that I may secure the nicest of the lot. No one should be privy to them before they are offered to the future queen. Until then …” She holds up the dress, beaming. “I’ll get finished with this one straightaway, Your Highness.”
When she leaves, Corrin taps the paper. “I’ve already counted. There are five sheets of equal shape and size.” She gives me a look.
“So, no secret messages to my accomplices who I can’t remember? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Not unless you’d like to earn the king’s mistrust,” she retorts, ignoring my sarcasm.
“I have that.” And I’m guessing it’s worse after yesterday. I haven’t seen him since. I shake my head. “Who am I going to send messages to? Honestly, Corrin, you could have been conspiring with me, and I’d have no idea.”
A startled—and horrified—look flashes across her face. “Enjoy your afternoon, Your Highness.” She spins and marches out.
I sigh. I need to learn to keep my mouth shut.
If someone had told me that listening to deadly blades clashing would be soothing, I would have thought them crazy. And yet here I am as the sun wanes and the air cools, settled in my makeshift patio furniture—a chair and table I dragged from my bedroom—discomforted by the silence that blooms below me after hours of melees and shouted instruction.
I set the dulled graphite pencil down and stand to stretch my legs. An array of people have occupied the square all afternoon—noblemen and a few women, royal guards, their skills varying greatly, and soldiers dressed like Abarrane who fight with incomparable speed and grace.
Now a group of ten children line up in the square, gripping wooden staffs in two hands, waiting eagerly as their instructor approaches. They can’t be more than seven years old.
Abarrane is rigid and purposeful as she strolls toward the weapons rack to collect her staff. She has bathed since I saw her in the throne room and swapped her brown leather outfit for a similar one in all black. Her blond hair is freshly plaited in three thick braids.
She looks no less fierce standing before these children. Are they her elite soldiers of tomorrow? Her future Legion, here for their training?
“Stance!” she barks, and her pupils jump, repositioning their feet and their grips, holding their staves in the air before them.
“One!” she commands, jabbing with a measured thrust, the muscle in her arms honed to perfection, her form taut.
The children mimic her, though less gracefully.
“Two!” She spins and stabs the air. “Three!” She continues counting and working through thrusts and spins and pivots by rote, and the students follow, some clumsily, others with surprising skill for ones so young, all with potent enthusiasm.
They’re immortal children, I’m assuming, if Abarrane is training them to fight. Born courtesy of the magic in the nymphaeum. I still know little of these elven and even less about the Islorian version, but I’m piecing bits together. Zander said this body just passed its twenty-fifth birthday, so I assume these children will develop as humans do up to a certain age. In as little as ten years, these kids could be full-grown soldiers.
But do they feed off humans? Do they have the same bloodlust that Zander and the others do?
“You’re slow today, Abarrane!” a familiar voice teases.
My smile falters as Zander comes into view, but it’s quickly followed by a heart skip that I can’t explain. I should despise him. I should be repulsed by what he is. And yet I’m not.
“I would like to see how fast His Highness moves after three days without rest.” Abarrane pauses her instruction to bow—no curtsy from this warrior—and the children rush to do the same, tripping over their feet, two dropping their staves.
“You may be surprised to learn I’m ahead of you in that regard.” He shucks his jacket and shifts into the square, rolling up the sleeves of his black tunic to reveal sinewy forearms. “Continue.”
With a secretive smile, Abarrane executes the routine again, her voice sharp and commanding, even as she moves with the grace of a dancer. The children follow suit with more zeal and with frequent glances at the hovering king, their eyes wide. They want to impress him.
Zander walks quietly between them, sliding in to adjust a stance and point out form weaknesses and errors, guiding them on ways to improve. The children listen, punctuating their moves with eager nods.
Again and again, they practice, each time their strikes smoother, their form more fluid, their strength steadier.
Zander’s usually hard face is