C. Redwine: Deception

Blinking away the stark memory of my father’s grave, I walk toward Adam. I recognize the fury that drives him. I once used something like it as fuel to give me a reason to face one more day. To take one more step forward, even though it meant leaving behind the life I once thought I’d have. Stopping in front of him, I ask, “Who did you lose in the fire?”

He glares at me. “Everyone.” Waving a hand at the unending sea of destruction at my back, he flings his words at me like a challenge he doesn’t think I’ll answer. “I lost everyone . You?”

“I lost everyone I loved long before. Everyone but Logan.”

“Lucky for you,” he says, and looks away. “Must be nice not to have watched your family burn.”

“Oh, yes, I’m very lucky.” My voice is as unyielding as his. “I’m so incredibly fortunate that I had to watch my grandfather die in front of me because our true leader decided killing a harmless baker to get my cooperation was acceptable. So fortunate that my father was a man of honor who tried to stop our leader’s treachery and paid for it with his life.”

He meets my eyes, and I step closer. “By the time our city burned, I had no family left to lose. So don’t you stand there and call me lucky. Don’t you shame Logan by referring to the Commander as our true leader when all he ever delivered to us was heartbreak, fear, and death.”

For one terrible instant, Adam’s face blurs and bends until the Commander stands before me, his sword dripping Oliver’s blood in a river of crimson that refuses to stop no matter how hard I beg.

I don’t remember releasing the blade on the Switch, but it gleams silver-sharp in the sunlight as I lift my arm. Quinn is at my side a second later, his hand pressed firmly against my shoulder.

Silence holds us captive for a long moment as Adam looks from me to Quinn. Slowly, I lower my arm and step back.

“Break into three groups now, please,” Quinn says, and the twenty-three survivors, now armed with practice sticks, slowly gravitate toward Willow, Quinn, and me.

Mostly toward Willow, who seems oblivious to the way the boys watch her every move with hungry, admiring eyes, or the way the girls pretend indifference but are careful to copy her stance and the tilt of her chin.

Adam stares me down for another second, then moves to Willow’s side. I wish her luck.

Jodi, Thom, Sylph, and Smithson surround me in our corner of the practice field. A man old enough to be my father joins us as well, along with three boys who can’t possibly be more than fourteen. The youngest, a boy named Donny Miller, keeps stealing glances at Willow like he wishes he’d joined her group instead.

We begin running practice drills, and the sharp slap of wooden sticks slamming against each other fills the air. The practice sticks are heavy enough to approximate the weight of a short sword and long enough to give our recruits a sense of the way a weapon lengthens your reach and changes your balance. I pace around my group, calling out instructions.

“Keep your grip loose.” I tap Donny’s white knuckles. “Hands wide apart to give you stability and power.”

Hefting my Switch, I demonstrate. “You need to be able to block effectively. Watch.” I nod toward Smithson. “Hit me.”

“I—what?”

“Hit. Me.” When he hesitates again, I snap, “Did you think this would be all safe little practice drills? Swing that stick at me, Smithson. I’m going to show everyone how to deflect a blow.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says as he lifts his stick.

“You won’t.” I roll to the balls of my feet and widen my stance. He swings at my side. I pivot and slam my Switch into his weapon. It goes flying out of his hand.

I swear viciously. “You’d be dead right now. Dead!” Springing forward, I get in his face. “When you swing your weapon, you give it everything you’ve got. Every time. Now pick up your stick and come at me again.”

Smithson’s face flushes red. “You’re a lady—”

Swearing again, I snatch his stick off the ground and thrust it at him.

“Not with that mouth, she isn’t,” Jodi says with a tiny smirk on her face.

I glare at her, and then include everyone else for good measure. “The Baalboden protocol that promised protection in exchange for absolute submission is dead. Forget everything you think you know about being a girl.” I look at Smithson. “Or how to treat a girl. This is battle, and despite the Commander’s protests to the contrary, girls are capable of attacking, defending, and killing. Anyone who comes at you with intent to harm you must be put down.”

Melkin’s dark eyes stare at me, full of accusation. I ignore the memory and lift my Switch. “Now attack me like you mean it.”

His stick whistles through the air. I whip my Switch up and block the blow. The power of it reverberates up my arms. “Good. See how I block with the middle of my weapon? My balance is still centered, and I can safely pivot to either side and deliver a blow of my own.”

I swing to the left and slam the lightest end of the Switch against Smithson’s thigh.

“Block me!” I pivot again and swing.

He blocks me. Barely, but it’s a victory, and I reward him with a smile. Then I divide up my group and set them to sparring with each other while I study all twenty-three trainees and size them up.

Jodi has potential. So do two of the boys and, to my utter surprise, Sylph. Smithson, now that he’s recovering from his gentlemanly instincts, isn’t half-bad either, and neither is Thom, though I knew that already. I turn to study the other groups and find several who’ve developed decent instincts, strength, and agility. A man in Quinn’s group can block almost any blow aimed at him. Another kicks with enough power to knock Quinn off balance. Even a few of the boys in Willow’s group aren’t half- bad. Elias, who is a year older than Smithson, and Derreck, a man with creases in his forehead and strength in his arms, move like they’ve been training for months instead of weeks.

But the real star is Ian. The flirtatious charm he uses to turn most of the girls in camp into starry-eyed idiots is gone. He fights with focused intensity, and his blows are swift and precise.

A frown digs in between my brows as I study his moves. He dances around his sparring partner, a girl of about eighteen with long brown hair and wide eyes who grips her practice stick like she isn’t quite sure how it came to be in her hand. Ian jumps forward to deliver a light tap the second she drops her guard. Which is often. When she finally decides to take a swing at him, he pivots to the left and lunges forward as if his weapon is an extension of himself.

Where did he learn to fight like that? And why is he in the sparring session for beginners instead of in the postlunch session for those who are more advanced?

I’m halfway across the field, intent on pulling Ian aside and getting some answers, when the girl swings wildly as his head. He ducks, executes a half turn, and taps her smartly across the back with his own stick. She flinches and releases her stick so she can press her hand against the skin he bruised. He grabs her arm, spins her around, and drives her to her knees.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demands.

I walk faster.

“Hold the stick steady . Use the core of your body when you swing. And whatever you do, don’t take time to deal with your injuries until your opponent is dead. Why am I having to repeat this to you? A girl your age should be able to hold her own.”

My fingers curl around my Switch. “Ian!”

“She knows better than to drop her weapon,” Ian says, straightening slowly. “You’d think she’d never given one thought to self-defense until we started these sessions.”