Chapter 17

“Balthasar sent me to bring you to the arena.” He pauses. “Chancery.”

His eyes meet mine, and my hands shake. “I know where the arena is. I don’t need a babysitter.”

He bows stiffly, a quick bob of his golden head. “He wasn’t sure whether you were coming.” Edam glances at his watch pointedly. “It’s already three-eleven.”

“Mom and I were caught up—” I gulp. “Well, I’m running a little late. I’m sorry.”

I’m not sure how Cookie will react if I’m injured during training today, which I assume is a given, so I open my door again and signal Cookie to stay in my room. She whimpers, but she listens. I wonder as my rubber soled shoes squeak their way across the marble tiles of the hallway, how Annihilator, Lyssa’s wolfhound, is doing. Not that I can do much about it.

Is Gray down with Lark? Or did they stuff her greyhound and Lyssa’s wolfhound in the same kennel?

I barely notice when Edam falls in beside me. He doesn’t speak, and I have no idea what to say to him, so I don’t breathe a word either.

We zig and zag around work crews replacing lights and circuits in the massive lobby. The entire palace has only one floor, but with twenty-foot ceilings, it looks two stories high from the exterior. It sprawls over most of the center of the plateau on the island, which gives us visibility on all sides if any aircraft, boats, or even submarines approach. With today’s technological advances, we could probably move somewhere with less visibility, but after today’s EMP, Mom will probably be less inclined to rely on tech than ever. She knows the five rival families will never stop vying for control, and Alamecha is at the top, which makes it everyone else’s number one target.

Edam and I don’t have to walk in awkward silence for long, because the training arena is right around the corner from my room. One wall of the arena is composed almost entirely of glass so we should have enough light to train, even if the circuitry replacements haven’t reached this area. Judging by the lack of overhead lighting, they haven’t. I brace myself as Edam pushes the solid wooden double doors open and we walk through into the cavernous room. It’s a good thing I do, because I immediately see what the door was blocking, the only thing worse than Judica.

Judica brandishing a broad sword.

“Sister.” She glares at me from the center of one of the training rings.

“Well met.” It’s a traditional evian response, but I don’t even try to sound like I mean it.

Balthasar tosses something at me and I catch it by reflex, then stagger back almost into the doorframe from the unexpected heft. I’m lucky he tossed the sword hilt down or I’d have sliced my hand in the process. “I don’t really fight with a sword,” I say. “The challenge today was my first time to use one, actually. I prefer to work on target practice with a handgun, a bow, or a slingshot—”

“We’ve used swords for six thousand years,” Balthasar says. “Are you saying you don’t value tradition?”

“Of course I do, but I’m suggesting that training should be tailored to a person’s strengths.”

He scowls. “And after your pathetic display earlier, no one would ever mistake swordplay as one of yours.”

My face heats. “I never claimed it was.” I lift my arm and groan from the effort. “And even if I had, this thing weighs a ton. I’d choose a lighter weapon.”

“It is massive.” Balthasar selects another sword from one of the racks that line the back wall, an even heavier one, and holds it aloft. “Do you know why these swords all weigh a ton?”

I shrug. “Because they’re made of metal?”

He snorts. “Indeed, but the weight helps us. With our perfect muscles, if we exercise them properly, the weight isn’t burdensome for long and it increases our momentum. You may be good with a handgun, but do you have any idea how many bullets I can take without slowing down?”

I shake my head. “Five? Ten?”

“I’ve taken more than twelve without noticeably changing my speed. You want to stop a member of one of the pure evian bloodlines? You better have a sword. Chop off their head, sever their spine, or remove a limb, or they’ll keep hacking at you.” He slams the sword, point down, into the black mat that covers the arena floor. “Let’s not waste any more time. Your mother told me you’re competent with basic forms, but you haven’t spent much time integrating weapons into combat. Is that true?” Balthasar’s hair is streaked liberally with white, but his face is still unlined and the muscles in his arms ripple with strength as he crosses them.

“The Empress is never wrong. I’m passable at hand-to-hand and projectile weapons.” I square my shoulders and step up into the sparring ring. He doesn’t want to waste time talking, huh? Fine. “Our cue will be?”

Judica chokes out a laugh.

Balthasar looks confused. “Your cue?”

“Melodics uses cues.” Edam’s eyebrows are raised. “But surely you know that cladius doesn’t.”

I will not blush. “I didn’t know that, but I won’t apologize for being trained traditionally. The Heir of Alamecha has been trained in melodics for six thousand years. You mentioned tradition as the reason for the sword.”

Judica practically growls. “You aren’t Heir.”

I shrug. She’s right, at least, as far as she knows. And I don’t want her to be wrong. “I’m sorry. I said the ‘Heir,’ but I didn’t mean the Heir so much as the children of the queen, as in anyone who is an heir.”

“Melodics suck,” Judica says. “Everyone tossed them as a training method over a century ago when the first Sword Master not trained in melodics won the Centennial Games. Even Inara wasn’t trained in melodics.”

“Melina was,” I say.

Judica scrunches her nose. “You’re making my case for me.”

I can’t quite keep my nostrils from flaring, but I don’t allow my heart to race. And I don’t clench my fists or grit my teeth.

“Mother only indulges her nostalgia with you because you don’t matter.”

“Mom has a reason for everything she does.”

“Enough talking,” Balthasar says. “No musical cues, Chancery. Your mother instructed me to catch you up. Here we cross swords, sweep back and begin. On my mark.”

Mark or cue, it’s all semantics. Something starts them off. They’re just being obnoxious.

Balthasar claps three times, and suddenly I’m bringing my sword up to block Judica, who’s swinging at me with an ecstatic grin and a maniacal glint in her eyes. I duck and dive her blade a time or two, but those moves back me into the edge of the dais quickly.

And she’s still slashing at me like a gas-powered weed whacker. I turn and block, the impact of her strikes shaking my entire arm. Since I received my first lesson at age five, I’ve never fought without musical cues, other than my match against Lark this morning. Thinking about my loss, Lyssa’s subsequent death, and Lark’s current imprisonment crushes any energy I had for this stupid exercise.

I hate every second of this.

I’m already sweating pretty badly when Judica slices my forearm wide open. Blood mixes with sweat and runs down my arm to drip on the mat. Red blotches stand out against the khaki colored mat like hibiscus blossoms.

“Yield?” Judica asks, grinning like a feral cat.

I step back against the wall for a moment and look down at the gash on my arm. The white of my bone gleams, distracting me, so I close my eyes and ignore the pain. I focus instead on the blood, the vessels, and the muscle tissue. I open my eyes and watch the miracle happen. I’ve always loved watching evian bodies in action, but healing my own injuries sucks. The distraction of the pain nearly eclipses the wonder. Even so, my muscles knit together, my skin regrows in front of my eyes and seconds later, my arm is still covered in blood, but is otherwise completely whole again.

I look up at my sister’s triumphant face and I say, “Yield to you?” I think about Lark and how Judica didn’t even care that her mother died. How she fully supports all the horrible rules we evians live by. How she hates Lark for being half-human. “Not today.”

She growls and hacks at me again. I clench my hand around the hilt of my huge sword and block. Several minutes later, I’m still on defense. I’m backing in tight circles while Judica thwacks away after me, occasionally nicking my hand, my shoulder, or my arm.

“Melodics,” Judica mutters. “Mother’s a moron, and you’re even worse.”

For the first time since beginning our session, anger overwhelms my sorrow. Judica may fight better than me in this barbarous way, obviously, but that’s not Mom’s fault. I’m angry with Mom for killing Lyssa and leaving Lark defenseless, but Mom didn’t have a choice. Mom always does the best she can. How dare Judica criticize her?

I feint left, which my twin sees coming, but when she brings her sword in a sweep toward me, I step in closer to her and slam the pommel of my sword into her face. I try not to shudder at the crunch from breaking her nose.

“Yield, sister?” I mock.

She spits blood in my face and knees me in the gut. I double over in pain, focusing on healing my bruised rib while she repairs her face. Seconds later, I’m standing again, sword ready.

“Why are you even here?” Judica whispers so quietly only I can hear. “Shouldn’t you be with Mom, gloating over your little party trick?”

I stumble back. “Actually, just this morning I begged Mom to let me leave and live with Alora. I still want that.”

I don’t know quite what I expected. Gratitude? In my wildest imagination, maybe even a hug, or a gentle smile? Judica never does what I expect, so I’m not sure why I thought she’d start now. Something I said got through to her, but not in the way I hoped.

“I should thank you, then.” Judica isn’t whispering now. She’s practically shouting. “Is that what you want? My undying gratitude?”

I’m in trouble. Judica was taunting me earlier, but she wasn’t angry, not really. She was having a bad day, sure. She was cranky, but she wasn’t angry. I’d been fighting a semi-pleasant Judica, or maybe even a nervous and unsure Judica, all without realizing it. Now, even through the blood smeared across the lower half of her face from where I broke her nose, it’s clear she’s pissed.

Suddenly I’m fending off an angry bee, and I keep getting stung. She slices my right arm and then before I can heal it, my left. And my cheek, my left thigh. Each injury drains me, but she doesn’t let up, not for a split second.

I successfully block a jab aimed at my right lung, but she’s so strong that the impact causes me to stumble backward. That’s when she takes her shot. She sideswipes me and kicks my knee cap. Pain from the shattered knee suffuses me as I crumple in a heap. I knew she was angry, but her next move is still a shock.

Her sword arcs downward at full speed, aimed at my exposed throat. Time slows, and I realize she’s going to kill me, here and now. Evians heal from most anything, but not severed heads.