Page 7 of Trial of Three
Autumn snorts.
“I don’t wantmedistractingyou,” River says, eyes flashing. “You can involve yourself in politics and strategyafteryou master your powers. Learning control is a better use of your time than listening to me explain all the nuances of these reports—without which the conversation with Klarissa would make little sense to you.”
Go play with Coal while the grownups talk.“If training my magic is so important, how come we’ve not attempted to work with your earth affinity?” I ask sweetly. “Not since before we even knew me to be a weaver.”
River runs a hand through his hair. A tell. The prince is worried. About me? The reports? Something else? My body tightens, the not knowing like a scrape of nails on stone.
“You cannot catch up on three centuries of political intrigue in three weeks, Leralynn,” he says finally. No apology, not even a hint of one, shining behind his gray eyes. “We all have our duties. Just now, yours is to harness magic and mine is to confer with Klarissa on these reports she sent me.”
My blood sizzles. “And if I insist,Prince?”
Reaching across the table, River takes hold of my chin, his grip tightening when I attempt to jerk free. “Then I will order you to stand down, Leralynn,” he says without blinking an eye. “And you will obey.”
5
Lera
Iwalk with Coal to the sparring ring in silence, barely noticing the gleaming white buildings and flowering vines, the manicured lawns and bustle of scholars and warriors going about their business. In my own way, I’ve become used to the Citadel—its toxic sweetness and echoing grandness.
The conversation with River still burns in my chest, making bile crawl up my throat. It’s good that it’s Coal working with me today. Good that in a few minutes I’ll be knocked about so hard, I won’t have time to fume over River’s orders. Good that I’ll have somebody I can try to kill.
“I heard,” Coal says, his voice a low rumble.
“Heard what?” I focus on the sand in front of us, raked smooth by the Citadel’s invisible servants, the fence around it showing a fresh coat of white paint.
The warrior taps his pointed ear. “Your argument with River. Everyone in the suite did.”
Damn fae and their bloody hearing. And here I thought it was the early hour that kept the other males out of the common room. Fine. It wasn’t a secret. “River is a bastard.”
“Yes.” Coal vaults over the fence while I opt for the gate. “But he’s also right.”
My jaw tightens but I keep my thoughts to myself. I’m not going to discuss River with Coal, not when I can’t discussCoalwith Coal. The male saved my life back in the trial arena, plunging himself into his own nightmares until they overwhelmed him. Forcing his strange magic to lash out in agony and bridge the gap between us.
It was Coal’s power flowing through my veins, my muscles, my heart, that let me fight off Malikai. And yet when the fight ended... Coal said nothing of it. Not when I asked. Not when I woke drenched in sweat, the echoes of Coal’s nightmares shaking my body. Certainly not when those nightmares flickered inhisblue eyes, turning them a shade of purple.
All my males have sacrificed so much for my sake—surrendering their dignity to wear the runes of Citadel initiates, suffering echoes of hell to grant me magic, offering their lives for mine—but discussing it? That’s a bridge too far.
Pulling off the wide sash holding the uniform tunic against his body, Coal hangs the cloth on the waist-high rail. A moment later, he grabs the back of his shirt with thickly corded arms, drawing it over his head without disturbing a single hair in his tight blond bun. My mouth dries, my hands suddenly longing to touch Coal in a way that has nothing to do with combat. His bare torso is smooth and defined enough to make a sculptor jealous, the hard pectorals mirroring the carved squares of his abdomen. A thin pink line snakes around the curve of his left shoulder, the fading footprint of a whip’s tail that must have wrapped itself around his flesh last week. I know the view from the back is far worse, last week’s lashings joining a crisscrossed pattern of old scars from his days in Mors, nearly covering up the odd tattoo twining down his spine.
My jaw tightens. As he dismissed my request this morning, River didn’t fight against Coal’s punishment either, not even when I begged the prince to keep Coal away from the whipping post. A commander and his underlings. Seeing that pink line on Coal’s skin, I realize just how sick of River’s attitude I’m getting.
Coal’s piercing blue gaze follows the path of mine and hardens. “Stop worrying about my flesh and start worrying for your own.”
Well, at least he didn’t guess the other reason I was gazing at his chest. Grabbing a practice sword off a rack, the male tosses it into my hands before selecting another weapon for himself. He swings the sword in a wide, lazy circle, even that casual movement a study in precision. “Speaking of which, Shade’s healing magic is still recovering, so whatever marks you collect this morning are yours to keep.”
I twirl the wood, getting used to its weight. A month ago I’d never even held a weapon, and now the blade greets me like—well, it would be a lie to call it afriend, but perhaps an acquaintance. A translator. If normal beings use words and phrases to communicate, Coal prefers blows and parries. I tie my unruly auburn hair back into a knot and bring the practice blade to ready guard. “Save your breath, Coal. I’ve not been afraid of you for some time.”
Coal’s eyes darken, flecks of purple flashing through the brilliant blue. “That is a mistake, mortal.” His low voice sends a shiver down my spine. Before I can respond—before I can think—the male swings his blade into my sword arm.
I hear the strike before I feel it, a limb-numbing pain that explodes inside my flesh. I swallow a shout, only the threat of a repeat blow keeping my weapon in my hand. Bastard. Bloody sadistic bastard. Every thought of caressing Coal’s velvet muscles goes out of my mind in an instant. Blood simmers in my veins, pulsing through my newly forming welt. Through my head. My world narrows to Coal.
His blade circles back, his muscles rippling beneath bare skin. The weapon twirls smartly in the air and snaps for my skull.
Planting my foot in the sand, I thrust my blade up to parry the blow. The wooden swords meet deafeningly above my head, making my teeth clank together as my arms buckle beneath the strain. That attack—it too was harder than it needed to be.
“What the hell are you doing?” I gasp, stepping away from the clash just before Coal’s sword smashes through both my defense and my head. “Are you insane?”
“Insane?” Coal parrots, aiming for my knees. When I jump away to save myself from a shattered joint, the tip of his blade cruelly clips my shoulder. “Insane is a weaver playing with magic instead of controlling it. Insane is a mortal challenging the quint’s commander. Insane”—Coal circles me, his sword slicing a pattern of deadly blows—“is training the same way and expecting a different result.”
