Rae Carson - The Crown of Embers

Hector and I face each other. Nervousness patters in my chest. I know it’s silly, but I’m afraid of looking like a fool in front of him.

He says, “If I were an enemy, and I started bearing down on you like this”—he draws his sword, stretches the tip toward me, takes a single step in my direction—“what would you do?”

Possibilities race through my head. Should I look for a weapon? Dodge and come up behind his guard? Trip him? Insult his mother?

I decide to be honest. “I would run,” I admit. “As fast as I could.”

“Good! That’s the right decision. Escaping should always be your first resort. Everything I teach you is a contingency, to be used only if your first resort fails. Clear?”

“Clear.” I glance over at Ximena to find her nodding approval.

“So, to start, I’d like you to get accustomed to holding a knife.” From a utility belt at his waist, he pulls a short, light dagger. It’s plain, with a wooden handle, but the blade shimmers from constant polishing and sharpening.

The blade.

My mouth goes dry.

He flips it in the air so that the blade is pinched between his thumb and forefinger and holds it out to me, handle first. “Go ahead,” he says. “Take it.”

I wipe my hand on my breeches. Slowly, heart pounding, I grasp the handle. It feels cold in my palm.

“You should have a knife on you at all times,” he says. “We may have to adjust your wardrobe to accommodate one. If you keep it hidden, you’ll have the advantage of surprise in a close-quarters encounter.”

I stare at the thing in my hand.

“I’ll teach you where to stab someone to inflict maximum damage,” he says.

I stabbed someone before. I hated it. So intimate, so destructive. Afterward, there was blood everywhere.

“You’ll notice that the edge is slightly serrated.” He points to a couple of indentions near the tip. “That way, the blade does damage when you withdraw it as well.”

The dagger that slid across Humberto’s throat had a serrated edge. I remember it as if a painter had captured the moment and stretched out the canvas before my eyes. I wonder if the blade that plunged into my own body was serrated. Is that why I required so many stitches? It certainly went in easily enough.

My stomach roils with nausea. I swallow hard against it even as my cheeks go clammy cold.

“And since you are not a large person, I’ll teach you how to get maximum leverage and force for stabbing. There are a few tricks—”

I drop the knife. It bounces off a rug, clatters to the stone floor. I wipe my hand on my pants again, as if I can wipe away the sensation memory.

“Elisa? What—”

“I can’t,” I whisper, looking everywhere but at him. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t understand. This was your idea. And a good one. You should learn—”

“I’m not sure I can use a knife.” I stare at it on the floor. Maybe I could work up to it again. I just won’t think about it plunging into my own stomach. I can do it. I can be strong.

“It’s the best way to defend yourself,” he insists.

I’m about to tell him I’ll give it another try when Ximena says, “It’s really not.”

He turns on her, brow furrowed.

Ximena scoots off the bed and lands heavily on her feet. She lumbers toward us, and I marvel that this large older woman is capable of protecting me. I’m eager to see what she’ll do.

She bends over to pick up the dagger and hands it to Hector, hilt first. “Attack me,” she says calmly.

Hector’s eyes narrow. “You’re sure about this, my lady?”

She smiles. “Do be gentle on an old woman, though.”

He shrugs. Then, with lightning speed, he feints left, but sweeps right with the blade, arching it toward her belly.

She shifts to avoid it, and her arm blurs in a flurry of ruffles. Hector grunts. The dagger clatters onto the floor again.

Their eyes lock. Ximena holds his wrist, pinching it in such a way that his grip has relaxed and his hand flops uselessly. The sleeve of her voluminous blouse is torn.

“The Royal Guard trains in hand-to-hand combat,” she says, “so you know as well as I do how easy it is to disarm someone.” She lets his wrist go and steps back. “It is especially easy to disarm someone who is not adept with knife work. Which means, in essence, that the enemy ends up holding an extra weapon.”

Hector rubs his wrist, frowning. “I did go easy on you,” he says.

“Thank you,” she says solemnly, but her eyes twinkle.

He turns to me and says, “Your nurse has a good point. But I insist on training you to defend against a knife attack, even if you don’t choose to keep one.”

It’s a fair concession. “Agreed.”

“I’d like to teach you to use some kind of weapon,” he says. “Maybe a quarterstaff?”

“A quarterstaff is not very subtle,” I say. “Or handy. If a kidnapper comes at me, what am I supposed to do? Say, ‘Excuse me, my lord, while I pull my enormous quarterstaff out of my bodice?’”

Hector rubs his jaw. “You’re right. I’ll give it some thought. But for now, we’ll start with the easiest escape maneuver.” He gestures with his hand. “Come here and turn around.”

Feeling suddenly unsure, I glance at Ximena, who gives a nod of approval.

I approach, turn around. He presses up behind me and wraps his left arm around my torso, across my breasts, trapping my own arms to my sides. My head fits snugly and perfectly beneath his chin. The mink-oil scent of his rawhide armor pricks at my nose.

“It’s instinct,” he says, his breath tickling my scalp, “for an attacker to think of your arms and hands as dangerous. He’ll subdue them as soon as possible. And it’s instinct for the victim thus subdued to feel powerless.”

“I see.” I don’t feel powerless at all. Pulled tight against Hector, hearing his voice shift low, I feel safer than ever. “I could stomp on your foot,” I tell him.

“That’s exactly what you should do. The instep of the human foot is made up of hundreds of tiny bones. You can do immense damage with one good stomp. So try it. Gently, please.”

I comply by halfheartedly sending my heel onto the top of his foot. The force can’t possibly be enough to hurt him through his boot, but he releases me instantly.

I turn to find him grinning at me.

He says, “Now that you have momentarily incapacitated me, what do you do?”

“I run?”

“Like you’re being chased by a sandstorm.” I begin to think that maybe I should practice running . “Come back. Let’s do it again.”

This time, when his arm slides around me, it feels slower, more deliberate.“The trick,” he says in my ear, “is to be wholly committed to your action. No hesitation.” His arm tightens in a little jerk, and I catch my breath. “Do you understand, Elisa? You might have to stomp to live .”

I swallow hard. “I understand.”

“Lady Ximena, can you bring us a few pillows?”

My nurse rustles around on the bed. She must know exactly what Hector has in mind, for she strides into my field of vision and, without being asked, crouches down to cover Hector’s right foot with cushions.

Hector says, “Now come down as hard as you can on my foot.”

“No! I don’t want to—”

“Do it.”

I lift my knee high and slam my heel into his instep.

He gasps, releases me.

I spin to face him. He is bent over slightly, regarding me with wide eyes. Then he says, “Well done!”

I wilt with relief. “It hurts,” I admit, flexing my toes.

“That’s why I had Ximena bring cushions. You must be willing to hurt yourself a little in the short term.”

I laugh. “The cushions were for your protection. If not for them, I would have broken your foot.”