Deathless (Editing)

Chapter 15: The Thorn's Prick

Honestly, I had no clue what I was doing.

The breath came quick and cold in my throat. My heart raced like the pounding of a thousand horse hooves. Yet, I would not have noticed the exhaustion hounding me had I not landed with a thud on my back. When I blinked back my shock and horror, there was only a blanket of black. The firmament was nearly as dark as the shadows whirling around me. Nearly, but not quite as pitch.

The Lord High Commander came into view. His lean frame and dour face loomed over me. I watched him for a few breaths. He was just as inscrutable now as he was a month ago. A month had not thawed his icy façade nor had it assuaged my skepticism about his plans for me. But he was handsome, at least, which was more than could be said for most nobles.

"Your skill with your blade improves, Riverly." His voice was clear and calm without a hint of emotion. When he spoke, I could take in the words, their sound and weight, almost as neutrally as if I had been reading them from a stale religious tome.

I could not find the energy to argue or agree. Indeed, I could not find the energy to pull myself to my feet. Instead, I just stared into his pale face. When a cloud overhead broke to allow the moonbeams to spill forth, I watched as the light caught in his eyes, and, for a moment, I tricked myself into believing there was an emotion trapped in his stare. Fondness, perhaps? Maybe regret.

"You've been training with Bartholomew," the Lord High Commander noted matter-of-factly.

I started at this; my breath sticking fast in the back of my throat. "H-h-how did you know?"

He responded with a crooked smile. "Your flourish. Bartholomew is also fond of it."

I studied his face through the fluttering shadows, praying that I would not find disgust. All I found was a cold glint in his gray eyes. "Am I ready?" I asked, half-wanting him to lend me a hand to help me to my feet, half-knowing that I wouldn't accept his offer of help even if given.

He did not lend me his hand. No. He continued to stare down at me, as if I was some peculiar beast who didn't know her place in this world.

"Not yet," he responded, brows knitting together.

"Soon?"

"Soon."

A half-smile thinned a side of my lips. "I leave soon."

"You do."

"Will I be ready before or after?"

"After."

"Long after?"

He paused, glanced up, as if calculating some unknown variable, and he nodded. "Not terribly long."

"You seem confident that we will meet again after the Harvest." At this, I found the energy to sit up. My arms hung loosely over my knees, and I pulled the hem of my skirt to the tops of my boots.

A grin thinned his lips, and his gray eyes flashed as he tilted his head back. "Does my confidence perturb you?"

My expression soured at this question because I did not like my answer. It did. I never cared for confident nobles. This life was a harsh one, didn't they know? It was willing to make fools of us all.

He chuckled at me, at my expression, at my silence. "Most of my men prefer a confident leader."

"I have no doubt."

"But not you?"

It was the curse of the faithless. "I prefer honesty," I said, rocking back onto my heels and propelling myself into a standing position.