Valkyrie Rising ✓

Chapter Eight

The rest of the week charges past in a blur of sore muscles and routine lessons. It seems every session with each trainer is geared more toward conditioning than learning specific skills. It's not until Monday of our second week that something truly exciting happens.

The morning session with Shark was more cardio, but we finally start learning some actual weaponry in Briar's class.

Knife-throwing.

Perhaps it's because of my frequent use of a blade, but I am intrigued and excited to learn to fight with knives. I drink in every word, every movement, so when Briar dismisses us to our own knife stations, I'm confident, more confident than with any other task thus far.

First we take our knives and throw them at bags on the ground three feet in front of us. This is to practice force, make sure the blade sticks into the fabric. There are a few "X"s on my bag; Briar doesn't say to, but I start aiming at them. I hit the middle one consistently after seven tries.

"Impressive." Briar stops beside me, looking at the hilt of my blade sticking out of the center of the "X".

I retrieve it and rejoin Briar. I take a deep breath, trying to ignore his proximity rather than let it intimidate me. I exhale and flick the knife. It sticks, just off the center this time.

"Do it again." Briar's voice is soft, not in a gentle way, but not in an overly nerve-wracking way, either.

I like being the center of attention for doing something right for once. I grab the blade and take up my position. Breathe. Flick.

Center.

Everyone is watching now. Briar moves my bag, lifting it to the stand set up about five feet away from me. He pulls out my knife and hands me the hilt. When he does, I notice a long scar down his left arm.

"Hit that." He pulls my attention back to the target, then moves out of my way.

I don't know if he means the bag or the "X" that is showing. I go for the "X". I hit the bottom left corner of the letter, but Briar still looks impressed.

"If you think you're ready to try throwing, move your bags to the stands," Briar says, raising his voice for the whole class to hear. "Keep practicing the stick if you're not comfortable, though. No sense sending blades flying through the air unnecessarily. We'll be working on this all week." Briar turns to me and puts a hand on my shoulder. "Nice work. Keep it up."

By the end of the class, my right shoulder aches, and I have a few cuts on my palm from gripping too tight, but I've managed to hit a target at ten feet. Most of my classmates are still at the five-foot range.

Eveia grumbles all the way downstairs to lunch. She only moved her target to the five-foot mark in the last twenty minutes of class.

I can't help smiling, no matter how hard I fight it. Finally, I'm good at something, better even than Eveia.

"I don't know what you're laughing at." She shoves past me.

"Let her go." Kaz takes her place beside and slightly behind me on the steps. "She always was a sore loser."

"So you two grew up together?" Though we've seen each other often since that first dinner, I haven't really had a chance to just chat with Kaz.

"More or less. My mother and I moved when I was eight. Eveia's family was really nice, kind of looked after us as if we were part of their family."

This intrigues me. In my neighborhood, no one cares about anyone beyond what will fuel his or her gossip. I'm sure I'm the fodder for most of their stories now.

"Why did you need looking after?"

He doesn't answer at first, and I'm afraid I've been rude. I'm about to apologize when he speaks.

"We're not from Novy Mir, Nadia." His voice is so soft; I have to strain to hear over the chatter filling the stairwell.

"I figured as much. Where are you from, if you don't mind talking about it?" I don't want him to think I'm nosy. I know too well there are some things people don't like to speak of. My thumb rubs my left forearm through my shirt.

"My people are mostly in a city-state south of here, New Americana. I think it used to be a group of states called Alabama, Georgia, and the Carolina's. But I didn't pay too much attention in history."

"Why not? Oh, I think it's fascinating; everything was so different."

Kaz just looks at me. I almost miss a step; he grabs my arm to steady me, and my stomach lurches. Delayed reaction to the trip.

"My people...." Kaz pauses. "My people didn't have the best history."

"Why do you keep saying 'my people' like they're so different from the rest of us?" I know Kaz is different, but is there really an entire world of others like him?

"Because they are."

"Well, how come I've never seen someone like you before? Aren't there any of your people in Novy Mir?"

He stops beside the door to the dining hall, stepping out of the line of traffic. I follow him.

"My people are dark.  Like...." He seems to be searching for the best explanation. "Some like me. Some like hot chocolate. Some as dark as burnt toast."

I try to picture it, a person with skin the color of food.

"See?" He says, pointing up at me. "That face right there is why you've never seen one of them."

I didn't realize my lip had curled back into a grimace. I push my top lip over my teeth and tuck it there with my lower lip, my eyes wide. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to."

He smiles a sort of sad smile. "I know that. You've been taught your whole life light is beautiful. It only makes sense you'd be disgusted at the thought of someone darker." He sighs. "Why would we want to join a society where we'd immediately be below the bottom of the beauty hierarchy? Probably be enslaved again. History does like to repeat itself."

There's a moment of silence, then Kaz smiles a genuine smile and jerks his head toward the door. "Let's get some food. Enough depressing talk."

I start to follow, then stop. "But Kaz, if you are so different, why did you leave them? And why aren't you darker?" I hope this isn't offensive; Kaz's been very patient with me so far.

When he turns and smiles again, the sadness is back in his stormy gray eyes.

"My father was Novy Mir. Viry, in fact. So now, I don't really belong anywhere."

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