Page 36 of The Ninth Element

Just as my knees start to wobble, a voice booms from behind Kortyz, “What in the nine hells is going on here?”

A Martyshgard is standing in the nearest doorway, his face filled with suspicion. Kortyz plasters that slimy smirk back on his face. “Just some friendly chatter, sir. Nothing to see.”

Oh, there is plenty to see, you weasel.

I sidestep Kortyz’s encroaching form and nearly sprint past him, and the Martyshgard as my heart rumbles in my chest. Once in the open bailey, I lean against the cool stone wall, close my eyes, and take a deep breath.

“That was a close call, huh?” A cheerful voice startles me. Lila, the Kishi girl, stands nearby, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed.

I gape at her. “Did you… Did you see everything?”

“I saw it all,” she says, her voice calm and nonchalant. “That’s why I called the Martyshgard.”

I stare at her, speechless. Why? Why would she help me? Darian’s betrayal, for my sake, had cost her fellowship dearly. The Kishis are down to four. And yet… she intervened.

“What?” she says with a hint of amusement in her voice and a smirk on her lips. “I may not be fond of Ahiras, as a general rule, but you… You’re different. And nobody deserves to be cornered by those slimy, disgusting southern Myrans.”

With a wink and a playful wave, she vanishes into the keep, leaving me standing there, stunned and more than a little bewildered. It’s not until her figure is completely gone, swallowed by the darkness, that I realize I never even thanked her.

Chapter Twelve

Bahador’s training is no joke; it pushes me to my limits without crossing the line into cruelty. As I awkwardly parry his blows with my thin sword, sweat stings my eyes and my frustration battles with admiration for his skill.

“You announce your moves like the town crier.” He chuckles, his golden eyes twinkling with amusement. “Hear ye, hear ye! I, Arien, shall now attempt a feeble jab to the left!”

“I’m trying, all right?” I grumble. “It isn’t my fault I’ve spent more time with potions and scrolls than sparring partners.”

“You’re better than I expected, though,” he says with a shrug. “Not bad for a bookworm.”

“Hey, knowledge is power. You never know when a well-placed historical quote might disarm your opponent.”

Bahador laughs at my joke. “True enough. But brains won’t help you if you can’t stand your ground. Besides, a little muscle never hurt anyone, especially in a place like this.”

He winks in a casual, almost playful gesture and then wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. As I watch him, I am struck again by how handsome he is.

It is as if he were sculpted from pure sunshine and mischief. His golden eyes, his bronze-brown skin, the confident smirk playing on his lips.He has the dangerous allure of a forbidden pastry, which makes one want to grab a spoon and dive headfirst into a sugar rush. No wonder he is the center of attention for every woman in the vicinity. I’d bet my favorite scroll that he leaves a trail of swooning admirers wherever he goes.

“All right. All right. More training, then?” I say, even though my breathing is still labored.

Bahador’s smile widens, and I swear I hear a chorus of angels singing in the distance. “Now you’re talking. But this time, try and surprise me.”

Over the next hour, I practice the same move repeatedly, and with each swing, my movements become smoother and more precise.

“There you go!” Bahador exclaims, a genuine smile lighting up his face as the wooden target splinters and crashes to the ground with the force of my sword hitting dead-center. “See? I told you! Natural talent. Just needed a bit of practice.” He heads toward the training rack. “Now, how about we celebrate your progress with a tankard of ale?”

Bahador’s words catch me off guard, and I look at him in surprise. “Is there a tavern here?”

“Didn’t I mention it? I managed to secure an invitation to the Martyshgards’s secret gathering. Come along; we’ll meet the others there and raise a glass to your newfoundskills.”

With a wink and a reassuring smile, he strides away before I can even think to decline.

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The Salty Flagon lives up to its name. Tucked away in the southern wing, the tavern smells of stale ale and woodsmoke, two scents that cling to my skin as I shift uncomfortably on the rickety stool.

This isn’t the sort of place you’d find in Fire Temple, that is for certain. This place is alive, messy, unorganized, and loud in a way Fire Temple could never be.

Tables and chairs that look like they’d been salvaged from a shipwreck fill the space. The ceiling is a tangle of rough-hewn beams, thick with soot and cobwebs. The air is heavy with smoke—the good, honest sort that comes from a roaring fire.

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