Partisan - Book II

A Practical Use

Three weeks pass, three weeks of physicality, lessons and conditioning, sparring and technique. It's the first real, structured course she's ever taken in a Skill, and she finds the rigidity frustrating. To the powers that be, there seems to be a right and wrong way to Skill. Form and posture are paramount, and she soon learns that Lei is an expert on it.

Shocking, that.

The whole thing seems predictable, but Ruben is quick to remind her that following specific forms has its advantages.

"They are widely used because they most often yield the most powerful calling," he points out after a particularly half-hearted execution, "if you can learn them to the point of muscle memory you can perform them without conscious thought and become both fast and powerful. Look at how Lei executes the Bull form—"

It's a fair enough point, though she could do without the not-so-subtle parading around of Lei. She knows what Ruben is doing: it's his ploy to repair the damage caused by their spar, but it's not working on either of them. Allayria still thinks the forms lack an element of creativity—and thus surprise.

If I sparred him now, she thinks, watching Lei go through the water form with Ruben—the Swan form—I could take him down, even if he actually hit back.

The thought still rankles her, and her nose scrunches.

"Pay attention!" Ruben calls, straining a little as he stretches, his hands swooping up like the pointed beaks of swans, toward the ceiling. His face is red and blotchy.

In response, she stretches out, crossing a leg and spinning a couple of rocks in her hand, just because she knows it will annoy the shit out of Lei. Sure enough, there's a subtle tick twitching in the side of his face when he glances in her direction.

Got to keep an eye on me, make sure I haven't wandered off again.

She's taken to doing that—getting up and leaving without warning. The best is to slip away in the morning, as the light cracks through the mist and mountains. She likes the adrenaline of it, the satisfyingly yearning, seeking feeling of flying, feet pounding against the stone, toward or away from something. She runs after rough nights, when the same nightmares wake her up, or other things, subtler dreams of hands and bodies, which bring almost more pain than those about death. In these early mornings she can outstrip them all, feel them peel away from her bones with the sheer force of her will propelling her through the long corridors.

Of course, she has not bothered to tell her personal guard when she goes on one of these runs. He would insist on following, dogging her in ceaseless determination, and she has no time or use for that. There are enough ghosts whispering on her heels.

He always shows up anyway, panting and sweaty-faced, murder written in his eyes, and she leads him around for another hour, just so that when they get back to the training room Ruben can beam at the pair of them, thinking they've taken up the exercise together.

Dust rifles up as the double doors of the practice room open and Commander Beinsho strides through, looking around.

"Commander," Ruben calls, wiping his hands on his pants as he draws up from his stance, "have you come for a morning exercise?"

"No," Beinsho replies. "I am here to discuss our next move."

"Has something happened?" Allayria interjects, leaping to her feet and moving toward the two men.

"Nothing unexpected," Beinsho replies, "but I have a general idea of how we could best use you now."

Will I get no say in it?