The Sharpest Blade (19 page)

“Is that a smile, Lord General?” I tease. “While you’re in the midst of a fight? Sloppy.”

I feign an attack at his midsection, but dodge around his block, balling my off hand into a fist, which I aim at his jaw. The move is smooth and natural, and the blow would probably hit if Kyol
weren’t
the best swordsman in the Realm. But he knocks my fist with his elbow and somehow manages to clip my chin in the process.

Ow.

I step away from him, reach up to rub my jaw. I yelp instead, seeing his sword arcing toward my calves. No time to block it so I try to leap over it and—

Fail. His blade hits so hard, he knocks my legs out from under me. I land on my right shoulder, my sword pinned beneath my body.

A twinge of guilt moves through the life-bond, but Kyol extinguishes it quickly.

“You were supposed to block that,” he says, kneeling in front of me.

“Yeah,” I snap. “I kind of figured that out.”

I sit up, then pull up my pants leg to look at the injury. Our swords are dull, but I expect to see a gash in my leg anyway. There’s not one. Just an angry red line that’s beginning to turn purple.

“Is it broken?” Kyol sets down his sword, then runs his hand over my calf.

“I’m not that brittle,” I say. I mean the words to be angry—an accusation of sorts—but his hand is warm, and a bright blue bolt of lightning skips to my skin.

Touching opens our bond completely, and Kyol’s lust rushes into me. I rock back, dizzy with the intensity of it, and my body flushes with heat.

It’s just magic,
I tell myself. This feeling isn’t real. It isn’t. It isn’t. It isn’t.

Kyol meets my gaze. His hand is still on my calf, desire is still rocking through him.

I want another chance.

He doesn’t say those words out loud, but his emotions are screaming them.

I pull my leg away from him, and some emotion akin to hurt moves through the bond. It’s barely noticeable beneath the want, but it makes my throat burn. I can’t do this. I can’t keep hurting him.

“Kyol—”

“Again,” he says, grabbing his sword as he stands. A thick wall drops between us, silencing his emotions.

Swallowing, I get to my feet. I try to build my own wall. I try not to let him feel my frustration and angst, my regret that I can’t say the words he wants to hear. I focus completely on the moves he teaches me. My muscles remember them, even a few forms he hasn’t taught me yet, like the slight twist to my wrist I need to slip through his overly slow defense. I let my mind go blank, focus only on the movements of my body and his. I watch his eyes, the set of his shoulders. My peripheral vision is attuned to his sword. I block a third of his attacks, which is a huge improvement from the last time. His blows hurt when they hit home, but it’s a dull pain that I can shove to the back of my mind.

Circle and attack. Follow up. Parry.

I’m drenched in sweat, but I keep going, keep concentrating on the rote movement of my body and the soreness in my muscles.

Dodge a high swing. Counter with a low one.

My worries fall away, and I let my subconscious take over until Kyol lowers his sword, his eyes closing.

“There,” he says, tension pouring out of him.

I’m so, so tempted to attack while he’s vulnerable, but I haven’t felt him this relaxed since he formed the life-bond with me.

“There?”

He opens his eyes. “That’s how I keep my emotions from you.”

I frown. “How?”

“If I concentrate on the forms, on mine and my opponents’ movements, everything else falls away. That’s what you’ve just done, and it’s . . . peaceful.”

“You block your emotions when you’re not fighting, too.”

“I have decades of practice,” he says. “I’m able to re-create the emptiness. Most of the time.”

I nod slowly. “I’ll work on it.” I’ll work on it every second of my existence until I’m able to keep him out.

I raise my sword, ready to re-empty my mind.

“We’re finished for today,” he says.

“I have a few more minutes left in me.”

Before I have time to even blink, he disarms me. My sword flips once in the air and lands in his left hand.

“We’re finished for today,” he says again, this time looking pointedly at my hands.

I glare down at them, too, angry that they didn’t hold on to the sword. Then I see the blisters. Apparently, my emotions weren’t the only thing that I faded out. I blocked out the pain, but now that I see how red and agitated they are, they hurt. So does every part of me that Kyol hit, which is basically everywhere.

“I didn’t know you were available for lessons, Lord General.”

I turn toward the back porch. Lorn is there, leaning against a column. I wouldn’t say he looks great, but he doesn’t look half-dead anymore.

“I have a few fae who could use your expertise,” he says, when we approach.

Kyol doesn’t bother answering. He turns to me, tells me he’ll be back soon, then he fissures out.

My gaze locks on his shadows, and I itch to draw them out. I haven’t attempted to shadow-read since Tholm. The earlier worry I had about the bond bringing negative changes circles through my mind again. I wasn’t able to identify Nimael’s location, and I should have been able to. I need to sketch out a map again.

But Kyol’s heading back to Corrist. I don’t need a map to tell me that. As soon as the shadows completely disappear, I head inside.

Lorn tsks as he follows me in. “No thanks for saving your life?”

If I thank him, it’ll imply I owe him a debt, so I follow Kyol’s example and ignore him. I walk to the kitchen and turn on the faucet to wash my hands. Holy crap! The blisters burn.

“You at least owe me an apology, don’t you think?” Lorn says, hovering behind me.

At least he’s back to his usual, haughty self. And he’s found clothes. I don’t know how Nick is going to feel about Lorn raiding his closet, but the black slacks and white button-up shirt fit Lorn’s personality. The shirt is wrinkle-free and crisp, the cuffs buttoned.

“Lena’s the one who arrested you,” I say. “I just told her my suspicions.”

“Lena is a beautiful, vindictive
chessra
.”

I don’t know what that word means. Something not flattering, I’m sure. And I don’t see how she’s vindictive. She and Lorn worked together against the Court. They’re basically partners. On the other hand, Lorn isn’t the most altruistic person in the world. I’m sure he’s done something to piss her off.

I shut off the faucet, grab a towel, and carefully pat dry my hands. “The fae you had me track in Nashville—Aylen. She fissured to Eksan. That’s where I tracked a remnant to a day later. It was too big a coincidence to ignore.”

He scowls. “Lena arrested me based on
that
?”

“Not just that,” I say. “You gave her the tip about Paige being in London, didn’t you?”

“Of course, I did. That was our deal. I found her for you. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“How did you know she was there?” I ask.

His expression doesn’t change, but something about him gives me the impression that he’s feeling a little less jovial than a moment before.

“My sources told me,” he says.

“Your ‘sources’?” When he doesn’t respond, I say, “The Sighted humans who worked for Atroth were there. They were dead. And the remnants received an anonymous tip saying that I’d be there. It was a setup.”

He presses his lips together, then says, “That is a little incriminating, isn’t it?”

I raise my hand in a there-you-have-it motion.

“So, do you want to tell me who Aylen is? Why you needed me to read her shadows?”

“In a moment,” he says, turning to look out the window as three fissures rip through the backyard.

W
E TAKE OVER
the living room, Lena sitting on the edge of a sofa chair while Lorn lounges back in another one with a glass of
cabus
in his hand. Without so much as a hello to me, Aren drags in a chair from the kitchen. That gets on my nerves. He could at least acknowledge my existence, but he straddles the chair and drapes his arms over the back, all carefree and relaxed.

“Are the breakers in the garage?” Naito asks me, as I take a seat on the couch. He fissured in with Kyol, Lena, and Aren.

“I think so,” I tell him, and he leaves to go find them. Lorn’s
edarratae
are still slow and erratic, and Lena’s and Aren’s look slightly agitated, too. Kyol’s are steady, though, flashing only occasionally across his face and forearms. He sits at the opposite end of the couch, his mental wall holding back his emotions.

I make an effort to establish my wall, but it doesn’t work very well. I keep looking at Aren. He never looks at me.

The electricity clicks off. I stare down at my hands, which rest gingerly on my knees. Hison has to be blackmailing Aren. I have to find out what he’s holding over his head. I don’t know how I’m going to do that, though. It’s not like Hison will just hand over the information.

My gaze locks on Lorn, a connoisseur of information. If he doesn’t already know what Hison has on Aren, he could find out, I’m sure of it. I just have to find the right price to buy it from him.

“Well,” Lorn says lightly, when Naito rejoins us. “This is a familiar gathering. Are we making plans to lay siege to a high noble’s manor?”

“The false-blood,” Lena says, obviously not entertained by Lorn’s cavalier tone. “You met him. Tell us what you know about him.”

“I know that I want him dead.”

“My patience is thin, Lorn. Give me details.”

“Patience?” He smiles. “My dear, you’ve never had anything of the sort.”

I think he’s trying to get under her skin. Why, I don’t know. She saved his life. He owes her. There’s no need to antagonize her, especially now. Healing him wore her out. The circles under her eyes are darker than they were a day ago. She deserves a break.

“You were going to tell me about Aylen,” I say, before Lena snaps.

Lorn looks at me. He raises his glass of
cabus
in a small salute, as if he knows exactly why I’ve spoken up. “Yes, Aylen. I had you read her shadows because I believed she was selling information to my competitors.”

“Was she?” I ask.

“She
was
,” he says, drawing out the last word in a way that makes it clear she’s no longer capable of doing so. Sent to the ether, I imagine. Lorn didn’t become lord of the Realm’s underworld by letting people cross him.

“You could have just told me that,” I say. “Or told Lena when she questioned you.”

“I never had the chance to question him,” Lena says. “The high nobles forced me to release him within a day of his arrest.”

“The false-blood,” Kyol says. The hilt of his sword—his real sword, not the practice one—is clasped between his hands. “You gave McKenzie’s location to him. You spoke with him.”

“I wouldn’t call it a conversation,” Lorn says. “But, yes, I’ve met him and his
elari
. Aylen wasn’t selling information
only
to my competitors. She sold it to the
Taelith
as well.”

“The
Taelith
,” Lena says, her lips twisting as if the title puts a bad taste in her mouth. “Who is he?”

Lorn sets his glass of
cabus
down on the side table and leans forward. “He is our nemesis, my dear.”

Lena stiffens. I’m not sure why. If Lorn sees the false-blood as his nemesis as well as ours, it’s a good thing. It means there’s a better chance he’ll help us.

“I need a name,” Lena says.

“I didn’t learn a name.”

“Then tell me how you met him. Tell me something, Lorn.”

“Even my patience is growing thin.” That’s from Aren, who’s been silent until this moment. He’s still sitting backward in his chair, arms draped across it in a way that makes him look sexy and rebellious. He still won’t look at me.

Lorn leans back in his sofa chair and drags a finger around the rim of his glass. “I’m afraid I may have been inadvertently providing the false-blood with information. And supplying him with silver. And weapons. And—”

“
Sidhe
, Lorn!” Lena explodes to her feet. “Have you abandoned all reason and become an
elari
?”

Lorn sets down his glass as he stands, too, albeit much more slowly than she does. Kyol rises as a precaution. And a threat. Lorn’s gaze slides to him. He looks more annoyed than worried, though.

“I’ve always worked with false-bloods,” Lorn says. “It’s easy money, and they’ve always been ripped apart by the Court. They never had a chance of success, so why should I not profit from them? If I hadn’t provided aid to Sethan, your rebellion would have died within months of its inception.”

“My brother was not a false-blood,” Lena snarls. “I’m not one either. You’ve always known that. You shouldn’t be supplying
anything
to my enemies.”

“I should change my lifestyle and business practices to suit you?”

“Yes!” she hisses.

“I—” Lorn cuts himself off, shutting his mouth with a sharp click of his teeth. Seconds tick by. Neither of them backs down or looks away.

“Sit down,” Aren finally orders. He’s still relaxed, but his expression is much more somber than it was a minute ago.

Lorn gives in first, plopping into his chair and reaching for his
cabus
. Lena and Kyol sit next. Lena still looks tired and pissed.

Lorn takes a sip of his
cabus
and clears his throat. “As I said, the information I supplied was inadvertent. The majority of the
Taelith
’s
elari
come from Lyechaban. He’s taken advantage of their hatred of everything human and has made promises to cleanse the Realm.”

“Cleanse?” I ask. That word has been tossed around a lot all of a sudden.

“Cleanse it of everything that might weaken the Realm’s magic. That includes
tor’um
, human tech and culture, and, especially, humans. He’s particularly interested in capturing the
nalkin-shom
.” He looks at me. “You have a reputation. He wants you as an example. He’s promised his
elari
that he’ll skin and hang the shadow-witch.”

My gaze slides to Aren. For the first time, he looks at me.

“Maybe I’ve exaggerated your reputation a little too much,” he says.

“You think?”

Aren gives me a sheepish grin that makes me roll my eyes. It also makes my stomach do a flip.

He turns back to Lorn. “How many followers does the false-blood have?”

“More than he should,” Lorn says, “And they’re quite passionate in their support for him.”

“Why?” Lena demands.

“I imagine it has something to do with his magic. He’s a
cacer
. He has the ability to put people to sleep with a touch.”

My eyebrows go up. That’s an extinct magic. It hasn’t been around since the
Duin Bregga
.

“And he isn’t claiming to be a Descendant,” Lorn continues. “He’s claiming to be
Tar Sidhe
.”

Tar Sidhe?
That’s ridiculous. The fae’s Ancestors lived centuries ago. The Realm’s been ruled by half-blooded Descendants ever since then.

I sit back, waiting for someone to laugh. When no one does, I look around the room. No one is moving. No one is making a sound.

Dread slides over me. It feels like someone’s punched me in the chest. Or rather, they’ve punched Kyol in the chest. It’s hard to breathe, and I wish Naito hadn’t turned off the breakers. I need the air conditioner—or at the very least a fan—to circulate the air.

“That can’t be true,” Lena finally says, either fear or exhaustion making her voice break. “The
Tar Sidhe
entered the ether thousands of years ago.”

“Or they created the ether thousands of years ago,” Lorn says with a shrug. “It all depends on which legends you believe.”

“But either way, they’re all dead,” I find myself saying. The
Duin Bregga
, the war that erased most of the fae’s history, was fought about five thousand years ago. That’s when the
Tar Sidhe
disappeared, and that’s when many of the fae’s magics became extinct or endangered. Other than that, my knowledge of the Realm’s ancient history is sketchy at best.

“Yes, they’re dead,” Lena snaps. “Fae don’t live five hundred years, let alone five thousand.”

“Of course they don’t, my dear,” Lorn says. “But if the
Tar Sidhe
created the ether, they have control of the ether. One might also think they have control over who enters and exits it.”

I’m suddenly aware of Naito sitting next to me. A month ago, the palace archivist convinced him he knew someone who could bring Kelia back from the ether. Naito wanted her back so badly, he believed the fae and agreed to help him escape the palace with Caelar’s brother, Tylan. It’s cruel for Lorn to bring up the possibility of fae returning from the ether again. He knows how much Naito loved Kelia.

“If that was possible,” Lena says, her voice flat, “all the
Tar Sidhe
would be here.”

“Would they? Or would they turn their backs on a world that’s become polluted with violence and human technology?”

“He’s not
Tar Sidhe
, Lorn,” Lena says.

He holds up his hands in a gesture of mock self-defense. “I agree. I’m only playing demon’s advocate.”

“Devil’s,” I murmur.

“I’m only telling you what the
Taelith
is telling his followers,” Lorn continues. “The
elari
believe he is
Tar Sidhe
. He’s not telling anyone his ancestry because, supposedly, he doesn’t have one.”

“He has to be related to someone,” Lena says. “He didn’t raise himself.”

“What if he grew up
imithi
?” I ask.

Lena looks at Aren.

“I would know about him,” he tells her. “We may not have family, but we band together for survival.”

“Maybe he was a loner,” I say.

Aren shakes his head. “If he didn’t have someone he trusted watching his back, he would have been killed. He has ties to someone. The problem is finding out who those ties are to when he may have murdered anyone who had knowledge of his past.”

“So, basically, you’re saying it’s going to be impossible to prove he’s not
Tar Sidhe
.”

“It’s going to be difficult,” Aren says. “Not impossible.”

It might as well be. It’s not like the
Taelith
—or any fae for that matter—is going to submit to a DNA test.

“We need to find him so we can question him,” Lena says. “So far, Nimael is the only fae we know who might be in direct contact with the
Taelith
.”

“Are you so sure about that?” Lorn asks.

She gives him a cold glare. “And you, but for some reason I doubt you’d be willing to reconnect with him.”

“He’s always found me. I’ve never found him,” Lorn says. He sounds a little bitter about that fact. I’m sure it doesn’t make him happy that his network of spies can’t gather the information he needs. “I was referring to someone else who’s spoken directly to the false-blood.”

Lena’s brow wrinkles slightly. She doesn’t know who he’s talking about, but I do.

I let out a sigh, then say, “Paige left me a message. She wanted to talk about Caelar and the false-blood.”

Lena closes her eyes in a long blink. When she reopens them, she stares at Kyol. “We have to assume the rumors are true. They’re allies.”

The life-bond passes along his disbelief—no, his refusal to believe—that Caelar would join forces with the false-blood.

“I didn’t say they are working together,” Lorn chimes in. “I merely suggested that they’ve been in contact. You should talk to him.”

“I’ve made numerous offers to speak with Caelar,” Lena says. “He hasn’t responded. We’ve tried tracking him down with no luck.”

Lorn empties his glass of
cabus
, then sets it aside. “Perhaps he doesn’t want to meet with you because you’re still sending swordsmen out to kill him and the few supporters he has left.”

“If I don’t send fae after him, he’ll come after me again.”

“Will he?” Lorn asks. “Perhaps he’s just trying to survive now? Or, perhaps all he wants is Aren’s head?”

Lena’s gaze moves to Aren. Mine doesn’t. A decade ago, just after King Atroth took power, Aren exposed the fae Caelar was in love with to tech. Brene was in a position to become Atroth’s sword-master, but she succumbed to the tech, losing her mind when her magic broke. Caelar won’t forgive Aren for that. He’s a conservative fae, but if not for Aren’s involvement in the rebellion, I think he would at least be more open to a discussion with Lena. He’s angry King Atroth was killed, but he wants a lawful Descendant to be placed on the throne.

“Making Aren your sword-master might not have been your wisest decision,” Lorn says. “Your fragile position as would-be queen would be going better if he were out of the equation.” He looks at Aren. “No offense intended, of course.”

“None taken,” Aren says, deadpan. His gaze is on me. I can’t decipher his expression. It almost feels as if he’s trying to figure me out. But I already know about his past, and I’ve forgiven him.