ONE
THE SWORD SWUNG FAST AND HARD toward my face, leaving me with barely enough time to raise my own sword into position to parry. The force of the blades colliding knocked me back a step and made my wrists ache even more than they already did.
“Oberon’s balls, Sylvester!” I snapped. “What are you trying to do, kill me?”
“That’s generally the point of hitting someone with a sword,” he said, almost cheerfully, and swung at me again.
Having Sylvester Torquill—Duke of Shadowed Hills, pureblooded Daoine Sidhe, and most importantly, my chosen liege—swinging a sword at my head wasn’t getting less unnerving, or more fun. Not even the knowledge that our blades were magically blunted could stop my atavistic “oh,
Reality wasn’t that forgiving. Sylvester twisted his sword underneath mine and slammed the flat of his blade against my fingers, causing them to open involuntarily. My sword dropped to the ballroom floor, clattering on the polished marble.
The sudden disarmament startled me enough that I forgot to dodge. Sylvester grabbed my arm, spun me around, and slammed my back into his chest, pressing his sword against my throat. “Dead again,” he said conversationally. “Can you tell me what you did wrong?”
I swallowed, trying to ignore the blade pressing against my skin. It wasn’t easy. “I didn’t run away the second you suggested I learn to use a sword?”
“You left an opening.” He let me go, stepping back. “You need to watch that.”
“I’m sticking with my first answer.” I took a moment to wipe the sweat from my forehead before bending to retrieve my weapon. Cold moonlight flowed in through the windows above us, filling the ballroom with shadows. “Are we done yet?”
“I’ll tell you when we’re done. Now, on my word . . . begin.” Sylvester fell into a defensive position. I mimicked it as well as I could. At least he’d managed to teach me that when someone’s about to swing a sword at you, you should be prepared to stop them. Not that I ever seemed to succeed, but hell, I was trying. That was something, right?
We started circling. Sylvester was annoyingly cheerful, as always, making supposedly helpful comments about my form as he watched for the chance to hit me again. I didn’t really care about hitting him. I just wanted to take his damn sword away, since that would make
It had been a month since King Sollys—the highest fae authority in North America—pardoned me for my role in the death of Blind Michael. With my so-called crimes forgiven, the Queen of the Mists was forced to let me go, rather than setting me on fire like she really wanted to. Her life is
I was starting to think swordsmanship wasn’t a strong suit either. He’d swing at my head and I’d duck instead of blocking; he’d move in quick and I’d fall over my own feet getting away. I was, in short, hopeless.
Sylvester aimed for my torso. I already had three bruises on my ribs, and I didn’t want another one. Bruises hurt, no matter
“Right.” I feinted, trying to hit his left leg. He parried and turned the blow aside. “I still don’t see why I need to learn this.”
“You have a talent for getting into trouble.” Sylvester pushed his advantage, keeping me off-balance with a series of quick thrusts. The bastard wasn’t even breathing hard. “I’d like you to continue getting out of it again.”
“And you think giving me a sword is the answer? I could hurt somebody with this thing. Probably myself.” I scrambled to keep my guard up, watching to see where he’d go next. I needed to keep him from pushing me back to the wall. If that happened, it was all over. Goldengreen may be my home ground, but that doesn’t actually give me any advantage I’ve been able to find.
Sylvester just laughed.
The thing was, he was right: I
Sylvester feinted for my ankle. I parried, bringing my blade down on the wrist of his off hand before a sharp hit from his pommel forced my hand to open. My sword hit the floor. Again.
I stepped back, breathing heavily. “Jerk,” I said, between gasps.
“You’re getting faster. I would have lost that hand if your blade weren’t blunted.” He picked up my sword and offered it to me, hilt first. “Shall we take a break?”
I glared and snatched the sword from his hand, sheathing it as gracefully as I could before I bowed. He bowed back a heartbeat later, doing his best to conceal a smirk. The session wasn’t over until we exchanged bows, and walking away without observing that little formality would leave me open to an ambush. He’d managed to hit me upside the head three times before I caught on, but now I wouldn’t turn my back on Sylvester without seeing him bow. He was sneaky. He also hadn’t taken a student in a long time, and he was positively glorying in the chance to beat me around the block.
“Fifteen minutes, and then it’s back to work,” said Sylvester, straightening. “Let’s get something to drink. You look terrible.”
I groaned. “Fifteen minutes? You’re killing me.”
“You’re only complaining because you’re used to being lazy.” Sylvester sheathed his sword as he walked. If I tried that, I’d probably stab myself. “This will be easier when you’re in better shape.”
“Says you.”
What Sylvester was carefully not saying is that I’m in better shape now than I’ve been in for years, if ever. I was born a changeling, half-human, half-fae. My heritage made me slightly faster and sturdier than the human norm, but it was still nothing to write home about. I got tired. I got broken. I nearly died—several times. A little fae blood doesn’t make you immortal. All it does is make you slightly harder to kill.
All that changed when a paid assassin hit me with elf-shot, a type of enchanted arrow that puts purebloods to sleep for centuries and kills changelings. It should have killed me. Instead, my mother emerged from her private madness and saved my life by changing the balance of my blood, burning out part of my mortality in the process. What Amandine did was impossible . . . for everyone but her.
I grew up knowing my mother was the best blood-worker in Faerie. I also grew up believing she was Daoine Sidhe, which meant that I was, too. That’s just one of the lies my mother told me. It turns out that Mom is Oberon’s daughter, making her just as much Firstborn as the Luidaeg or Blind Michael. The normal rules don’t apply where she’s concerned, and her descendants—namely me—aren’t Daoine Sidhe at all.
Some things started making sense after Amandine’s little parlor trick. My crappy illusions, for one; Daoine Sidhe are supposed to be great illusionists, and mine, frankly, suck. Titania is the Lady of Illusions, and I’m not hers. Everything else just got more confusing.
According to the Luidaeg—Firstborn daughter of Maeve and Oberon, which technically makes her my aunt—I should have always been this way. Amandine didn’t want a changeling daughter, so she tried to turn me human when I was too young to understand. She didn’t succeed, but she did weaken me enough that for years I believed her when she said that I was just a low-powered Daoine Sidhe. All she really did when she changed the balance of
