keep your friends close

(3)

It's late morning. The air is heavy with humidity. The trees sway in the breeze, but it offers the jungle little relief from the impending heat of the tropics.

Keefe hurls another knife across the room. It lands solidly in the center of his target with a satisfying thwack.

The training room rests on a roofed platform, open and exposed to the elements. It sits high above the ground, tucked into the jungle canopy like a cat perched in the branches. It's Keefe's favorite place in this particular hideout, because it's the most open to the cool breeze—but also because it's the highest and least accessible building.

Still, that doesn't seem to stop everyone.

"Hey, Keefester. Why the long face?"

Keefe tosses the knife from one hand to the other. "I'm sure you know perfectly well why, Alvar."

"So I've heard," Alvar sighs. He heaves himself up the rope ladder and lands on the wooden platform. "The Black Swan kicked your butt at Marshmere. Ouch." He snickers.

"It's not funny," Keefe spits. "It's a good thing it was just an outpost. The Moonlark could've killed everyone. Me included."

Once she had begun inflicting, the Neverseen made a frantic retreat with their emergency leaping crystals. She had still gotten to him, though. Barely thirty seconds after the lightleap back, Keefe had turned onto his side and vomited from the pain. His headache hasn't left him since.

"Yeah, heard about that too." Alvar shrugs. "Marshmere was too cold anyway. And the plumbing never worked."

"Whatever," Keefe says. He wipes the sweat off his brow and concentrates on the target ahead, but Alvar keeps talking.

"Vespera looked pissed at the briefing afterward. Did you see her face?" Alvar shakes his head. "Personally, I think you guys succeeded. You roughed them up a little, got them spooked, and even though we lost—"

"Alvar?"

"Yeah?"

Keefe fixes him with a hard stare. "Shut up for a second."

Alvar blinks. Then he bursts into laughter. "Oh man, you really are grumpy! Ruy warned me but I had no idea. You used to do the exact same thing as a kid—do you remember when Gethen wouldn't let you have the mood candy jar—"

"Keefe."

They both turn around. Standing by the rope ladder is a woman. She pushes her hood back, revealing blonde hair and icy blue eyes—and a myriad of scars running across her face and neck.

Alvar ducks his head. "Lady Gisela."

Keefe nods to her. "Mom."

Gisela makes note of her son, then the knives in the wall. "I hope it's not the Moonlark that's gotten you worked into such a frenzy," she says with an arched eyebrow.

He grimaces, turning the knife handle over in his hand. "How'd you guess?"

"You should go home now. Before your father notices."

Keefe snorts. "I doubt he's even realized I'm gone."

"You know how he is." Gisela gently cups Keefe's face in one hand and smooths her thumb over his cheek. "But you still have school. Promise me?"

"Yeah," Keefe concedes. "Promise."

She smiles, then turns and leaves. Keefe can still hear the faint swishing of her cloak as Gisela controls her descent off the platform.

Alvar glances over curiously as Keefe picks up another knife. "Shouldn't you listen to your mother, little prince?" Alvar teases. "Go home."

"Shouldn't you?" Keefe bites back, and Alvar blanches.

"You know I can't."

"Sorry." Keefe bites his lip. "I'll go home. Eventually."

He steadies his feet, inhaling as he takes aim. In one fluid movement, he throws the knife. The point embeds itself in the soft wood, directly into the center of his target—a painting of a moonlark, with soft silver feathers.

It's not Keefe's best work—it's angry and drawn in hurried, slashed lines on the dark wood that are at odds with the bird's soft, gentle appearance. But at the moment, all he feels is a sick sense of satisfaction at the sight of the handle sticking out of its chest.

Alvar whistles. "Dude. Good shot."

Keefe grinds his teeth. "Not good enough," he replies, and yanks the blade out of the wall.