C H A P T E R F I F T E E N
hea woke to find her hand engulfed by Hawthorne’s. He lay on his bedroll less than a foot away,T his arm stretched out between them. She didn’t move, instead, she watched the rise and fall of his broad chest and studied his face, its harsh lines softened by sleep. Long, dark lashes rested against high cheekbones and she had to stop herself reaching across and tracing the gentle curve of his lips.
She didn’t know who had sought whom in the early hours of the morning, but she was glad for the touch of his skin – if only to ward away the guilt from the lie she’d told. Even now, her fate stone dug into her sternum, a cruel reminder. ‘It’s not mine…’ she’d said. But what good would the truth have done? At best it would have earned her pity, at worse, it might have jeopardised her newfound place as a shieldbearer. For what good was an investment that expired after three years?
Thea dared to run her thumb across the back of Hawthorne’s hand, the skin there soft, littered with tiny scars like her own.
No, she wouldn’t feel guilty. Not now. She pushed the thought to that dark crevice of her mind where she kept such things. The fate stone might rule her death, but it would not rule her life.
Hawthorne stirred, and Thea closed her eyes, letting her face relax, the picture of sleep. She had already decided that she’d save him from any embarrassment this time around.
Slowly, she felt the Warsword wake beside her and his hesitation upon discovering their joined hands. There was a long pause and Thea wondered if he now studied her as she had studied him.
Then, he slipped his fingers ever so gently from hers. A few moments later, a blanket was laid carefully over her and the quiet crunch of grass told her he’d left.
Thea waited some time before palming the sleep from her eyes and sitting up, smiling to herself.
She set about tidying the campsite and making sure Dax had some water and food. When she was sure Hawthorne was decent, she sought him out.
He was a few yards away, working through his morning exercises. But this time, Thea didn’t sit and watch. She snatched two decent sized sticks from the ground and went to take a position nearby.
Surprisingly, the Warsword didn’t growl at her. Nor did he laugh or reprimand her. Instead, he continued as though she wasn’t there.
Thea followed his movements, clumsily at first, but slowly finding the rhythm in each strike, each parry. Her sticks carved through the air as his blades did, her sticks flew when his swords swung.
She knew from Esyllt’s shouting at the shieldbearers that footwork was half the battle with swordplay, so she watched Hawthorne’s feet. Each step was crisp and clean, there was no dragging,
no shuffling to be seen. He struck powerfully at his imaginary opponent as he moved, keeping his torso and shoulders squared to the line of engagement, allowing both swords equal opportunity to rain
down blows.
It was a dance, a glorious dance.
Thea mimicked the steps, but felt clumsy despite her small size. The massive warrior moved with a graceful agility she couldn’t match. But Thea persisted. How many more opportunities would she have like this?
Thea lost herself in the patterns, revelling in every step and every thrust of her makeshift weapons. She only wished she could feel the true weight of the steel in her hands, knowing that her upper body strength was something she would need to work on as soon as possible in order to wield a longsword herself.
When she stumbled over her feet for a fourth time, Hawthorne actually changed positions and slowed his movements, so she could better see what he was doing. And when she next faltered, he was suddenly beside her. ‘You’re thinking too much,’ he told her, his voice low. ‘You have your own natural rhythm, trust it and it will serve you well. Try again.’ Thea planted her feet as he did and followed his guidance through the range of motions, her sticks
sweeping alongside his blades. ‘That’s it,’ he murmured. ‘Again.’ And so they ran through the drill again. Step, swing, parry, thrust, block.
Thea, who had never attended a ball in all her life, imagined that with Hawthorne moving in time at her side, it must have looked like the most beautiful of waltzes. And more than just looking
beautiful, it felt right.
Step, swing, parry, thrust, block.
They repeated the dance across the plains until their shirts were damp with sweat and the sun had risen well and truly into morning.
Thea couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this… Alive.
Not just careening towards a fated death, but alive and in the moment.
Grinning widely, she turned to Hawthorne, who looked oddly pleased with himself as well. ‘How about I try with your swords,’ she asked boldly, offering the warrior her sticks in exchange. ‘Not a chance. You know damn well Naarvian steel is reserved for Warswords.’ ‘Another stupid tradition.’ ‘You’d best get used to them. A warrior’s life is full of stupid traditions.’ Thea chuckled good-naturedly and turned to camp.
Hawthorne sheathed his blades across his shoulders and followed, his arm brushing hers as they made their way back to their horses. ‘Time to go?’ she asked, trying to keep the disappointment from her voice.
He nodded, his stare lingering on her a beat longer than usual and Thea was brought back to the morning she’d woken in his arms. She could almost still feel the imprint of his body on hers.
He looked away. ‘We ride hard today,’ he called over his shoulder.
They rode hard indeed, with Dax running joyfully ahead through the grass. Thea’s thoughts kept returning to those sleepy moments beneath the dawn; the Warsword’s hand in hers. The memory was only soured by the lie she’d told about the fate stone and the relief in Hawthorne’s voice upon hearing
it. Guilt curdled in her gut, but she shoved the feeling down. It was none of his business. Whatever friendly truce had formed between them was nice… more than nice. But she was no starry-eyed fool.
She knew that upon their return to the fortress, they’d likely never cross paths again, so what was the point?
As they rode, Thea glanced across at the warrior, who was deep in thought. She had no idea what he was thinking, only that she wished it was the same as her: that all of a sudden, a journey that seemed painfully never-ending to start, was ending all too soon.
Tomorrow they would be back in Thezmarr. Tomorrow, everything would change. Thea would be a shieldbearer and Hawthorne… Hawthorne would be sent away to protect the midrealms again.
Thea steeled herself against the tightness in her chest. From now on, her focus would be to earn a Guardian totem of her own.
Thea started recognising some of the fields and villages she knew to be south of Thezmarr. She had travelled through them as an alchemist, now she rode through with her head high as a shieldbearer.
She imagined what Wren would say.
Althea Nine Lives, she’d likely scoff along with the others. The thought brought a fond smile to Thea’s face – perhaps the name wasn’t so bad after all.
She watched Dax bound through the fields ahead with bewildered amusement. She had always seen him as an old mangy creature, but out here one could mistake him for a puppy, his long legs flailing about, huge paws kicking up mud with unbridled joy.
For the briefest of seconds, Thea wondered what it felt like, to run without a care, just because one could. She wondered what life would offer, were the end of it not so near on the horizon. She shook her head. It wasn’t often she indulged such thoughts, but this journey… It had unlocked something in her. ‘Why don’t you tell me about your mentor?’ she asked Hawthorne, nudging her horse up alongside his.
Hawthorne made a noise at the back of his throat. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’ ‘Certainly not.’ To her surprise, the Warsword gave a resigned laugh. ‘His name was Talemir Starling.’ ‘Talemir Starling? Your mentor was the Prince of Hearts?’ ‘So you’ve heard of him.’ ‘Heard of him? I’ve seen his records in the trophy room. I’ve heard the tales about how many monsters he slayed in Naarva. And once…’ she trailed off, trying to bring the memory to the forefront of her mind. It had been the day Malik had given her the dagger, she’d been in the infirmary. ‘Once?’ Hawthorne prompted. ‘Years ago I saw him in the flesh. Heard him talking to the Guild Master…’ she said slowly, sifting through the recollection. ‘Actually, they were talking about you.’ Hawthorne raised a brow. ‘I imagine they had a lot to say.’ ‘Oh? What makes you think that?’ ‘Call it a hunch,’ he replied with a grim note. ‘But I also fought at Talemir’s side for a long time before he left the guild. We were inseparable for years.’
‘Was he as good as they say?’ Hawthorne smiled at that. ‘Better.’ ‘What happened to him? Why did he leave?’ Thea asked.
The Warsword was silent for a moment, seeming to mull his words over. ‘After the official fall of Naarva, there were unresolved issues, and another conflict followed shortly after.’ ‘And he went back to fight?’ Hawthorne nodded. ‘We both did. It was… unexpected.’ ‘There you are painting a vivid picture again.’ ‘I’m not used to talking about these things. It’s not easy.’ Thea felt a pang low in her gut and her hand drifted to her fate stone. She knew that better than anyone. How many times had she yearned to express how she felt about the hourglass she raced against? How panicked she was at not having achieved what she wanted? How she wasn’t ready to leave the midrealms behind? But once she opened those gates, who knew what else might come spilling out… ‘I understand,’ she said, waiting until he met her eyes again. ‘But… Well, if you want to talk about it, I’ll listen.’ Hawthorne’s harsh face softened. ‘It has been a long while since I’ve had an offer like that.’ Those words splintered Thea’s heart. ‘Hawthorne…’ He took a measured breath. ‘Talemir was more than just a mentor to me,’ he told her. ‘Even long after I passed the Great Rite and became a Warsword. He was my family. Malik’s family, too. And he taught me everything I know. He was the greatest Warsword the midrealms had ever seen…’ Bitter admiration laced the warrior’s words and Thea noted how his hands gripped his reins tighter. ‘That’s what they say about you.’ ‘Only because of him.’ Hawthorne replied. ‘But after that second conflict at Naarva, he left the guild for reasons I didn’t agree with, didn’t understand. Still don’t. Malik was badly injured, still recovering. Talemir was his closest friend, and he wasn’t there. He didn’t come back, didn’t… Well, after everything we had been through together, after everything with Malik… Talemir and I… We didn’t part on good terms.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ Thea said, feeling the weight of his grief on her own chest. ‘Is he still alive?’ ‘Somewhere out there, yes.’ Thea nodded. ‘Maybe one day you’ll meet again and mend the rift between you.’ ‘Maybe.’ Hawthorne offered a sad smile. ‘Maybe.’ A few moments of silence passed between them. There was still so much Thea wanted to know about the man who rode beside her.
It was Hawthorne who broke the quiet. ‘Since you’ve so expertly wrangled my secrets from me, why don’t you tell me yours?’ ‘You want to know my deepest, darkest desires do you, Warsword?’ There was a pause as his gaze intensified, became hooded. ‘One of many things I’m surprised to find myself wanting.’ Heat flooded between Thea’s legs and the rocking of the saddle against her did nothing to quell the sudden wave of arousal.
She cleared her throat and looked away, praying he hadn’t noticed the change in her. ‘You already know,’ she told him. ‘I want to fight for Thezmarr, I want to be a warrior, I want to be a Warsword
one day.’
Hawthorne smiled. ‘What? You think it’s stupid?’ ‘I thought we’d moved past that.’ He shook his head. ‘No, it’s just that you remind me of someone…’
The way he said it made Thea pause, an ugly feeling rearing its head deep within.
‘A woman?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Was she beautiful?’ The words tumbled out of her before she could stop them and her cheeks immediately heated. Where had that come from?
But Hawthorne considered this. ‘Yes… She was – is – beautiful.’ Thea’s gut twisted. ‘Talemir married her,’ Hawthorne added, his dimple showing beneath his beard. ‘Married her?’ Thea blurted. ‘I thought Warswords don’t take wives?’ ‘Talemir is no longer a Warsword.’ There was an edge to his voice. But then his gaze slid to hers and lingered. ‘You’re beautiful, you know.’ The words came quietly, cautiously.
Thea made a sound that was midway between a scoff and a snort. She had never been told that, not by anyone, bar Wren. ‘You mean if I wore dresses and acted more like a girl?’ Hawthorne leaned over to draw her reins up short, bringing them both to a stop. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘You’re beautiful as you are. And I’d wager even more so with steel in your hand and the blood of your enemies splattered across your face.’ Her breath caught. ‘Althea.’ Her name sounded like a melody and he leaned across the gap between their horses, his gaze dropping to her lips, his voice low. ‘There is nothing more attractive than a woman who knows
what she wants.’ Her body went taut.
Hawthorne hesitated, before pulling away. ‘Remember that.’
They cantered across the remaining fields and grasslands heading northwest to the fortress. Thea could see the haze of the black mountains on the horizon and could almost smell the pine and rich sap of the Bloodwoods. Thea glanced at the Warsword riding stoically beside her. His dark hair was swept up into a messy bun at the back of his head, his gaze trained on the path before him. Thea didn’t know if she was imagining it or not, but it seemed to her that the tension had returned to the set of his shoulders. He’d been quiet for a while, even by his standards, and she found herself craving his conversation.
But the lines of Hawthorne’s face became harder, his back straighter, as though he were steeling himself, against what she didn’t know.
It was late afternoon when at last the Mourner’s Trail came into view. The sun was hidden behind the mountains and the air was cool; the forest tinged with the blue hue of impending dusk. As they rode onto the trail, Thea heard Hawthorne inhale sharply.
Thea opened her mouth to talk to him, but to say what she wasn’t sure. The ease, and whatever else there had been between them, had vanished.
Up ahead, Dax disappeared into the trees, and with him went any remaining inkling of the Warsword she’d glimpsed. He was cold and unflinching once more. Tension rolled off him, but Thea couldn’t make sense of it. Was it directed towards her? Towards the fortress?
Thea was sure she wouldn’t hear him speak again, but as the gates to Thezmarr appeared ahead, Hawthorne’s voice rumbled. ‘You're already years behind some of them. The next initiation test will be in three months, then not for another year, perhaps longer.’ He seemed to mull over his next choice of words. ‘You need to
be ready.’ Thea squared her shoulders. ‘I will be,’ she said, her voice hard.
The gates opened for them, and the Warsword and shieldbearer rode through.
