I could, trying to stave off dehydration. Eventually we adjusted, though Elane took a bit longer. She’s still generous with moisturizers and balms to combat the dry air.
Now I barely feel the strain. This place makes you stronger, in more ways than one.
After thirty minutes, with my pulse surging in my ears, I slow to a walk, sweat cooling my skin. It makes me shiver.
I whirl at the distant feel of copper, adrenaline surging through my veins. In spite of my pride, I almost take off running.
“Ptolemus,” I mutter.
My brother picks his way across the compound, that same copper disc tucked away in his belt. A beacon, an anchor. A piece of metal that means we will never lose sight of each other on the battlefield. He wore it today, not because we’re going to war together, but because he wants me to feel him approaching. He wants to give me a chance to run away.
I grit my teeth and set my feet.
I owe him this much.
Technically, my brother is a king now. The second my father’s skull smashed on a ship deck, Tolly became King Ptolemus of the Rift, though none of us will ever acknowledge it. He looks like a shadow today, his silver hair plastered back, his body clad entirely in black. Not court clothing, or even something suitable for travel. As he gets closer, I realize he’s wearing a training suit like mine. Black leather, silver detailing. Enough stretch to move, but firm enough to blunt a blow. He’s ready to fight.
“Afternoon, Eve,” he says, his voice neither soft nor hard.
I can’t help but sigh, exasperated. At this point, I think I should just carry around a sign with I’M NOT GOING written on it.
“Is everyone following me? Are you all taking turns? Well, okay, Tolly, here’s your chance.”
The corner of his lips twitches, betraying the urge to smile. He glances at the trees. “You saw Wren already?”
“Wren?” I scoff. My stomach twists at the thought of facing down yet another person trying to sway me from my decision. Tolly’s girlfriend won’t press as much as the others, at least. “No, I haven’t seen her yet. But I’ve already gone through Elane and Carmadon. I think they rehearsed.”
“Elane maybe. Carmadon definitely.” Tolly chuckles, putting his hands on his hips. His stance broadens, highlighting the width of his shoulders. It makes him look like Cal. Just another soldier in the grand scheme of our mess. “I take it they didn’t have much luck.”
I raise my chin, defiant. “They did not. You won’t either.”
He doesn’t seem deterred. “I’m not here to try.”
“You’re not?”
Tolly shrugs, as if bored or uninterested. “No.” I look for the lie, but I can’t find it.
“Then . . . ?” I hesitate and glance around at the quiet training circle. Now that I think about it, this area shouldn’t be deserted. Not at this hour. We’re alone, left to do as we please. I suspect Davidson has something to do with it. Clearing the way for me wherever I go, giving my family an opportunity to try to change my path. They won’t, I tell myself. Stand your ground.
My brother isn’t bothered by my silence. He starts stretching instead, twisting his body to flex his arms. “I thought I’d get one last training session in before I go,” he says. “Care to join me?”
“You know I sort of invented this tactic.” My mind flashes to Mare Barrow and the training gym back at Ridge House. I sparred with her while Cal watched, and we beat each other into bloody pulps. Both to nudge Calore and Barrow closer to each other, but also to get Barrow’s head out of her own damn ass. I suspect my brother thinks he can do the same.
“What tactic?” he asks, widening his eyes in mock innocence. I don’t miss the way his fingers twitch. Tolly and I have sparred enough in our lives for him to know I strike hard, fast, and usually without warning.
Grinning, I start to circle him. He shifts to match my motions, never letting me get behind him or out of his eye line. “If you can’t convince them, beat them.”
“So you’re finally admitting I can beat you,” he says, puffing out his chest.
Buying time, I feel for any metal in the area. There isn’t much, and my meager jewelry won’t be sufficient to subdue someone like Ptolemus. “I did no such thing.”
He watches me with the Samos smile, a wolfish knife of a thing.