The Veiled One

Chapter Seven : In which I teach a lot (and flirt a little)

I set to, swinging and dodging and whaling away with the mace, practicing as if a real army is on my heels. I don't know how to make the targets "attack" me, but I'm sure I'll figure out the system eventually. I spot a panel lurking behind some shields over in the corner filled with even more levers. I wonder what it does.

When I'm covered in enough sweat to fill another bathtub, I stop to rest. I want something to drink, but I'm not about to climb all the way to the dining room or ask the Veiled One. Then a thought occurs to me.

"Bring me water!" I command the air, clapping three times. When nothing happens, I feel foolish. But then a pitcher floats in, so cold it is leeching frost into the air. I don't even ask for a glass. I just mumble my thanks and then pour half the jug down my throat, savoring the way it makes my molars ache and my stomach clench. This is the kind of satisfaction I was looking for.

I set the pitcher down and then pick up a battleax. I haven't used one in a while; this should be fun.

Indeed it is. I leave a trail of severed limbs and heads behind me as I carve through dummies like they're made of butter. They offer resistance like a real human would, and my arms and neck and back ache from wielding such an unwieldly weapon for so long, but I don't stop until I hear the sound of slow applause from the door. I whirl so fast, the battleax continues its momentum and almost decapitates me. I set it down before it can do any more damage and then turn to the door.

My wife is there, standing in the doorway, now clad in loose trousers and a blouse, her ever-present veil still masking her true features.

"Impressive, Sylas," she says approvingly, nodding her head and crossing her arms.

"Thank you," I say, the situation growing awkward since I don't know what to call her. Wife? Veiled One? Does she even have a name?

What kind of name do you give a monster?

My eyes travel to the battleax and the pile of severed dummy heads behind me, and my fingers start to creep towards its handle, but a voice in my head whispers, wait. A better moment will come.

I don't know what kind of better moment will come, but the first lesson Grim Volker ever taught me was to obey my instincts without question.

I drop my hand.

"Is there something you wanted?" I ask, leaning against the ax's handle instead.

"There is, actually," she replies, wringing her hands. It is only then that I realize that her hands are flesh-colored, not made of pale smoke. This must be her corporeal form, her real body. It has a better shape than her smoky one, I realize, though her figure is mostly hidden by the shirt and pants draped over her.

"What is it?"

"I want to learn to fight."

I blink a few times, not sure what I'm hearing. Did an immortal witch just ask me to teach her to use a weapon that can kill me in my sleep? Uh, no thank you!

And yet, as I think more about it, some things don't add up. If she's in immortal witch who wants to kill me just like all the rest of her husbands, why hasn't she already? Or why not just kill me with her magic? None of the other bodies have had scratches on them, or so I've heard. Just boys, dead of fright before their year of imprisonment was up.

But maybe she picks a different way to kill each time. Maybe this is how she'll kill me. Maybe it will bring her more pleasure.

Still, I can hardly believe it when I say, "All right. Go find a sword that's not too heavy for you."