Page 64 of A Touch of Stars and Stones
The dress from last night hangs on the wardrobe as I walk past to the bathing room. In the small mirror over the basin, I look at the pendant now around my throat. With everything that happened last night, I didn’t want to look at it, not too closely, a constant reminder that it cost me Lyle.
Now I pick it up between my fingers and assess it.
Framed by two crescent moons of gold is an oval disk, also in gold. And at the centre, a dark stone, glinting and hinting of colours and riches in its sparkly depths.
Small lines radiate from the stone, making it look like the sun—a dark and dangerous version of the sun, at least, the moon holding it hostage.
I drop it back to where it now lives, at the base of my throat, raise my hand and study the ring I’ve grown accustomed to wearing since leaving my home. The same dark stone, just smaller, sits in the centre, in a similar gold disk with a single crescent moon at the base.
They could be a pair. Similar enough, yet the material is different, the colouring of the gold, the texture…
Flashes of images spear into my mind, stuttering one after the other. Flames, the forest, the sky, the sun, all running into one another.
I force my eyes open and see the usually pale green colour of them replaced by such darkness that it threatens to pull all the light from the room and snuff it out. I blink it away, the darkness clearing like shadows and the usual barely-there colour returns.
Has that happened before?No. And there’s nobody to ask.
I turn around, frightened to stay looking at the reflection and glimpse my boots peeking out as I eye the bedchamber.
I’ve missed training.
Training is what I need more than ever if I want answers, if I want to gain control, and if I want to get back to Lyle. An echo of longing pangs in my chest, jarring at that thought of leaving Kirrasia, and I wonder if something snapped inside of me during the Transference, and now I belong to Kirrasia.
Lyle was Kirrian and lived for years outside the protection and shield of the borders. Why can’t I be a Watcher like her?
I grab a shirt from my drawer, pull it over the small cami top, and then yank on the trousers I’d worn for training. Grabbing my boots, I stuff my feet into them and leave, not wanting to waste another second here and needing to clear my head.
There is no sign of the heavy atmosphere that greeted me on the walk back from the Transference, but as I continue my march, a hush starts to grow, and people stop what they are doing, pausing in their everyday work and life to watch me pass.
My irritation spreads to anger as I wind down the gentle slope and then finally out of the gate, the forest, river and training rings all before me. My legs want to break into a run with the need to escape the silent questions and looks, as if I were a problem. As if I had any say in what happened to me.
But I keep a brisk pace until I’m watching the rest of the trainees gather at the edge of the closest circle.
My footsteps quieten as I approach and watch.
Crimson and Ten are prowling around each other, a blade in each of their hands.
I run my mind back over the training I’d started—the very basic training I’d only just begun—struggling even to hold the blade comfortably, let alone wield it. Looking back now, the last few weeks were child’s play compared to what will be expected. Even the glimpses of full-on training sessions were lighter than what I now watched.
Both look at ease, even enjoying their game. My eyes trace over Crimson first, her tall frame and lithe, powerful body clear to see in every inch of her, her arms tense and strong, honed from years of practice, no doubt.
She lunges, fast as the wind, but Ten anticipates and takes a step to the side, spinning out of the reach of the silver tip of her blade and making his own strike. But she’s too quick, blocking him. The clash of metal rings out over us all. She grins at him, toying with him, and my eyes narrow on her.
He lets her in close, still holding her blade clear away with his own, before they both move, twisting and lunging, slicing through air as they both dance around each other. It’s hypnotic and deadly. Ten’s concentration is clear as he keeps his eyes pinned on Crimson.
Her name suits her. And I see the Warrior she is—in every graceful, deadly move.
And then, in a blink, Ten takes her wrist, twists, and captures her against his chest, the dagger now resting at her throat as she leans back in his hold.
“Took you long enough,” she purrs.
“Careful, Ten. She’s going to be out for blood next,” Calix calls from the sidelines.
It appears they haven’t noticed my approach.
Until Ten raises his eyes and looks right at me.
His hold on Crimson loosens, and he steps away, Crimson nearly falling a step, with his weight removed from holding her upright. She looks at Ten, tracks his gaze, and replaces her smile with a grimace. “How nice of you to join us.”
