Page 71 of The Courting of Bristol Keats
Bristol eyed the enormous white horse. The horse eyed her back, his huge black eyes sizing her up, fire glowing somewhere deep in his pupils. His nostrils flared with a dismissive snort, and he ran through the rear door to the meadow.
Master Woodhouse chuckled, the heavy vines trailing over his shoulders briefly flushing a brighter green. “Don’t take it personally. August tends to be standoffish. He’s a one-person horse, and maybe a little full of himself. He’s faster than the others and knows it. And of course, he knows Beltane is coming, and he’ll be center stage in the pageantry—which reminds me, I have grooming to tend to. You’ll be all right waiting here on your own?”
Bristol nodded, and he shuffled away. She was uncertain why Tyghan wanted to meet her here. He never met her anywhere during the daylight hours. Last night at Sun Court, Rose and Sashka bemoaned that the officers would soon be culling recruits, and they worried about their prospects. Bristol had performed more poorly than either of them. Was that why Tyghan wanted to meet with her at dawn? To break the news personally?
Heavy footsteps sounded outside the entrance. Tyghan rounded the corner and then came up short when he saw her. He’d been in a hurry. She wasn’t sure if that pleased her or she should be concerned. But the look on his face—if only for a moment—made her belly rush with warmth. It was real. Unplanned. No pretense. He was relieved she had come.No, this king is not sending me home.He brushed the hair from his forehead, and the look in his eyes lasted a split second longer, but then the pretense returned, as predictable as daylight, like he wasn’t allowed to be happy about anything.
“You’re on time,” he said formally, the stickler Knight Commander once again. “Good.”
“What’s up?” she asked.
His head cocked to the side as he thought for a moment, tripping on the phrase. As well versed as he was in so many things, it made her smirk inside when something she said made him stumble. It evened things out a bit. If only she could drag him into her world for a day or two and confound him completely.
“Up,” he finally answered, like he got it. “Extra training. Sticks, to be precise.” He led her outside to an adjacent structure—an indoor training ring. He explained that sticks were an ancient defense art that all fae were taught, because even if caught unawares in the middle of a wilderness, a stick was always a readily available weapon. Even though most fae possessed magics, so did the enemy, and very often, the physical world was the last defense one could count on.
“I’m not saying your father didn’t teach you well, but there’s always more to learn, and extra practice might help.”
Help with what, he didn’t need to say. She wasn’t excelling at anything else, and sticks were something she at least fared decently at during field practice.
The ring was large, meant for horses. Far larger than what they needed, and she wondered if he chose this place to practice because it was out of the way and no one would see them there—like a faraway grove under the cloak of darkness. She tried to be understanding about his wariness after the horrible betrayal he had suffered, but how long could this last? Yes, his trust had been shattered, but still, she was growing impatient. Hadn’t she proven herself trustworthy?
Once inside the building, he turned, and his right hand casually swiped the air. The stone walls on either side of the wide entrance spread, block by block, erasing the door. It was the first time she had witnessed him perform any magic other than disappearing at the inn. Apparently, he did know how to do more—and with very little effort.
A burst of anxiety swept through her. Just when she thought she was getting used to this world, something like this would set her off-kilter, reminding her she was not one of them.
“I don’t want to be interrupted,” he explained when he faced her. “There are—” His expression changed, maybe because of her own. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m wondering—” The question on the tip of Bristol’s tongue seemed utterly absurd—yet nothing about this world was conventional . . . so why not ask anyway and sound ridiculous? “Madame Chastain told us on our first day that the first Tuatha de were gods. She showed us some of them in a misty vision. I guess what I’m trying to ask, is that what you are? One of those gods? I mean, not aGodgod. But one of them?”
His eyes lit up, and a small chuckle shook his chest.
“Really,” she said. “I want to know.”
He shrugged. “Depends on who you ask. If you ask Eris, he’ll say yes, at least as the gods are now. If you ask my fellow knights, they’ll laugh, but out of respect call me a demigod. If you asked the real gods, they’d say I was an amusing distant descendant. I’m not a creator, only a manipulator of what already is. My talents pale next to theirs, but as Tuatha de go, I’m of the line of Lugh, and have my fair share of . . . abilities.”
“But why bother with something as crude as sticks, when you can do something like that?” She motioned to the stone wall.
He gave the wall a fleeting glance, like it was nothing. “When I’m facing an enemy, our magics may be in direct opposition to one another, gaining me little ground. Sometimes reaching for the tools of the earth is what tips the battle. There is power in the creations of the mother god Danu. There always has been.”
He explained how his magic worked, drawing on the energy inherent in everything, the soil, the air, water, sun, plants, even the distant stars, and focusing, bending, expanding that energy for a single purpose. When surrounded by a vast army, focusing energy on them all at once was close to impossible, especially when some of them held the same powers that he did. He said that even spoken words had energy and power in them, and directing that energy through incantations was what Madame Chastain and the other sorcerers were trying to teach the recruits. “I’m sure eventually Madame Chastain will teach you all the different kinds of magics, but we can’t discount the power of flesh, and steel, and heart. They have a magic of their own, and every magic has its place.”
He told her that even the great gods, when they roamed these lands, cherished a plow in their hands, the warm sun on their backs, the weight of a spear held high overhead, and the mist of the sea in their faces as they rode over waves in golden chariots. These simple actions fed their strengths, too.
As he spoke, he seemed like someone else, maybe the someone he used to be before everything went wrong for him, someone relaxed and fun and thoughtful, someone who paused and contemplated the world in thoughtful nuance and not angry absolutes. That was how their conversations always went at night. He unfolded like a rare night bloom, but now to see him talk this way in the light of day for the first time, forgetting to be irritated, or in a hurry, or circumspect, his voice easy, and his hands relaxed at his sides—it stirred a hunger inside Bristol for more of this person he kept hidden.
“Danu’s gifts come in many forms,” he continued, “from grand to humble—including sticks.” He motioned with his head to the two wooden sticks propped up against the wall. “Should we give it a try?”
“What about invisibility?” she interjected awkwardly.
He tensed, his stance more cautious. “What about it?” he asked.
“Do you draw on energy for that too?”
“Invisibility is the opposite of glamour. Instead of drawing energy to yourself, you are essentially letting it go. It’s why it’s not too useful in battle. Your senses and other powers are less sharp.”
“You feel less?”
“Sometimes.”
