The Essence (2 page)

Warriors do not cry,
I admonished myself silently. And then I dared a quick glance at his feet, which were still coming for me.
He is a true soldier
.

I swung my leg. It caught him right behind the ankles, hooking them, and I dragged as hard as I could, trying to sweep his feet from beneath him. My fingers clawed at the soil beneath me as I struggled against his massive weight, but I refused to surrender.

And then I felt him give. I felt him buckling above me, and he, too, was falling.

The moment he was on the ground, at the same level I was, I raised both my booted feet, my knees cocked and my thick heels aimed directly at his head. The blow could be deadly if delivered correctly. In the temple, just as I’d been taught.

I hesitated, staring into my attacker’s hard brown eyes. He’d had no qualms about hitting, kicking, pushing, and nearly stabbing me. I knew because I bore the bruises to prove it.

“What are you waiting for?” he jeered, his white teeth flashing, reminding me that
he
didn’t have mud in
his
mouth. “Finish it.”

I wanted to. I wanted to be the girl from my dreams. Tough like Brooklynn, or determined like Xander. Willing to kill if necessary.

But I wasn’t. And I couldn’t.

Sighing, I dropped my feet as I turned to roll onto my stomach so I could push myself up from the ground.

And then I froze as my numbed mind recalled the first rule of battle: Never turn your back on your opponent.

Before I could reconcile my mistake, he was on top of me. I never even heard him. He was stealthy, like a tiger. And I was at the receiving end of his claws.

The knife at my neck seemed to have materialized from nowhere, and there was a moment when my blood turned to ice as he dragged its blade along the base of my throat until its point converged with my hammering pulse.

“That’s what happens if you break rule number one,” he growled against my ear, his breath like fire. Then he withdrew his blade, shoving me back to the ground. And again, I found myself eating dirt.

“Dammit, Zafir,” I complained, getting to my already battered and bruised knees. “You knew I’d given up, there was no need to attack again.”

Zafir held out his hand, both as a gesture of submission and as a genuine attempt to help me up. I took it, but only because my back was still throbbing where the rock had jabbed me. “There’s always need for attack. Remember that.”

“I’ll never be a skilled combatant, will I?’

“No,” he stated flatly, gripping my hand and yanking me to my feet as if I weighed less than nothing.

I swayed slightly and glared at him, but kept my mouth shut. He was right, of course. I was inadequate.

I waited while he waded up to his ankles in the shallow pond to retrieve my sword—
his sword
, actually—and wipe it clean. Bending over, I stifled a groan as I hefted the one he’d been using from the ground where it had fallen. It weighed at least five times what mine did and had intricate carvings, not just around the hilt but continuing along the length of its curved blade. To anyone else, the carvings would appear to be gibberish.

To me, the girl who could understand all languages, they were poetic:
Danii, a weapon forged of steel and blood.

I grinned over the fact that Zafir’s sword bore its own name. And that whoever had crafted his steel had lovingly engraved a message declaring not only its name but also its origin. I’d asked him about it once—about the origin of the weapon and the language engraved into its blade. He’d told me only that he wasn’t born in Ludania, and that the weapon had been an ancestral gift.

“We’d best get back before Sebastian tells your father what you’ve been up to.”

“We,”
I corrected, trading him weapons so that I didn’t have to drag his through the silt, and wishing, once more, that I were stronger. “What
we’ve
been up to, you mean.”

Zafir glared down at me. “I wanted no part of this. I’m a reluctant participant.”

“But a participant nonetheless,” I maintained, lifting a brow. “And maybe if you were a better instructor . . .” I trailed off, trying not to let my disappointment come through in my voice.

“It’s not my instruction that’s lacking.” His pointed gaze found me. “Your Majesty.” He added my title as if it were an afterthought, even though we both knew it wasn’t.

“Whatever. I might as well be spending all my time in riding lessons considering how little my fighting’s improved. At least then the horse might do what I want her to.”

“I believe those were my exact words. You need riding lessons, not fighting lessons. You’re a queen, not a soldier.” And then he added it again, this time his lip twitching ever so slightly. “Your Majesty.”

We reached the stand of spark willows, beneath the largest of which we’d tethered our horses. During the day, the drooping branches’ tips, which nearly brushed the ground, were extinguished and the trees served as the perfect shelter for the enormous animals we’d ridden, shielding them from view. At night, however, the nibbed ends of each branch would burn bright in shades of blues or reds or white, depending on the blossoms. A million tiny buds of light would flicker and flash, casting this entire sector of the forest in an ethereal glow in which nothing—and no one—could hide.

Something I understood all too well,
I thought as I glanced down at my hands, where light flickered just beneath my skin.

Zafir slipped through the curtain of wilting boughs and, after a moment, returned holding the reins of two magnificent mares. Magnificent, that was, to those who appreciated horses.

Unlike me.

It was unnatural for humans to be riding animals. Or at least that was what my aching body insisted, even before I readied to take the saddle once more.

I wasn’t like Brooklynn. I seemed incapable of learning that natural rhythm required to master horseback riding, that same rhythm she possessed when sitting astride her stallion. The easy way her body moved and rocked, not just in sync with the horse, but almost as if she’d become an extension of it. Like part of a single fluid wave in which they seemed to become one.

I, however, remained separate from my animal, remaining stiff, and bouncing and lurching uncomfortably. My body fought the motions of the beast beneath me, resistant to its gait.

In truth, they terrified me, the horses. All of them. They were large and unpredictable and far too powerful.

Yet another reason I could never truly be warrior. What kind of soldier couldn’t manage her own steed?

Stretching my back and preparing for the ride home, I reached up to the saddle’s horn and balanced one foot in
the stirrup as I hauled myself up, throwing my other leg over the smooth leather seat. Once I was settled, Zafir handed
me the reins, and as he did, my stomach tightened. I hated this part. I hated that it was in my hands to command this beast.

A country, sure. An animal larger than my royal guard, no thank you.

When we returned, Sebastian was already waiting for us in front of the stables. He rushed out to take the reins from me, and held the mare steady while I dismounted.

I glanced around, searching for Brooklynn. “Is she here yet? She promised she’d be here when I got back.” I hated the edge I heard in my own voice. “She’s late, isn’t she?”

Zafir took great care to stifle a yawn.

Sebastian frowned and bowed low, clutching the leather reins in his hands. I stared down at the top of his head, envious that any man could be blessed with such lustrous curls. They were the color of polished mahogany, matching his eyes to perfection. It was unfair, considering that I’d been born with hair and skin so fair they were nearly transparent, not a single curl in sight. “Your Majesty. I’m sure she’s just running . . .”—he lifted his head and scowled upward at the sky, noting the sun’s location, completely unable to mask his worry about the time—“. . . behind schedule.” His last two words sounded less than convinced, and I fought the urge to giggle at his attempt to assuage me.

Zafir was less composed, and his laughter boomed like a thunderclap across the meadows, making the poor stable master jump. “Knowing Brooklynn, she’s probably off causing trouble. Probably getting you into a war, if I had to wager.”

I cast a warning glare in Zafir’s direction; Sebastian didn’t deserve to be laughed at. “Don’t worry, Sebastian, I don’t blame you for Brook’s absence.” I sighed heavily, not wanting to do this alone, and unwilling to admit why. “I suppose we can start without her,” I muttered.

Sebastian perked up at the idea, and I was reminded that this was his true passion. This was why he’d been made stable master after barely reaching the age of legal consent. At eighteen, he was the youngest stable master the palace had ever had. No one knew his way around a horse the way Sebastian did.

Plus, he was patient—assuring me I would grow more comfortable, that my skills would improve. That time would give me the confidence I so desperately needed.

But Sebastian was serious about his instruction, and training with him was as physically exhausting as my fighting lessons with Zafir. It wasn’t simply about sitting in a saddle—anyone could do that, he’d repeated time and time again. He wanted me to learn the finer points of horsemanship: riding bareback, emergency dismounts, jumping, and groundwork. He worked both the horse and me until we were unable to work a moment longer.

“You won’t be sorry, Your Majesty,” Sebastian vowed, pulling his red bandana from his back pocket and tying it around his head, something he always did before my lessons. “With a little more practice . . .” He hesitated, as if trying to convince himself and not me. “With a little more practice, you’ll be riding like a champion.”

I bit the inside of my cheek at the thought of me as a champion rider. “That sounds . . .” My lip quivered ever so slightly. “. . . wonderful.”

Sebastian’s face lit into a huge, triumphant grin as he dipped his head once quickly before straightening and spinning on his heel, his shoulders high.

“Oh, and Sebastian?”

He stopped and turned back around. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Will you please just call me Charlie?”

Sebastian’s brows crumpled, uncertainty clear in every feature.

But it was Zafir who answered. “No.” His voice was like iron. Unyielding. And then he looked down on me from his horse, and his gaze was equally obstinate. “He will not,
Your Majesty
.”

brooklynn

Brooklynn stood on the street, staring up at the scarred sign that hung above the door. She hated the pang that coursed through her, the ache of nostalgia that betrayed her as she questioned whether being here was wise or not.

Still, wise wasn’t her reason for coming. And neither was nostalgia.

She had a job to do. An important one. Longing had no place in her world. . . . Not today, anyway.

She tamped down the emotions and shoved her way through the battered wooden door. Even the weathered brass of the door handle beneath her fingertips was entirely too well-known to her.

Inside, she scowled at the man behind the counter. He looked older now than she remembered, more haggard. The skin around his eyes was lined and leathered, as if he were a man accustomed to a life of hard labor. As if he’d spent years working in the fields rather than inside the walls of a butcher’s shop. She watched as he rubbed his grizzled beard, graying in places it surely hadn’t been before.

It was his eyes, though, that held her attention as he noticed her standing there—they were as sharp and focused as ever, and filled with spite. She’d always hated that physical similarity between them: the dark brown of their eyes.

He wiped his hands on his stained apron, and Brook was reminded why she’d never been bothered by the sight of blood. She’d grown up with it.

“I need a minute,” he grumbled in Englaise to the older man behind the counter with him.

“I’m almost off work,” the man responded in a firm voice, as if he was accustomed to having this conversation. “Five minutes. And then I leave, whether you’re finished or not.”

Brook watched as her father’s face drained of all color. She could tell that he wanted to scream, that his rage was bubbling so close to the surface that even she was cringing inside as she waited for the explosion that was surely coming. But when he answered, his words were quiet. Controlled. “It’s
my
store, Anson. Do I need to remind you again?
You
work for
me
.” The muscle at his jaw flexed, jumping spastically. “
I
make the rules here.”

Anson just shook his head, as if the notion was absurd. “But I shouldn’t have to remind you that I have rights now.” And then he repeated, “Five minutes.”

Her father untied his apron and threw it on the floor as he stormed into the backroom, leaving Brook to either wait or follow.

She was comfortable with neither, but she was already here, and they had only five minutes. She might as well get this over with.

Casting an apologetic look at the older man, she slipped behind the counter and went through the doorway that led to the chilled room where her father was holding a cleaver and slicing—pointlessly—into the remains of a carcass that had clearly already been carved, its usable meat already packaged.

“Can you believe him? Six months ago he was mopping blood off the floors and discarding entrails. He wasn’t even permitted to speak to me. Now I have to pay him a wage he doesn’t deserve and allow him to interact with my customers. Now, he thinks
he
can tell
me
what to do.” He hacked into a section of rib cage and pieces of bone and flesh sprayed outward. “This is your fault. You and your queen!”

Brooklynn walked toward the familiar carving-block work surface and ran her fingertip over a section in which she’d carved her name when she was just a girl, back when she still made all of her B’s backward. The wood had been new then, shiny and polished, yet her father hadn’t chastised her for marring it. He’d simply marveled at her handiwork, boasting that his daughter might have a future as a woodworker or an artist.