Starling (117 page)

She nodded. She gripped the hilt of her sword with both hands,
her knuckles blanching white. Sweat trickled down the side of her
face. Rowan swung his arm in a loose arc, and Cass extended her
sword to meet his. Metal clanged. The impact jarred Cass all the way
to her knees. She ended up on the ground, the sword several feet
away from her.
Rowan touched his blade to her throat, transporting Cass back to
Madalena’s wine room, to the moment when Cristian had held a dagger against her neck. The sting of the blade. The wetness of blood.
She fought the urge to cry out, but a whimper escaped her lips. The
men guffawed, some of them shaking their heads as they muttered to
each other.
Luca pushed through the crowd of people and bent down to assist
Cass back to her feet. She waved him away and stood on her own,
exploring the flesh of her throat with one hand. She was unharmed.
“See, girl,” Rowan said. “You cannot learn the sword. No woman
can.”
“What about Jeanne d’Arc?” Cass asked. “She wielded a sword.”
Rowan snorted as he sheathed his blade. “She wielded words.”
Cass knew from her lessons that Jeanne had been more of a charismatic leader than actual fighter, but she
had
led men into battle.
“It’s as if you believe women to be useless for fighting,” she said.
“Of course they’re not,” Rowan said. He approached Cass and
made a slow circle around her, his dark eyes studying each curve of
her body in the least sensual way possible. Cass felt like a cow being
evaluated for the roasts and fillets it could become. “But like everyone else, if you want to be effective it helps to play to your strengths.”
His eyes lingered on her breasts for a moment.
Cass resisted the urge to cross her arms. “Meaning what?”
“Distraction, for one.”
A couple of the men chortled.
“I’m not interested in being just a pretty face,” she said hotly.
She was tired of feeling helpless and weak. She had broken a man
out of prison. She had incapacitated Belladonna’s guard and escaped
from Cristian. She could help fight the Order of the Eternal Rose, or
what was left of it.
“Fair enough.” Rowan pulled a silver dagger from his boot.
“Then combine the art of distraction with the art of quickness.” He
twirled the dagger between his fingers before holding it out toward
Cass. “How fast can you draw? No man would ever expect you to
pull a dagger. He’d be dead before he recognized his error.”
The weapon was sleek and light, less ornate than the dagger Maximus had given her. It felt more natural in her hand. Cass tucked the
blade into the pocket of her dress and practiced drawing it out.
“Not bad,” Rowan said. He pointed at one of the men, a squat,
burly fellow named Zago. “Work with her,” he demanded.
Zago looked less than thrilled, but he took her by her arm to one
of the outer circles and fitted her with a chain-mail shirt. Then, unarmed, he attacked her slowly, letting her practice drawing her dagger against him in various positions. At first, Cass fumbled the blade
from her pocket, her feet moving awkwardly around the chalk circle.
But gradually she got quicker. Zago then advanced upon her with his
sword. She dodged his attacks, ducking out of the reach of his blade
before lunging at him with her dagger.
She focused on Zago’s sword, on the patterns the man cut into the
waning daylight, on the way her body moved in space to avoid each