A Court of Bastards [ACOTAR]

Chapter 48

Dawn came the next morning and found Fiona restless. The imminent arrival of her mother had set her mind racing, and despite her weary bones, she found little solace in sleep.When the sun came sliding over the horizon, she gave in, deciding her time was better spent elsewhere than tossing and turning in bed. 

She could feel Xander was awake too, across the camp. His presence hummed quietly through her, contemplative and inquisitive, like a gentle finger tapping at her shoulder. But Fiona did not want his company today.

She thought of heading to the kitchens to get a headstart on breakfast, but knew the sound of banging pots and pans would be too much for her nerves. So instead she swerved toward the forest, seeking the calm and quiet of early morning songbirds and icy mountain brooks. Someone had begun constructing a sparring ring at a break in the trees, likely sometime before the barracks were established. Propping up an abandoned training dummy in the sawdust, Fiona lined up and drew her sword.

The weight of Illyrian steel was familiar to her now - as was the balance of the blade in her hand. She took comfort in its song, the trill that sounded as it swung through the air, strike after strike. It lulled her into a kind of trance, dancing through the familiar motions of Cassian's sparring sessions with her senses heightened to a strange meditative calm and oneness with the forest around her.

It was that oneness that allowed her to react so quickly when someone snuck up behind her.

Instinctively, Fiona whipped around with her blade out - and almost sliced the Morrigan in half.

She let out a surprised grunt and corrected her swing, her sword halting barely an inch from Mor's neck. A beat passed in silence, broken only by Fiona's panting as the two fae stared at one another, each daring the other to make the first move. 

If it wasn't for the pulse that she could feel beating against her steel, Fiona might have thought her an apparition. Her hair was lit in a golden halo, illuminated by the light filtering through the pines. But it wasn't only the sun that made the Morrigan glow; there was a preternatural stillness in her posture, a dignified grace with which she held herself that set her apart from the fae she had first met at the summit.

That difference whispered through the woods around them, as though even the crawling creatures of the undergrowth had stalled in her presence. It was a difference that made Fiona remember herself - and realise she had a sword pointed at the High Lady of the Spring Court.

Mor was watching her with a bemused smile, but before Fiona could draw back, she moved closer. Golden fingers curled around her forearm, pushing it higher. 

"Your elbow is too low," Morrigan murmured by way of greeting.

Fiona frowned, shaking her off. "Bella taught me just fine, thanks."

The High Lady seemed amused by her discomfort, and her smile returned. "Illyrians have to make room for wings when they fight. You have more space to draw back, more potential for force. Use it."

She took a graceful step backwards, brown eyes scanning the girl before her. Fiona hated it - hated being able to see the way she was scrutinising her, and hated knowing that Mor could see it too. She felt naked, exposed in front of the woman from whom her powers had originated - Fiona wondered briefly if this was what it felt like to stand before her.

Irritated and uneasy, she decided to move the conversation on before her mother could make another comment about her stance or appearance. "You've inherited Spring," she remarked, gesturing to the subtle glow around her.

Mor's smile waned. "Tamlin died."

Even the birdsong couldn't save the silence that followed. Fiona sent a muttered prayer for the ground to swallow her up, or for some great god of old to appear before her and turn them both into pine needles. At least that way they'd be saved the painfully awkward staring match that had ensued between them.