Stitching Snow (20 page)

So it was just Dane and me, pointing a shuttle back toward Garam. We’d give the planet a wide berth, but going that way meant that from Windsong’s perspective, we could be coming from either Garam or Thanda. Not from Candara.

Just the pair of us—I should’ve been used to it, but I wasn’t.

Not anymore. The journey to Windsong would take twenty-seven days. Alone with a boy who’d kissed me, plus Dimwit . . .

but as usual, I didn’t count the drone. Its presence only reminded me that I’d wanted Cusser to come along, and why it couldn’t.

“All right, come on,” Dane said after locking in the course.

He stood from his chair and looked at me expectantly.

“Come on and what?”

“Twenty-seven days is plenty of time for you to learn how to fi ght better.”

I couldn’t help it—I bristled and glared. My fi ghting skills had done me pretty well so far . . . most of the time.

He smirked, which annoyed me even more. “Yes, you’re very good for a self-taught fi ghter. But you know the people we’ll be up against here, and you know the restrictions.” Right. Palace guards would be highly trained, and the whole capital was under an interference fi eld that rendered certain types of tech useless, particularly energy weapons. The palace told the public that Olivia’s powers couldn’t abide “violent energy signatures.” Really just a clever way to make assassina-tion that much harder, and to give guards an excuse to carry swords and knives.

If there was one thing Olivia and my father loved, it was 189

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mixing the appearance of an old-fashioned royal court with splashes of the new.

Learning to fi ght like Dane wasn’t a half-bad idea, even if it rankled a bit, so I followed him to one of the side compartments. He’d completely cleared it out before we left, except for some shock-absorbing mats on the fll oor. Hopefully that meant neither of us would break anything.

At least I’m dressed for the occasion.
The satin and silk had stayed on Candara, but so had my old Thandan rags. Dane and I both wore something in-between, the kind of clothes you could get on any planet, functional and ordinary.

We stood in the center of the room, facing each other. “All right, try to hit me,” he said.

It felt like someone had asked me to run new optic lines in the drones using only my feet. A foreign and awkward task. All he got back from me was a stare.

“What?”

“One, I already know I can’t hit you unless you let me. Two, every time I’ve fought there’ve either been shares on the line or someone trying to hurt me. Fighting like this isn’t natural.”

“I can make you mad if that’d help.”

“Aye, I’m sure you could.”

His expression shifted to a reproachful frown. “You need to stop saying ‘aye,’ Essie. And watch the accent. You’re not supposed to sound like you’ve spent years among miners.”

“Aye—ugh.
Yes.
Yes, I know.”

“Come on, then. Take your best shot.” So I did. As expected, he blocked it like he was swatting a flly, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Again, with a follow-up.”

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I did. Nothing.

“Again. Don’t always lead right. Try to surprise me.” Pointless as it was, I did. Over and over. I even tried tossing in a kick or a backhand to throw him off, but he batted everything down.

A growl of frustration fi nally slipped out. “This is useless, Dane.”

“No, it isn’t,” he insisted. “You’re smart. You can learn it.” I didn’t know whether to believe his confi dence. He’d lied to me too well before. That fact niggled and gnawed, refusing to be brushed aside. I needed to hear some truth, and I fi gured the place to start was the question I’d been avoiding. “Tell me something fi rst. What are you?”

His stance relaxed. “What?”

“You heard me. Dane isn’t a Candaran name. Blazes, Kip isn’t a Candaran name, either. But you obviously
are
Candaran, and you’re important to the council, so what exactly are you?” He hesitated, like he had to decide whether it was worth telling me. “Kip’s name is Keppes. Mine is Kadei, but my father called me Dane so I’d blend in more.” I took a half step back. “Kadei? That’s an old royal name.”

“Yes, it means
storm
. So we were both named after the weather. I guess you
do
know a few things about Candarans.”

“Mostly from lessons about the ‘evil’ empire my father’s family overthrew two centuries ago, so no telling how accurate it is.

I didn’t think the old royal family was still around. That’s why the council treats you like they do?” His eyes darkened. “My father should be leading our people.

The next in line always has a choice—serve with the council, or take over as ruler of Candara. With my father imprisoned, I’m 191

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one year away from making my decision, so Kip holds my place on the council.”

A choice. To be a king or part of a committee. Nothing like the rules of succession on Windsong. The question of which he’d choose half formed on my lips, but Dane spoke fi rst.

“Come on, let’s try again.”

I took one swing—easily blocked—and stopped. “Wait.

You’re not playing both sides of this fi ght, are you?” He immediately caught that I meant Transitioning for an advantage, and he froze. “Essie, I would never do that to you.

Ever.”

Shame crept through me for even asking. “Sorry.”

“That reminds me, though. When we get to Windsong, you should practice Transitioning to non-Candarans. Try to stay grounded in your own self while you do it, use both perspectives.”

Just as quickly, the shame shifted to disbelief. “You’re the one always talking about the law, about proving Exiles can be trusted.”

“Between the law and you taking every advantage you can to protect yourself, I choose your life.”

“And who should I practice on? Olivia? How about my father?”

As rinked off as I was getting, Dane remained irritatingly calm. “Strangers would be better to start with. Easier to keep your attention separated.”

“That’s even worse!”

He tipped his head to one side. “Enough stalling. Now that you’re mad, try blocking me.”

He came at me, and I tried. Really, I tried. It did feel more 192

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like the cage, but it didn’t help. I hated being so bad at fi ghting compared to him. He didn’t go anywhere near full-force, and good thing, too. I couldn’t begin to stop him. The contact was nothing more than a tap, but each felt like a message tattooed on my skull.

You’re. Not. That. Good. Essie.

“Tank it! I can’t do it, all right?”

“Why not?” he countered.

“I just can’t. Where’d you learn to fi ght like this, anyway?” A slight shift in his posture said the answer wasn’t as simple as the question. “I was born in enemy territory, and my father wanted to make sure I could protect myself. After he sent me away and he was arrested . . . let’s just say I had some anger that needed directing.”

A cold pulse ran through my chest. That anger was my fault.

“Now, come on,” he continued. “What am I doing that’s so different from what you’re used to?”

“You’re too blazing fast.”

“What does fast mean? I’ve seen you run, I’ve seen your refl exes. You’re fast, too. Why am I faster at this?” I didn’t have an answer, so I kept my mouth shut.

“No wasted movement, Essie,” he began. “Movement takes time, so don’t waste it on anything unnecessary. It’s like I tried to tell you before the VT fi ght: every action lives in its own moment, nothing longer than it needs.”

I wanted to ask what that was supposed to mean, but fi gured he’d only answer with something even more abstract and nonsensical.

We went at it again, but the incessant taps started unhing-ing me. My shoulder, my cheek, my back—I couldn’t even fi gure 193

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how he’d reached my back. Instinct took over, and amidst the blocking, I tried to counterstrike.

Still, nothing got through.

I took another approach, trying to maneuver and get an armlock.

He turned the hold around and twisted, throwing me fll at on my back. The mat took the worst of it, but it still knocked the wind from my lungs. Dane just stood over me and offered a hand.

It’s going to be a long trip.

Training had an upside; it kept us busy enough not to notice the monotony of the journey. It also had downsides, most of which showed up as pains in my backside.

For days, it seemed just as pointless as it had at the start.

Dane said I was improving. I didn’t believe him but kept quiet.

Then fi nally, after a thousand attempts, I hit him, not hard, but right across the jaw. I thought he must have let me, to give me confi dence, but he was just as startled as I was. And he laughed.

I’d never seen him laugh before—not a real, unrestrained laugh—but once he did, it seemed so natural. Like something he was always waiting to do.

I wished he had reason to do it more.

We worked even harder after that, refi ning my sloppy technique, adding more complex moves, and working a little with weapons. I found I had some skill at knife-throwing, which helped my confi dence. Everything he’d said about wasted movement started to click. Each strike started with the end in mind.

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He was still far better than I was, but I could tell it took more effort to stop me now.

As I improved, we also worked on slipping and breaking holds, which brought another obstacle. Little taps while sparring were one thing, but I’d never liked being confi ned in a hold.

Getting caught in one had been my least favorite part of the cage fi ghts. This was different. Half of me wanted to break free and hit him harder. The other half didn’t want to fi ght Dane at all, even in training, because there was something about letting him hold me. Something almost nice.

Dane didn’t mention practicing my Transitioning again, although I knew the subject wasn’t closed. I couldn’t help noticing he hadn’t suggested I practice with him. Even besides his claim that strangers and non-Candarans would be better, he likely didn’t want me in his head any more than I wanted to delve into it. He didn’t try to make me angry during training bouts again, either, which was a good thing. I picked up his techniques better when I stayed calm.

Fortunately, we didn’t spend all our time fi ghting. My aching muscles needed a break now and then, and I almost always spent it in the engine area with Dimwit. The tech it ran on would likely be fi ne in the interference fi eld that blocked weapons, but I wanted to work on shielding some of the more delicate components just in case. The old bucket was unpredictable enough as it was. For the same reason, I’d also rigged a new control to let us mute its voice when needed. I should’ve thought of it years ago.

“Here,” Dane said one day, drawing my attention from shielding Dimwit’s auditory processor. “For your knee.” I glanced at the offered rejuvenator patch before turning back to Dimwit. “Right, just as soon as I’m done here.” 195

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Dane had other ideas. He sat next to me, pulled up my pant leg, and applied the patch to the purpling bruise himself.

“Sorry again about that.” He rubbed the patch lightly, sending a tingle through my leg that was half the rejuvenator and half his touch.

My fi rst instinct was to jerk away. I steered that urge into a shrug instead. “No, I should’ve realized I’d gotten close to the bulkhead.”

He sat back against the wall and watched me as I stitched.

As much as it used to bother me, I’d gotten used to it. Being around Dane had become almost comfortable, something I’d never thought I’d be again around anyone who didn’t have four metal legs.

Except when he did things like touch my knee. That wasn’t comfortable, but I couldn’t decide what it
was
. My hit refl ex had eased up almost to the point of disappearing. And he never tried anything else—defi nitely nothing like kissing me again. I didn’t know why not. I didn’t know much about what went on in his head.

I couldn’t fi gure him on my own, and Transitioning was out of the question. Maybe it was time to ask.

“Dane, why are you here?”

“There’s not much else to do on a ship fll ying a set course. If I’m bothering you, I can go somewhere else.”

“No, I mean why are you coming with me at all? You’re important to your people. There’s a good chance we’ll both die before pulling this off, and no guarantee that we’ll get your father and the others out fi rst. Your plan to trade me was probably the better one.”

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The muscles around his mouth tightened. “I told you, I couldn’t do that once I knew the truth.”

“I don’t see why not. If someone said I could trade a stranger’s life to get my mother back . . . I’d have a right hard time saying no.”

“Well, there’s the fi rst problem. You’re not a stranger. The Candaran royal family is allowed choices, and this is my choice.

Besides, as much as I hate a lot of your plan, it’s better.
When
we pull it off, it’ll do more than free my father. It’ll free your people . . . and you.”

I glanced up and saw how he looked at me. Really
saw
it. Not the way men like Moray did, like they only wanted to take from me. Not the way Kip did, full of regret. Not even like Petey did, with his admonitions to bundle up for a cold one. Dane’s way was different, had been for ages—as if he didn’t want anything from me, yet wanted everything.

My stitches wouldn’t come, no matter how I tried to focus on the work. “Dane, that time when you woke me and . . . you know . . .”

“When I kissed you and you didn’t hit me,” he provided.

“Aye—yes, that. Did you . . . well . . . Have you changed your mind since then?”

His eyes warmed with a smile. I’d seen that smile more lately.

It was a nice one. “Defi nitely not.” Men who wanted me didn’t back off until I caused enough pain to get the message through. That was how it always worked.

“But you haven’t tried to since. I don’t understand.”

“Not that complicated. I think I’m in love with you, Essie.