Page 31 of A Song of Ash and Moonlight

He watched me curiously for a moment, then obeyed. “One. Two. Four. Two. Three. One.”

This time, I tried something different. This time, I thought of music. When I played my piano, I didn’t think of each individual note, nor of the minute movements my fingers and arms and torso had to make in order to strike the correct keys. I thought of the phrasing, how a series of notes flowed and ebbed, how they changed tempo—slow, fast, slowing, now faster—how their dynamics carried them from soft to loud and back again. The theme was the important thing, the overall idea of the piece, thefeelingthe composer and the performer wanted the audience to experience as they listened. When I played my piano, rhythm fed tempo, tempo danced with dynamics,and each note, though precious on its own, was merely a part of the larger whole. When I sang, I was always thinking of the next phrase and where it would take me: the shape of the piece, the flavor of it, its rises and falls. Breathing through and past each peak and valley, working with the natural contour of each string of notes, and allowing them to help me rather than treating them as obstacles to dissect and conquer.

So, this time when I punched, the breath in my lungs became an aria, my feet on the ground worked piano pedals, the pistons of my arms were my fiddle and bow. Instead of agonizing over my body’s individual movements, I breathed through every blow and jab, imagining each of them as just another tone in an arpeggio of muscle and breath.

When Ryder finally stopped calling out numbers, my head, arms, and fists were humming with energy—not the same kind of rightness I felt after playing my piano, but a small, stuttering sliver of that. I stepped back, wiped the sweaty hair from my face, and grinned.

Ryder, standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, gave me a small smile right back. “What did you do differently?”

“I’m a musician,” I answered archly. “I found my rhythm.”

He raised an eyebrow, and his smile grew. “Part of it, anyway. You still missed about half the targets.”

“But how was I moving? It was better, wasn’t it? Just tell me it was, even if it’s a lie. I feel too good right now to receive criticism.”

“What an insolent student you are,” he said, but he was still smiling as he turned to start unhooking the targets, and the sight warmed me from head to toe, emboldening me.

“When do I get to start fightingyou?” I asked.

He paused, then turned. I couldn’t decipher the look on his face; when his gaze locked with mine, I felt a little shiver of anticipation.

“We could try sparring a little right now,” he said slowly, “just fora few minutes, before luncheon.”

“Wonderful.” I put up my fists and got into position. “Let’s do it, then.”

He smirked. “So eager to punch me in the face.”

“Am I that obvious?”

“To me you are,” he said quietly, but before I could think about what he meant by that, he swiveled around and let his fist fly at me. I ducked, felt the air of his punch whoosh past me, and stumbled back on my heels a little, but I caught myself and spun around before he could strike again. I bounced on the balls of my feet, looking at him from behind the wall of my fists. He was wickedly fast and much stronger than me, but I couldn’t deliberate forever. I breathed in and out, and then I struck out at his face with my fingers bared. I could claw an eye out, I could rake my nails across his cheeks; these were things he had taught me. But he dodged my blow and punched low; his fist landed squarely on my stomach, and even though I knew he was holding back for my sake, the impact still knocked the wind out of me. He took the opportunity to grab me around my middle and yank me back against him.

At first, stunned, I could only struggle ineffectually in his arms. His chest was a wall at my back, his grip like iron, and my vision was still a little fuzzy from the blow to my stomach.

“Think, Farrin,” he said quietly, his breath hot against my ear, his lips grazing my skin. Goose bumps raced down my arms, and before he could dothatagain, my senses returned. I stomped hard on his instep, and he swore and released me. I slipped away and grabbed the wooden staff leaning against the nearby wall; I held the thing with both hands, not entirely sure what do with it, and whirled around to fling it at him.

But he was ready; of course he was ready. He’d grabbed the other fighting staff, and it met mine with a huge crack that hurt my teeth. Ipushed hard against his weapon with my own, but I was closer to the wall than I’d realized, and with a single hard push, he had me trapped against it.

Our gazes locked above the cross of our staffs. I was gratified to see that he was breathing hard; he’d won, but I’d made him work for it.

I grinned at him, giddy and exhausted, my head still ringing from our staffs crashing together. And then he did the most remarkable thing. His face softened as he looked down at me, and he reached out with one hand—his other still held his staff against mine, pinning me against the wall—and gently brushed a sweaty strand of hair from my cheek.

“Well done, Farrin,” he said quietly.

I stared at him, my heart thundering. I’d never seen Ryder like this, never seen such a tender look on that rough bearded face of his. I didn’t understand it, and I didn’t understand my own response to it. I was trapped, vulnerable and outmatched, his tall, broad frame looming over me, but I didn’t feel unsafe. Far from it. In fact, I found myself leaning toward him, wishing desperately, unthinkably, that he would touch my cheek again. Something about that touch felt familiar; if he did it again, I would lean into it, grab his hand, and hold it against my skin.

“I…” I couldn’t think of what to say. I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry. I wet my lips and felt a panicked sort of thrill when I saw his gaze drop to my mouth. “Did I hurt you? You know, when…when I stomped on you?”

“I’ll live.” He smiled a little, and then something dark and sad fell over his face, and he lowered his staff and turned away from me. He walked back to the hanging targets and resumed putting them away.

The abrupt dismissal galled me for reasons I couldn’t explain. I marched over to him. “What was that about?”

“What was what about?” he said flatly, not looking at me.

“The…” I gestured at the wall. “You…”

He turned to look at me straight on, waiting for me to speak. But I didn’t know how to put into words how it had felt when he’d touched me, how I hadn’t been frightened to be shoved up against the wall by a man who was until recently a sworn enemy, how I had in fact been…

Bristling, mortified by my own realization, I stepped back from him, holding my staff in front of me like a shield, but before either of us could say another word, there was a thunderous roar from outside and a cacophony of flapping wings.

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