shoot it. When Gerrit demonstrated combat weaves, sousednia became a morass of blood and diesel smoke, but the resonances he claimed to create eluded her.
She kept searching for the key to translating Gerrit-weaves into Celka-weaves, but she left their practice sessions feeling wrung out and stupid. Even the way his weaves worked seemed wrong. They modified a weapon’s material, making it stronger, straighter, sharper. As sure as Celka knew how hard to pull on her storm-thread, she knew combat magic could be so much more.
“Daydreaming?” Ctibor asked.
Celka startled, jerking the pistol. She concentrated back on the front sight and fired. The gun wobbled, but not as bad as when she’d first started.
“Remember to breathe out as you fire,” Ctibor said, voice rumbling warm over her shoulder.
She focused on her breathing and fired.
“Better,” he said.
Again. Again. Again.
Her hands started to ache.
“Take a break,” Ctibor said.
She flipped the safety and set the gun on the workbench, muzzle carefully away from them, training the instincts that would keep her safe once the gun was loaded. She shook out her hands.
Ctibor handed her a water flask, his smile more reserved than the one he used in his sideshow act, private. “My turn.”
She snorted. “Yeah, like you need the practice.”
He tipped his head as though she might be joking. “Do you stop practicing on the low wire as soon as you’ve performed beneath the big top?”
“Of course not, we—” Her cheeks flushed hot. “Right.”
He took position where she’d stood. “In training, we did dry fire exercises every day. It’s cheaper than shooting real bullets, and it trains you differently. You don’t worry about the recoil or the noise; you drill proper technique into muscle memory.”
She watched him fire, faster than her, but no crazed flurry. He took his time, breathed.
“So, being a guard,” she asked into the silence broken only by the gun’s click, click. “Shouldn’t that be a Tayemstvoy job?”
“I wasn’t going to guard the Stormhawk.”
Celka waited, curiosity eating her. “No?”
“Army officers, mostly. And elite bozhki.”
Celka’s stomach did a twisty flip. He fired five times before she managed, “Did you ever... train with the mages?”
“Sometimes.”
She searched his profile, wanting to ask more but afraid he’d realize why. He stayed focused on the gun, and somehow the pistol’s rhythmic firing made it easier to ask, “Did you know that boy the Tayemstvoy were looking for?”
“I met a lot of bozhki.” He handed her the gun, butt first. “Your turn.”
She tried to concentrate on her trigger pull while her mind churned. Ctibor stayed at her side, watchful, occasionally touching her elbow or reminding her to lean into what would be the gun’s recoil. But the gun wobbled, no matter how she took in the trigger’s slack or breathed out before pulling through the break.
“Ctibor, why are you helping me?”
“I don’t want to see you hurt.”
Sousednia smelled like truth around him, like it always did since he’d told her about the Army. Her throat tightened. “So you’re just... being a guard?”
“No. Yes. I mean, not just.” He sighed. “I like you.”
“But?”
He shook his head. “And.”
“And?” She focused on gripping her right hand hard with her left and pulled the trigger.
“I saw lightning hit the snake trailer,” he said. “Twice.”
The gun flinched hard to the side when she fired. Feeling like she was teetering on the high wire, she faced him. “What are you saying?” He couldn’t know. No one could know.
“I read my gospel. You’re storm-blessed, Celka.” He spoke calm and even. “I’ve seen your storm-scar.” He touched the base of his skull, mirroring where her scar branched out.
She pressed her hand over the scar. “I thought I could hide it.”
That private smile quirked his lips. “I’ve spent a lot of time looking over your shoulder. I doubt anyone else has noticed.” He reached out, sweeping back a strand of hair, fingers brushing her neck. She wasn’t sure whether to flinch or lean into his touch. “Besides, I was looking.”
“When the Tayemstvoy questioned you, what did you tell them?” Her voice shook.
“They were looking for that boy. If the lightning was you, it wasn’t him.”
“You lied to the Tayemstvoy for me?”
Solemn, he nodded.
Celka searched his sousedni-cues, trying to understand why he would risk his life for her. The springtime garden scent wrapped around him, warm and comforting but no less mysterious.
“It’s why you got the gun, isn’t it?” he asked. “To imbue.”
She shook her head but couldn’t voice the lie.
“It’s not safe, Celka. The Tayemstvoy will follow the lightning strikes. That first time could have been a