Silverlight (11 page)

S
ilverlight, Kymber’s lost sword, was short and
light as swords go. I hadn’t seen it in years, but I remembered it well.

The grip was carved from the thighbone of a
qhina, a flesh-eating creature halfway between a horse and a deer that had
thankfully gone extinct thousands of years prior. Their bones were white and
strong, highly prized, capable of taking a polish like no metal I’d ever seen.
In fact, a secondary black market for qhina bones had sprung up in Calari. I
often passed by fields full of people digging for them.

Silverlight’s guard and pommel were a carefully
controlled blend of Torani gold and rose plaorion. The result was an
unbreakable metal with a pale pink matte finish. Kymber’s father had offered to
have the oval scrolls adorning the guard embedded with precious gems, as many
were, but she’d refused. “It need not be fancy, Father. It just needs to be
sharp.”

No, she didn’t care for jewels, but she did ask
her father to have it engraved with a combined sigil. It was a complicated and
breathtaking dance of lines and curves: the crest of T’hath Academy mingled with
the ancient symbols of a bear claw for strength, the horns of a ram as a
reminder to stand firm against the enemy, and the casiss fish, the fastest and
most agile fish found in Calari’s rivers. 

The inscription at the blade’s tip was Kymber’s
own design, her personal sigil. It was a hawk firing an arrow. I never asked
what that one meant. She never told me.

Silverlight was one of the finest swords ever
crafted in Calari. With a barbed blade made of Jalarthian steel, how could it
be otherwise?

 I used to tease her that her sword was as
straight as her spine and as long as her arm, which made it sound impressive,
but the top of Kymber’s head barely came to my breastbone. Her arm length was
proportional to her height. 

The look on her face made my heart sing. She
hadn’t expected  the grip to fit so well. None of us had. Jorge had earned
every copper centical he’d charged me. 

The three of us walked the hilt down the street
to Calvin Azim, the best swordsmith in Adamar. I had already given him an
approximation of Silverlight’s measurements.

“Do you like it?” I couldn’t resist asking.
Kymber looked so damned happy. “Do you think it’ll work?”

“I do. It felt snug. Secure.” She entwined her
arm with mine. “For the first time, in a long time, I feel like
me
again.”

Oh, that precious smile. Those gem-blue eyes.
Her skin was warm on mine. At that moment, the weight that had lived inside my
chest for ten long years lightened considerably.

T
welve days later, we got my sword back from
Calvin Azim. It was beautiful – gleaming and sharp – but it was not
Silverlight. It was missing the barbs and the personal sigil commissioned by my
father all those years ago.

Still, the weight and balance of my new sword
were acceptable. Comfortable. I was proud of it.

I named it Promise.

Once my sword arrived, the training began. The
initial enthusiasm I felt was quickly doused. I’d forgotten what a brutal
taskmaster Magnus could be. How he’d push until I nearly collapsed from
exhaustion. It had been good for me when I was young and strong and
enthusiastic about life.

It frustrated me now.

I truly did feel better. Healthier. My body had
filled out. We’d worked with burlap bags filled with varying amounts of sand
and rocks on the beach to strengthen my arms and legs, but I was not nearly as
strong as I’d been in my prime. Perhaps I expected too much, but the sore
muscles and the ache deep in my core were a shock to my system.

Sure it would pass, I forged on.

The first thing a student warrior learns is to
draw a sword with as much speed and accuracy as possible. Pull with the right
hand, grip with two, left below right, and assume a defensive stance with sword
angled off to the right or out in front.

I could do great things as long as I was given
the time to open my right hand with my left and wrap it around the grip.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t pull the damned thing from the scabbard to save my
life. One can’t very well say to an enemy, “Take a moment to catch your breath
while I pry my hand open.”

Not terribly convenient in battle.

And every time I’d think of charging into
battle, I’d wonder why it mattered. Calari was at peace. There were no imminent
wars to fight. Why did I continue to pound my head against a wall? Yet getting
it right felt important. Like a requirement. I didn’t understand it, but I
soldiered on, to coin a phrase.

“You’re trying too hard,” Magnus said one day.
We were down on the beach, away from prying eyes.

I loosed a frustrated breath. “Not hard enough
or I’d get it.”

“You may never be as fast as you were. Just
concentrate on the motions of unsheathing it. Then we’ll work on speed.”

“I can’t pull it if I can’t open my hand. Damn
it, Magnus, can’t you see that?” I stalked off down the beach, frustration eating
me alive.

I could pull the sword as fast as a lightning
strike in my head, but my body had yet to catch up. My arm and hand felt
clumsy, as though they belonged to someone else. I couldn’t reconcile what I
remembered with my physical capabilities now.

Magnus allowed me to storm away. My heels dug
into the sand, throwing it up in a white spray as I moved. Fuming, I stared out
at the rolling waves and searched for calm. 

Repetition. Practice. Over and over until I was
sick of it, and then I had to do it again. I knew what it took. I was aware
with every fiber of my being, but when I’d drilled at T’hath, I was young and
whole.

Old. Damaged. Broken. Is that what I was now?

Well. Where was all that perspective I was
supposed to find? I couldn’t do anything about my hand, but I didn’t need to
absorb those three words and make them true. Garai wanted to break me. He’d
come close a couple of times, but there was something in me that had fended off
that surrender.

 That spoke to my talents as a warrior and my
strength as a woman. I’d once slept naked and cold in a cage. Now I stood on a
beautiful beach with a sword strapped to my side. I couldn’t open my hand yet,
but I’d made progress. Compared to the past, my future was a piece of Mrs. Toolwin’s
walnut cake.

Good enough.

I turned and walked back to Magnus. “Where were
we?”

He gave me a brilliant smile. “I’ve been
watching you. You’re thinking about pulling the sword too late. You need to think
about opening your hand before you even reach for it. If you concentrate, you
can do this.”

“Famous last words.” I sighed heavily.

He faced me with a stern look. “It’s mind over
matter, Kymber. Force of will. We learned it at T’hath. It has served me well
over the years. And it must’ve served you too, or you wouldn’t have survived
Garai.” He pushed a finger to the side of his head. “Think about it. You want
to pull your sword, so you go over the movements in your head first. You
picture your hand open and reaching. You see yourself taking hold of the hilt
and pulling the sword free. Then, and only then do you move. Understood?”

I did understand, but I was so tired of this.
Weary of trying and failing. What was the point?

Still, I closed my eyes, drew in a breath, and
pictured my hand around the grip. I saw myself move as I’d been taught, pulling
my sword successfully.

My mind fixed the scenario in place. I willed
my body to move, fast and sure and graceful as I once was. My muscles reacted .
. .

 . . . and I somehow managed to get my hand open
wide enough to grasp the golden pommel at the hilt’s end.

I
couldn’t believe it. She’d done it! She’d
gotten her hand around Promise’s pommel.

We’d spent all afternoon working at it, but all
she’d accomplished was bouncing her knuckles off the scabbard. Her frustration had
grown with each failed attempt. Ironically, it fueled my own patience.

“Don’t move. Do you see what you’ve done?” I
let my gaze drop to her hand. “Feel it. Remember it. Retrace the steps you took
in your mind and burn them into your memory. If you can do
that
,” I
gestured toward her hip, but I never took my eyes off her face, “You can get
your hand around the grip. It’s only a matter of time before it’s second nature
to you. Like breathing.” I gave her a saucy smile. “Or being so damned
beautiful you steal all my thoughts.”

“I did it. Sort of.” She laughed shortly. “I
have my hand around the pommel. It’s tight and it hurts somewhat, but that’s
not where my hand is supposed to be.” She gave me a dazed smile. “I can do
this, Magnus. I can, but please . . . that’s enough for today. I’m worn out.”

“I’m sure you are.” I folded her up in my arms
and held on tight. “My dearest Kymber, I am so very proud of you. You’ve earned
the right to the finest vintage in my wine cellar tonight.”

A
s with many things, abundant failure followed
my initial success.

I was much faster after two weeks of practice,
but I still couldn’t open my hand enough to get a proper hold on the grip.

Oh, I’d come close occasionally, but all I
truly accomplished was turning my hand into a massive purple bruise. I kept
trying long after I should’ve called a halt to the training. I just couldn’t
bear to tell Magnus I wanted to quit.

“Don’t look so disappointed. I never
thought we had much chance of success,” I told him one particularly frustrating
day.

“That’s not the impression you gave me. It’s
not.” Magnus regarded me with narrowed eyes. “You know, maybe that’s your
problem. You don’t want this badly enough.”

“’Don’t want it badly enough? You fucking
jackass!” I jammed my sword point first into the sand. “You have no idea what
I’ve been through.”

“How long are you going to wear that martyr’s
crown on your head, Kymber? When is your past no longer going to be a factor in
your future?”

“Oh.” I took a deep breath through my nostrils.
“Oh, you miserable bastard. I can’t believe you said that. You have
no idea
.”
Stiffening my spine, I growled, “I’m leaving.”

“Go on then.” He pointed toward the house on
the cliff. “We’re just wasting time, especially if all you’re going to do is
make excuses for your failures.”

Enough. I spun and lunged at him, my teeth
clenched.

 In the span of a heartbeat, Magnus had
captured both my wrists in his hands and now held me at arm’s length. “Look.
Look at your hand, Kymber.”

My injured hand was not completely open, but it
was open wide enough to wreak havoc on that handsome face of his. Open as wide
as I’d ever seen it. I loosed a breath. “Wha . . .?”

He gave me a crooked smile. “Maybe we just need
to approach this a little differently.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ve watched you pivot your upper body and
reach for your sword. Something is being lost in that movement.” He let go of
me and put his hand to his chin. “You can clearly open your hand enough to get
it around the grip of your sword. Perhaps it’s too much to twist at the waist
and reach at the same time.”

“I don’t want to do this anymore.”

He waved an open hand at me. “Just hear me
out.”

“I’m tired of hearing you out.”

“Kymber.”

“Magnus.” I eyed the steps that led from the
beach up to the house, wishing I were on them.

He laughed. “You’ll never make it. I still run
faster than you.”

“You are a complete bastard, you know that?
Let’s hear it then. That pivoting motion is so ingrained in me, it’s like
breathing. If I can’t do it, I can’t fight.”

“At least not with the sword on your hip.”

“You have completely lost your mind. If not on
my hip, where? A warrior carries her sword . . .”

“On her back.” Magnus was already reaching for
the scabbard resting against my left hip. “I have a baldric up at the house
that should fit you. We’ll find a way to angle your scabbard to the right. That
way, all you’ll have to do is reach over your left shoulder and grab the sword.
Less thought, less movement.” His bit his lip and fixed me with a speculative
look. “Do you want to try it?”

“No.”

“That didn’t sound like a yes.”

“That’s because I didn’t
say
yes. Damn
you!”

“Just try it, Kymber. You have nothing to
lose.”

“Nothing except my mind.” I snorted,
frustration a living thing inside me. “All right, but you will keep your mouth
shut if I can’t. No insults and no accusations.”

“No problem.” He moved behind me and pressed
the scabbard against my spine. “I won’t say a word, because this is going to
work.”

I
had to forget years of
training to reach for a sword strapped to my back. Well, not forget, exactly.
Rethink.

And it still wasn’t enough.

A week passed by, then two and three. It was
futile. My hand was opening wider, but not wide enough. I continued to jam my
fingers into the pommel. 

We’d spent long hours on the beach when I
finally said, “It’s time to end this, Magnus. I can’t do it. If you want to me
to pack my things and leave, I will. You’re frustrated. I’m frustrated. I am
bruised and sore from my eyeballs to my toenails. I can’t fight if I can’t draw
a sword. This is finished.” I turned away to go to the house, determined that
this was the last time I’d wear that damned sword.

I skidded to a halt when I felt a sharp sting
across the back of my bare arm. I turned with a yelp.

Magnus had drawn his sword. He’d assumed a fighting
stance, his eyes black with challenge.

I glanced at my arm. He’d cut me. The jackass
had
cut
me. It was thin and shallow, but he’d drawn blood.

I was so shocked, I didn’t know what to do
next. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. I just stood and gaped at him.

He swung around behind me, shifting Bloodreign
from hand to hand, cutting off access to the stairs in the cliff.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked
as he advanced on me. “I’m not your next meal.”

“You might be. You’re easy prey.”

“What?”

“What?” he mocked in a falsetto. “I won’t let
you leave. You’ll work harder at this, or I’ll kill you and drag your body out
to sea.” He took a few more steps toward me.

I nearly asked if he was serious, but it
would’ve been a pointless question. I saw no teasing mirth in his eyes this
time.

He swung Bloodreign. I jumped back, arching my
spine to avoid his blade. Even so, he missed my hip by less than an inch. “What
do you think you’re doing?”

“Killing you,” came the chilling reply. “Hold
still. I’ll make it quick.”

I jerked my head to one side as Bloodreign
whistled past my nose. White-hot fury bloomed inside me. I hadn’t survived
Garai just to have this idiot cut me down. I leapt back, light on my feet, and
moved my hand toward my hip.

My sword was not there, of course. I ducked,
stumbling as Magnus swung at me again.

“Aw, the poor thing can’t defend herself. Now
what will you do? You’ll never make it to the stairs.”

I couldn’t believe he was talking to me like
that. Unconditional, he’d said. He’d told me he still loved me. Now he was
going to kill me?

Whirling, I ducked to avoid his blade once
more. I tried to stay at the outer limits of his deadly arc, but he kept coming
at me with a demonic light in his eyes.

I cast a glance at my surroundings just as he
took a swing at my legs. The sting was immediate. Not only did he slice my
favorite pants open, he managed to run Bloodreign’s tip across my kneecaps.

He was right. I’d never make it up the stairs
to the house. If he was serious about killing me, I had to fight, and I had to
use the only weapon available to me.

The sword across my back.

If I moved and missed, he wouldn’t give me a
second chance. I channeled all my thoughts into my maimed hand and struck like
a snake, reaching, reaching…

I have always been amazed at how certain firsts
happen in lightning strikes of cognizance, unfolding in slow motion to help
retain every second of the experience. The first time I saw Magnus. Our first
kiss. The first time he made love to me.

I knew reaching for Promise was going to be one
of those moments.

My hand opened…far enough? I didn’t know,
couldn’t tell, but I carried the motion through to fruition, relieved when my
fingers wrapped securely around the custom-made grip. Not too far back, not too
far forward. Perfect. I tightened my hold.

 The rest was instinctual. I pulled; Promise
slid free of the scabbard. My good hand steadied it in front of me. I took a
vicious swipe at Magnus just as he swung at me.

Our swords met in mid-air with the sharp
clang
of a tolling bell. The vibration nearly tore my arm off, but I stopped Magnus
cold and held him.

My arms ached with the strain, but I wasn’t
going to be the first to cry quits. “You were saying?”

He gave me a heart-stopping smile. “Well, I
didn’t say it, but I damn well thought it.
There’s my warrior.
”

I gritted my teeth and shoved him backward. “What
the fuck does that mean?”

“The only way to motivate you is to infuriate
you. Well, sometimes,” Magnus amended sheepishly. “You reacted to my threats
just as I knew you would. By rising to the occasion. By succeeding.” He pulled
his sword away from mine, lowered it, and dropped to his knees before me, head
bowed. “I’m sorry for cutting you. You may do the same to me anywhere on my
body in retaliation.” He glanced up with a mischievous grin. “But not my
fingers, hands, or between my legs.”

For one hazy, red moment, I considered lopping
his head from his shoulders. Then I gave it some thought.

A trick. A ruse, and it had worked. Was I
angry? Or was I thrilled?

Both. I felt both in equal measure.

I stared at the top of his head and released
the breath I’d been holding. “I won’t cut you.” 

“I appreciate that.” He rose to his feet,
smirking.

I kicked him as hard as I could dead center of
his chest. He flew, arms flailing, and landed flat on his back in the sand.

Breathless, I walked over and pressed my foot
into his sternum. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t kick you.”

I was still fully at odds with myself. The sexy
dimple in his chin was the perfect place for the point of my sword. “I probably
shouldn’t tell you this, you deceitful horse’s ass, but I just fell in love
with you all over again.”