Where Serpents Strike (Children of the Falls Vol. 1) (65 page)

She missed Khile’s laughter and the playful
banter they often enjoyed.

When he still hadn’t returned by noon, Lia
started to get nervous. She kept herself busy by going through
their entire arsenal of swords and throwing knives, sharpening and
cleaning each one of them. She worked in a few practice throws with
each blade before putting it away.

Late in the afternoon, Khile returned. Lia’s
heart was relieved, but she refused to show it.

“Get your things,” he said, without looking
at her. “I’ve found a place for us to stay.”

She had never known him to be so mysterious
and curt. It was obvious that he was still angry.

She said nothing as they journeyed back into
Thalmia. She asked no questions, not even when he led her near
scattered groups of black vipers. In silence, she trusted him,
believing that his mood would lighten once the tension between them
had a chance to dissipate.

Khile led her deep into a part of the city
known as Perdives, a district reserved for the noble and wealthy.
From smooth streets the buildings rose to form bigger and far more
ornamental structures than Lia had seen anywhere else in Thalmia.
Colorful banners adorned the homes along with vibrant green vines
and bright flowers. Life felt more relaxed in Perdives, quieter,
but much more expensive.

They worked their way up a winding street,
over a bridged rivulet, to a luxurious red roofed villa on a hill
overlooking the southern sea. The main house, barn, and
outbuildings were a pleasant beige color, adorned with intricately
carved murals of warriors with spears and swords and shields. The
villa’s L-shape design hugged a courtyard of green grass and stone
walkways. Wind soughed in the massive papery leaves of four giant
palms that provided some shade over the main house and grounds.

To Lia, the most interesting part of it all
was nestled upon the lush green grass under the palms. There, over
a dozen different devices for the practice of martial arts had been
constructed—wooden and straw dummies, wood beams and bars, thrown
weapons and archery targets.

The makings of an excited smile began to
grow at the corners of Lia’s lips. “What is this place?” she
asked.

Khile dismounted and passed the reins of his
horse off to a dark skinned stable hand. He took both their horses
and led them away.

“A place I once called home,” he
answered.

Lia followed him into the grassy courtyard
where the late afternoon sun cast dramatic shadows on the garden of
practice equipment.

She stopped when she saw a man standing in
the middle of the courtyard in brown slacks and a light linen
tunic. He had long dark hair pulled back into a curly ponytail,
skin the color of cocoa, and a devilish glint in his narrow
eyes.

Lia looked at Khile, her hands and feet
quivering with hope. “This isn’t…” but she didn’t dare guess for
fear that it would deflate her growing hope.

Khile bowed to the man. “Master Decorus.” He
gestured to Lia. “I’ve brought you a new student. Her name is
Ulyssa.”

Lia looked from Khile to the legendary blade
master, her heart bursting with excitement. Decorus Ferrum. Some
called him The Beautiful Sword. He was one of the deadliest
swordsmen in the known world.

“Is this my next disappointment,” Decorus
said.

“This one has potential.”

Lia shot Khile a look of indignation. Was
that all he thought she had—potential?

“We shall see,” Decorus said. He gestured
toward a rack of swords. “Choose your weapon, girl.”

Lia took a deep, but discreet breath, and
walked toward the weapon rack. There were two spears, a halberd,
several swords of varying length and width, a staff, and a plethora
of long knives. She took a short, slender sword from the rack, and
tested its balance in her hand. Liking the feel of it, she went and
stood before Decorus.

“Now attack me,” he said.

Lia sunk into a ready foot stance, drew her
sword back, and lunged at him. The next thing she knew she was
spinning past Decorus head over heals. She landed on her rump in
the grass three paces away.

Decorus tipped his face to the sky and
laughed.

“You must think me a pin cushion from the
way you seek to prick me,” he mocked, pacing around behind her. “I
said attack!”

Lia scrambled to her feet, annoyed and
embarrassed, and lunged at him. She slashed once, twice, three
times, but hit nothing but air. Decorus moved so fast she couldn’t
even tell how he was moving. In one moment he was on the left, and
in the next he was on the right. When she dove at him with a
straight thrust he clamped onto the blade with the flats of his
hands, twisted it up out of her grasp, and caught it by the hilt.
By the time she realized what had happened the point of the sword
was a finger’s breadth from her nose.

Decorus walked over to Khile who was
watching silently, but critically. “This is the child you told me
about this morning? She is nothing but a wild mare.”

Lia hated his dismissive attitude, hated
more the way he spoke as though she wasn’t even there. His mocking
tone made her blood boil, and she wished she had another weapon to
attack him again. This time she’d be fiercer. This time she’d show
him how good she really was.

“I never said she was great,” Khile said. “I
told you she had potential.”

Decorus shrugged. “Perhaps, though I
suspect—”

“Let me try again!” Lia blurted as she
gripped her shredding temper.

Decorus wheeled on her so fast it scared
her. “Never interrupt me, girl!” he roared. “And certainly never in
that tone.”

She recoiled at his wild-eyed snap and
dropped her head in shame.

“But just to convince myself that this was,
in fact, a total waste of my time, take this.” He tossed her the
sword, which she caught with clumsy hands. “I will grant you your
request.” He started circling her again. “Now ATTACK!”

With a scream, Lia tore into him with a
series of thrusts and slashes, twirls and stabs. She kept her arms
and legs in tight, her steps short and snappy, and built momentum
on the sword by keeping it moving.

But Decorus’ dance was still the stronger
one.

He disarmed her as though he had become
bored with the display, and returned the sword to the rack. Then he
turned his back on her and strolled toward the main house.

Lia looked at Khile and opened her arms,
confused. “That’s it?” she whispered. “How can that be—”

“Potential,” Decorus shouted over his
shoulder. “I give her one week to show me that she has more than
that.” The sword master disappeared inside his home.

For a moment, Lia’s mind went blank. Did he
mean to train her? As exciting of a prospect as that was, she
couldn’t deny the rising tide of terror she felt inside.

Khile walked up behind her and said, “Listen
to what he says. He’s going to push you harder than you’ve ever
been pushed. He’s going to look at you like a horse that needs to
be broken, and he will break you. His work isn’t finished until he
does.”

A horrible weight descended upon Lia. She
faced Khile. “Wait. What are you saying?”

“I’m saying goodbye, Lia.”

She felt like she’d just been hit in the
gut. For a moment she forgot to breathe as she tried to comprehend
the why behind Khile’s decision. Had he finally gotten sick of her?
Had she finally pushed him too far or argued one too many times?
Over the years he had been many things to her—savior, father,
mentor, friend—but no matter what he was, he had always been there.
The thought of life without him was almost paralyzing.

“Why?” she asked. “What, I mean, where are
you—”

“I’ve got some things I need to take care
of.”

She saw the quiver in his chin just before
he turned his back on her. She could tell this wasn’t what he
wanted.

Lia ran after him. “Khile, wait!” He didn’t
stop. “I… I’m sorry, all right?” She jogged in front of him. “I’m
sorry!”

He stopped and looked at her. “We all have
to find our limits, Lia, otherwise we’ll never be able to push past
them. That’s what I’ve brought you here to do. Test yourself.
Improve yourself. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but–but not… I don’t want…” She
deflated. “When will I see you again?”

A flicker of emotion passed over his
otherwise stoic face. She wondered—no, hoped—that he was having as
much difficulty saying goodbye as she was.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “Listen to
Decorus. He’ll be able to give you the training I never could.”

He stepped past her. Her fingers twitched,
wanting to reach for him, hug him, hold onto what she never thought
she needed. She wished he’d reach for her, but he didn’t. He
continued on down the path back to his horse.

She watched him mount, watched him trot
away, wishing that he would look back one more time, but he never
did. Once he was gone, she hung her head and cried, more alone now
than she had ever felt before.

Tristian’s leg was bothering him again, she
could tell. He had been standing for the better part of the morning
as an army of tailors made the finishing touches on his wedding
attire. They tightened a black leather belt lined with gold rivets
around his waist, bringing in the dark surcoat that hung to his
calves. The sleeves of his velvet navy blue tunic emerged from
under the pointed shoulders of the coat and draped elegantly over
his arms, matching the stiff collar that rose halfway up his neck,
chaffing his stubble.

Tristian had never looked more dignified and
uncomfortable at the same time.

As she watched the dressers adorn Tristian
in seemingly endless amounts of decorations, Scarlett Falls felt
her friend slipping further and further away from her. There
appeared to be no end to the amount of people coming between them.
His mother, Lady Catherina Elle, his father, King Dagart, the high
king’s witch Demulier Congrave, and now Princess Arrahbella fi
Cipio who was about to become his wife.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said,
flexing his neck under the tight collar of his tunic. “You’d rather
I go to my father and tell him I’m not marrying Arrahbella, that
I’m free to make my own choices.”

Scarlett spun her chalkboard around to
display a message she had already written,
Arrahbella + Ustus +
Demulier = bad.

Tristian Elle pinched the bridge of his
nose. “You need to let this go.”

Scarlett withdrew in a snit and sat down the
bed, arms folded.

The dressers finished. One of them handed
Tristian a pair of long leather gloves. They gathered their things
and left the room in a hurry.

Tristian sat down on the edge of the bed
next to Scarlett and pried the tight leather gloves over his
fingers.

“I’m not denying that the high king’s witch
has some very strange ways about her,” he continued, “but she is
not plotting against me. She is kind and well respected all
throughout the realm. You need not worry about her.”

Scarlett started writing another
message.

“You shouldn’t have been eavesdropping on
that meeting,” he said. “Things are done and discussed in the
King’s Cagair that no little girl should hear. Promise me you’ll
never do that again.”

She flipped her board around and shook it.
You’re not using your ears!

Tristian took a deep breath and rubbed his
eyes. Scarlett could see the anxiety piling onto him the closer it
got to the wedding ceremony. She knew that deep down he didn’t want
to go through with this. He didn’t want to be a part of his
family’s play for power.

“I’m sorry.” He gestured with his hands for
her to come closer. When she did, he wrapped her in a tender hug.
“Many things are about to change, but know that my feelings for you
have not. You’re still my sister, and I love you.”

Scarlett’s hands went limp at her sides.
Pity overcame her frustration. Tristian needed a friend right now,
not a critic, she knew, but it was too difficult for her to let the
matter drop.

He released her and held her at arm’s length
for a moment, his eyes roaming over her elegant purple gown.
“You’ve never looked lovelier.”

She slid off the bed and lifted the
embroidered hem of her dress, swiveling back and fourth at the hips
so the loose fabric would sway around her calves. She, too, loved
the way she looked. The broad white ribbon around her waist
shimmered in the light, and the careful braiding wreathing her head
felt like a crown, even if the tightness did pinch her scalp.

She hugged Tristian again, squeezing his
neck, wishing that the harder she squeezed the less he’d drift
away. It had been nearly four years since she was taken from
Aberdour and in that time Tristian had been her dearest friend.

He tried to stand, but Scarlett held on. She
imagined taking him downstairs to a covered wagon and a team of
swift horses that could whisk them away from Tay, away from
Tristian’s cruel father and his insane mother, away to a new
kingdom where their petty grabs for power couldn’t reach.

“All right,” Tristian said. He pushed her
away and stood. “How do I look?”

Her eyes roamed from his polished leather
boots to the silly black points on his shoulders. Then she shrugged
and curled her lips.

He laughed. “Oh, that’s very helpful as
always.”

The wedding ceremony was stiff and dull, or
so Scarlett thought. She always imagined there being more joy and
dancing, but the exchange of vows between Tristian and Princess
Arrahbella went by like a preacher’s sermon that had already gone
on too long.

Arrahbella had never looked lovelier though.
Her gown was made of an enormous amount of lush ivory fabric that
trailed behind her the length of three carriages. The gown was very
structured with padding underneath, giving her hips a more dramatic
silhouette. Long sleeves and a high collar, patterned with birds
and flowers, covered every bit of the young woman’s skin, except
for her hands and face, which were as smooth and perfect as
porcelain.