City of Blaze (The Fireblade Array) (35 page)

She stepped out of the washroom, pulling a comb through her knotted, wet hair. The kahr’s eyes were intent upon her as she walked across the room to the bed, where she took a seat. His stares would have been more manageable if he at least took the time to communicate with her. She thought of some conversation. “So, who taught you to dance?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

How she hated that response! Why couldn’t he just
talk
to her? “I would be happier if I knew whom I was up against.”

He considered her words for a moment. “A woman called Jezaena. She is dead now.”

The man was impossible! It wasn’t as if every woman he’d known was dead. Not quite every one, anyway. She probed further; she needed the sport. “What was she like?”

“Why must you ask these questions? They are utterly inane.”

Artemi dropped her comb onto the bed as she stood. “I just want you to speak. You never talk. About anything. You don’t even reprimand me over stupid things any more. It’s infuriating!”

He remained blank. “What is there to talk about?”

“I don’t care! Anything: the weather, books, will-die, fighting, wars, your father, the bloody price of soap. Anything at all!”

Morghiad continued in his demonstration of emotionless-ness, “I do not see the point of talking for talking’s sake.”

She went over to him and knelt in front of his chair, taking a hand. “It is not for that. I find you so difficult to read and it would give me great comfort to know if you are happy, unhappy, disappointed or proud. I know you feel those things somewhere in there. Even if you talk complete rubbish I can use it to read something of your emotions.”

He hesitated before speaking. “I am content. Will that do?”

Artemi nodded and released his hand. It was the best she could hope for. Perhaps she needed to try another tactic. They had not had a good duel since she had become benay-gosa. She had advanced considerably in her battalion’s rankings in the last month - nowhere near enough to best Morghiad or Silar or Beodrin, but enough to provide a challenge.

Soon they approached the practice hall in silence once more. Artemi had begun to wonder if most of her life would be spent in this curious state of soundlessness. For sport she put a hand on Morghiad’s arm. She knew he wanted to shake her off, but he was unable to do so in public. Perhaps it was a cruel trick to play on him when he had been so kind to her. She always offered him a mischievous grin when she did it, so that he would know she meant it in good humour, but he never once responded to it. Burn him, but she wasn’t about to give up on the brick! They stepped inside the hall and Artemi immediately spotted Silar leaning against the tables. He flashed a broad smile upon seeing them, and rubbed his hands together.

“I hope you’ve brought your dancing legs with you, girl,” he called to her. She let go of the kahr’s arm and ran to the blond man, wrapping her arms around his neck. He gave her a quick squeeze and released her.

“Morghiad,” he offered a nod to the dark-haired man.

The kahr nodded back in grave silence.

“Now. For once I get to give the orders to you two,” the lieutenant said with glee. “If you would like to take your positions?”

The kahr went to stand several yards from the tables, and waited.

Artemi had no idea where she was supposed to be.

“Go and stand with him,” he said.

She approached him hesitantly, not sure of how near she should stand.

“Closer,” came the indication from the blond man.

Artemi moved a step toward the man who seemed to be watching her intently. She heard a “tssk” come from her left. Silar’s hands pushed her forward and
into
Morghiad. The blond man stood back while the kahr put his arms around her waist. The room felt very hot again. When
were
these blazed powers going to settle down?

Silar came to place her hands variously on Morghiad’s upper arms and waist. “Didn’t you even show her the basic starting positions?”

Morghiad grunted in response.

The lieutenant let it pass and arranged her arms. “You must always keep your shoulders in this position. Do not let your elbows drop unless the move demands it. Now, this is the starting position for the
hadara
, this is the dance almost always performed on feast days. Morghiad, if you’d kindly show her the next move?”

The kahr wrapped his leg around one of hers, pulled it back and released her waist on one side, causing her to fall sideways towards the floor. He held fast to her waist with the other hand and caught her shoulder, so that she was hanging only from his grasp.

“This is how you wish to show me?”

“He performed the move correctly. You displayed absolutely no trust in it,” Silar scolded. “And you have dropped your elbows. And your shoulders have tensed. Do it again.”

Morghiad lifted her up and dangled her above the floor once more. Artemi’s performance did not improve.

“Again!” the blond man called.

They performed the move several times, then moved on to the more advanced ones. It rapidly became clear that this was not something she could pick up like sword fighting. And it was nowhere near as simple as the solo
gosara
dance she’d been taught by the other benay-gosa.  She seemed to be absolutely dire at it too.

After a couple of hours of agony, Silar called a halt to their faltering steps. He had his hands on his hips. “I just don’t understand it, Artemi. You’re normally far more graceful than this. And it’s not that different to sword fighting.”

Morghiad released her and she felt some of the tension lift. Perhaps it would be over now!

Silar rubbed at his chin. “Morghiad, would you mind if I... ?”

The kahr gave a single nod for him to step in, and went to lean against a nearby wall, arms crossed.

Silar took up the first hadara position with her this time. His hold felt a little different - not more or less gentle... just different. She placed her hands in the correct positions for the thousandth time.

Silar examined them with raised eyebrows. “Good. Now, drop.” He let her fall to one side and she leaned into the motion. He caught her smoothly. “Very good,” he said with a smile. They weaved through the next ten motions fluidly. “It would seem,” he said on releasing her, “that I have the magical touch.” A very cheeky grin spread across his face. “Wouldn’t you say, captain?”

Morghiad had straightened from his nonchalant position against the wall to watch them. “It appears you have.”

“Let’s run through that again,” Silar said. They danced the full sequence together and Artemi was astonished that she did not fall over his feet once. Yet Silar had admitted he was not as good a dancer as Morghiad. None of it made any sense.

Silar was studying her closely. “Hmm.”

“Hmm?” she said back at him.

“Why don’t you trust him?” His ultramarine eyes caught the light as he spoke.

Artemi was lost for words. “I...do. I...” She swallowed, trying to work out what he meant.

Morghiad stepped forward.

Silar pressed further: “Has something happened between you two?”

Artemi shook her head. “Nothing. Perhaps I find it easier to connect with someone who will talk to me.” She looked back at the kahr.

He was gazing at the floor with an expression she didn’t recognise. What was wrong with the stone-faced idiot?

“You must tell him the truth, Artemi.” Morghiad replaced the cadet swords in their cabinet and locked it securely.

“I cannot. He will disown me. It would break his heart. It is bad enough that I killed my mother, but for it to have been caused by my ability to wield -” A tear tried to build at her eye.

He stood and took her by the arms. “Artemi, he already knows your birth was linked to your mother’s death. Whatever anger he may have felt about it will be gone. You are his only daughter and I must explain to him why you are my benay-gosa. I should have done it much sooner.” He hated upsetting her,
hated
it.

She pushed her dark reddish-gold hair behind one ear and whispered, “Alright. But he already has taken a slight... dislike to you.”

“I’m sure he has.” Morghiad helped her put on her green silk coat. “You’ll ride with me to see him.”

“As you wish.” She touched the fastenings absently.

They strode down to the stables, where Morghiad saddled up Tyshar and examined his benay-gosa from the other side of the horse. It was strange that a hero of legend, the strongest wielder in the world, could appear so vulnerable and so... delicate. Green had been an excellent choice for her. It set off her hair and skin quite strikingly. He finished buckling Tyshar’s bridle as the horse pawed at the ground with eagerness. Morghiad led the mount out and jumped on his back, before helping Artemi up so that she was sat across his lap. Unfortunately, it was quite impossible for her to sit astride the saddle in benay-gosa scarves.

Of course, it had been difficult adjusting to having her around all the time and worse when she had as much as admitted she did not trust him. He had reacted unwisely to the news that evening: choosing to find solace at the bar while she slept in his bed. And when he had returned he found himself considering climbing into the bed with her, which certainly would have upset the woman. A soldier needed to trust their captain and Morghiad felt as if every action he took pushed her farther away.

A long while had passed since she had taken his arm when they walked about together. He kicked the horse into a fast-paced walk, and they stepped into the noise of the city. People would often stop to look at her, to admire her, but she buried her head in his chest as if to hide. It was curious that she did not like the admiration she received, or perhaps she was embarrassed to be seen with him.

The gritty green roads became rougher and less even as he rode into the poor quarter. When they reached the plant-covered house, Artemi dismounted from Tyshar and went to knock on the door. Morghiad dismounted too, and tethered his horse to a convenient post. No one would be successful in stealing the animal unless they had a body made of iron.

He took a deep breath. Facing her father was a duty he had put off for far too long, but he needed to ensure the man knew his intentions, and knew of an escape plan should anything happen to his daughter’s protector. A square and sturdy man arrived at the door, rusty-coloured hair glinting in the sunlight. His pale blue eyes indicated that he had been around for a century or more, but Morghiad could not have guessed his age beyond that. The man embraced his daughter and offered the kahr a sour look. “Come in if you must, my lord.”

Morghiad stepped into the building and was pleasantly surprised by the cosiness of the room. The hearth was well-used and warm, with a thick rug in front of it. Two small beds lay at either corner of the room, covered by monochrome geometric textiles of blue and creamy white. There were numerous drawings and paintings on the wall, some of them quite beautiful. Interspersed were some rather less-accomplished images, clearly drawn by a child. “Were these done by Artemi?”

“Yes,” came the terse answer from her father. And then as an afterthought, “My lord.”

Morghiad smiled in spite of himself. He couldn’t remember being given much time to draw or play as a child, but it seemed Artemi had known a happy life with her father. He offered the older man a hand and his name. “Morghiad.”

Her father eyed his hand with suspicion for a moment, but took it and offered his own name. “Toryn.”

That was as good a start as any. Toryn offered him one of the only two seats, but Morghiad declined. It was the other man’s house, after all.

“So,” the older man began, “Have you come to ask permission to make my daughter your bed fellow or simply to keep her as your unpaid sword fodder?”

“Father!” Artemi exclaimed.

Morghiad remained calm; this was closer to the sort of reception he had expected. “We are not bed fellows. And she is a soldier in the army, but she receives payment for it.”

Artemi added, “I’ve told you before, father, he made me benay-gosa so that the king wouldn’t.”

Toryn eyed them both closely and folded his arms. “Well what’s wrong with my daughter that you haven’t tried to bed her then?”

Artemi almost dropped the cup she was holding.

Morghiad did not feel it was right for him to reveal her secret, though he would if she needed help doing it. “Tell him, Artemi.”

Toryn looked questioningly at her.

She set the cup down and tidied the skirt of her coat. She looked at her father, then at Morghiad, and back again. “There’s something I haven’t...” she squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m a wielder.” She looked at him in desperation, but did not cry.

Her father’s eyes widened for a moment, but he appeared quite unsurprised by the news. He went to hug his daughter. “I always knew there was something about you, girl.” He gave her a squeeze. “Your mother didn’t bring you into this world to be ordinary, now, did she?” He stroked her hair. “Hush, I am not angry.”

Morghiad felt a little uncomfortable around their strong display of emotion, and he felt as if it were not really his business. He appraised the floor closely. Was that floorboard loose?