Mist's Edge (The Broken Lands #2) - T.A. White Page 0,70

any time in the training ring with Trenton. The man was a sadist who took an inordinate amount of pleasure in leaving Shea black and blue after their sparing sessions. “Is this newfound enthusiasm because you’ve finally decided to get serious about weapons training, or are you just looking to blow off a little steam?”

A gemlike stare was his only response.

“Blowing off steam it is.” He gave her the best half bow he could from his sideways walking position. “Happy to be of service.”

Of that Shea had no doubt.

*

Trenton had been merciless in drilling her in defensive sword maneuvers, leaving a stinging rebuke anytime she failed to keep her guard up sufficiently. It left for an interesting number of bruises, several on her posterior, which seemed a favorite target of his when she over-extended her defense. Shea winced as she shifted position.

“Stop fidgeting,” Daere said, without bothering to spare Shea a glance. “It makes you look uncomfortable.”

Shea gave the other woman a sour glare. That’s because she was uncomfortable.

Somehow Daere had convinced her to wear the Trateri version of formal clothes for this dinner, saying that they needed to present a united and impressive front to the villagers. Her hair had been half pulled back from her face in a nest of small, interwoven braids. The rest had been curled and left to spill down her neck. The girls had managed to leave Shea looking like she had way more hair than she had.

They’d brushed a shimmering brown-gold powder on her eyelids and tinted her eyelashes black. They then dusted a lighter version of that powder along her cheekbones and jawline. On her lips they’d left a stain so red that Shea looked like she’d painted them with blood. The effect was stunning, if the mirror they’d shoved her in front of was anything to go by.

Even her outfit hadn’t been safe from their attention. They’d forced her into a sleeveless shirt of deepest blue, made of a silky fabric Shea had never felt before. She ran her fingers along the hem of the shirt, impressed by the feel of it against her skin. It felt cool and refreshing, despite the slumbering heat and humidity of the forest. It framed her breasts in a V while fitting well enough that she wasn’t afraid she’d spill out during the climb up. A belt cinched her waist above an almost transparent loose skirt of the same color. The skirt had high slits on either side, almost up to her ass. Shea had refused to wear it when Daere first presented it, stating she had no plans on flashing everyone her personal bits just because Daere wanted to play dress-up. Daere had rolled her eyes and given her a pair of tight-fitting calf length pants the color of gold to wear under it. The outfit managed to be provocative and modest at the same time, striking a balance between Lowland sensibilities and the hedonism the Trateri embraced on occasion.

Around Shea’s throat a torque of gold had been fitted. The two ends were that of a hawk’s wings clasped around a sapphire stone—a symbol of the Hawkvale. The torque around her bicep had a hawk’s head with sapphires for eyes.

Daere had a similar amount of gold around her throat and arms. She wore an outfit similar to Shea’s, only her legs were bare of the pants Shea had insisted on. She looked regal and beautiful, and ever the Trateri.

It left a strange yearning in Shea. No matter how she tried, she just could never seem to fit in totally. It left her trying to own her strangeness. It was harder than it used to be, like a skin that was just a little too tight.

She fiddled with one of the bracelets clasped around her wrist, the weight an unaccustomed feeling.

“You look fine,” Daere said. From the tone, Shea was betting Daere was trying not to roll her eyes.

Fallon, Braden and Darius came around the tree trunk, a low rumble the only warning of their approach. They, like the women, were dressed in Trateri finest. Their chests were bare and glistening, each wearing a sleeveless tunic. Gold torques similar to Shea’s and Daere’s were wrapped around their throats and biceps. Fitted leather pants completed the look.

Fallon’s hair was pulled back on the sides in tiny braids. The top had been slicked into a half Mohawk. Black paint streaked along his temples to the corner of his eyelids, framing those whiskey-colored eyes and making them even