, just as he’s taught me.
Hawk parries me easily, and when I stab at him wildly a second time, he smacks my hand with his blocking staff.
Yelping, I drop my blade and bring the back of my hand to my mouth. My skin stings at the contact, but more than anything, I’m humiliated. I can’t tell him that I can’t see enough to follow his lessons other than the broad gestures. I can’t tell him that I’m doing good just to not run into walls. I have to pretend like I can see as well as anyone else. This is something I can’t master, and I can’t tell him that. “I need a moment.”
I walk away, sucking on the back of my hand, determined not to cry. Tears of frustration don’t solve anything. They won’t make me better at sword work. They won’t fix my vision. They won’t get me into the guild, so I need to channel that helpless anger into something else.
“Aspeth,” Hawk calls after me.
“I said I need a moment,” I call back, walking into the thick copse of trees. “Let me be and then I’ll come back to training.” I keep walking, and my frustration mounts when I can hear him crashing through the underbrush behind me. I hike a little faster, only for him to keep following me as if what I want doesn’t matter. It only adds to my bad mood, and by the time I hit a good spot to sit and relax, I turn and glare at the big bull-man who has followed me all this time. “What part of ‘I said I need a moment’ did you fail to understand?”