Duncan rubbed his hands over his face, left them there. “Jesus.”
“Do you think because I haven’t indulged in the pleasures of the flesh I don’t understand desire?”
“I don’t want to—” Dropping his hands, Duncan stared, those green eyes both fascinated and appalled. “Ever? No sex, as in seriously ever? No, no, don’t tell me. Talk about weird.”
“Body,” Mallick continued easily, “mind, spirit. There are some who find a mate in all three.”
“I’m not looking for a mate.”
Mallick nodded, sipped more wine. “When you don’t look, you don’t see.”
Enough, Duncan thought as he pushed to his feet. Just enough. “I’m going for a walk.”
Mallick sat where he was as Duncan strode out. The boy would brood, he thought. He’d also check the sentries, the security levels, do a spot check on the newer recruits.
The boy was a born soldier, a born leader, though he still had much to learn.
He would walk off his frustration and his brood, just as he would, eventually, meld his considerable courage with a faith he didn’t yet trust. He’d make his way to where he needed to be.
The world depended on it.
CHAPTER THREE
Fallon spent time with her maps, studied images in her crystal—and slipped into it to gather more intel. Out of habit, she trained before her family rose, in the dark before dawn, conjuring ghosts to battle.
She helped mix balms, potions, tonics because they were needed and the skill in creating them needed regular honing, like a good tool. She went on hunting parties, scouting parties, scavenged, as those skills required practice as well.
She’d learned from her parents that she couldn’t lead a community without being part of it. From Mallick she’d learned that training, studying, looking could never cease.
As she walked to the barracks, the air sang with the ring of steel against steel, the thump, thump of the dummy bullets (real ammo remained too precious for training), the whiz of arrows in flight.
She watched soldiers and potential soldiers fight their mock battles, with Colin shouting orders and insults with equal fervor.
“Fuck it, Riaz, you’re dead. Get the damn rocks out of your boots and move your feet! Get off your ass, Petrie. Catch your breath?” She heard him layer in so much incredulity, she snickered as he grabbed Petrie’s sword and used the enchanted blade to mock-slit Petrie’s throat. “Try breathing without a windpipe. Now give me fifty.”
Petrie, easily twice her brother’s age, rolled over. He may have snarled—silently—but he started counting off the push-ups.
The brand on Petrie’s wrist gleamed with sweat. He’d train, she thought, and would take orders from a teenager because he knew what it was to be a slave of the Purity Warriors.
The cult formed by the fanatical Jeremiah White branded magickals on the forehead with a pentagram. Then tortured and executed them. People like Petrie, the non-magickals, they marked as slaves, used as they chose—in the name of their merciless god.
So Petrie would train, he’d do the fifty, pick up his training sword, and fight back.
Some wouldn’t. Some freed from slavery or oncoming death wouldn’t pick up a sword or bow. That, she thought, was their choice. There were other ways to fight back. Planting, building, tending stock, teaching, sewing, weaving, cooking, treating the sick or injured, tending to children.
Many ways to fight.
Petrie had chosen the sword, and as he sweated out those fifty—arms quivering on the last five—she saw the potential soldier.
He’d train, she thought again, then she glanced over at the shouts.
Travis whipped another squad out of the woods, across the field, and through the last, brutal section of the obstacle course. A girl held the lead—maybe sixteen, Fallon judged, pale, pale white skin flushed now with effort. Delicate features, and a fierce determination in exotic eyes as she high-stepped through the old tires. She had a red streak—like a slash of defiance—in her hair while the long black tail of it bounced as she leaped onto the rope wall.
Climbed it like a lizard up a rock, Fallon noted with approval. Sweat soaked her shirt, ran down her face, but she swung over the ropes, charged up a narrow ramp to vault onto the next wall. She found her handholds, flipped over and down, then bolted over the finish.
A spotter called out her time. Twenty-three minutes, forty-one seconds.
Impressed, Fallon walked over, offered a canteen as a couple others hit the final wall.
“Thanks.”
“Marichu, right?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a damn good time.”
Marichu swiped away sweat. “You still hold the record at twenty-one twelve. I’ll beat it.”