Page 25 of Wicked Things

“You think they may have killed him,” he asked, so softly, I turned to look at him and saw that he’d gone as white as the sheets. I crossed back over to him quickly and took his hand.

“Calm yourself. We don’t have anything yet but wild suppositions. I’ll send someone to make inquiries about him, if you’re worried. To see if he ever returned home.”

“He’s been good to me. He’s my family. Of course, I’m worried!”

“All right. No need for all the shouting.”

“I’m sorry, but I-I’m worried.”

“Yes, yes, I understand. I promise you we’ll find out about him.” Braden looked so sad, though, that I put my arms around him to comfort him. I kissed the side of his face, and it seemed to make him feel better. So, I did it again.

****

Braden

Not long after my meal the next morning, Fionn, who had spent the night with me, told me that he’d be speaking to the one who had given him his training as a boy, and he would be meet with me to assess my talent in fighting. If this man thought I had promise, he would arrange some lessons for me, but if not, I might have to put aside my plans to take a personal role in avenging my father. I wasn’t at all happy about that, but I agreed to meet him and let him assess my abilities.

Only hours later, I had my first lesson in handling a sword. It wasn’t with Lord Fionn, which I would have much preferred, but with the man he’d told me about, named Branwyn. He had made himself available to me—mostly because of the king, I believed, as he was not taking on new trainees.

He was a really good-looking man, as all the Faeries were, with lustrous dark hair and sparkling, hazel-green eyes. He smiled often and no one would have taken him for an ogre in disguise—but I soon learned that was exactly what he was.

Not really, though he gave a good impression of one. Naturally, I’d never say that to his face.

Fionn had told me he was a patient and kind man, and he was—as long as I didn’t make a mistake. Or failed to do something he’d told me to do, or if I didn’t keep my shield up properly or if I got “too bold” or if I “didn’t listen,” which was he said was my worst failing by far. Then I’d find myself flat on my ass or shoved against a wall with a sword at my throat so fast I never knew what hit me. Once he literally kicked me in the ass as I bent over to retrieve my sword. It wasn’t hard and it didn’t hurt me at all, but I still didn’t appreciate it. I was trying, though he said I wasn’t. He actually called me an “assling” and seemed to enjoy thumping my forehead with his hard, bony finger and saying, “Think, damn you. Think!”

I soon found out how mistaken I was about Faeries in general, too, as all the old legends and rumors I’d heard about them didn’t seem to be accurate—oh, the part about them being cold-hearted bastards was very true. Branwyn proved that every few minutes. But not the impression some had that Faery men were in any way weak or effeminate. At least, none of these Sidhe Faeries I’d met so far were like that in any kind of way.

The ones I’d met up to this point were strong and muscular and would as soon slit your throat or gut you as look at you. Most especially if you insulted or crossed them in any way. I wasn’t convinced they were completely sane at all, especially once they had a sword or an axe or a bow in their hand.

Branwyn had taken me to the center of an enormous room on the bottom floor of the castle, empty except for fencing equipment hanging on the walls, and there the lesson—also known as the torture session (to me, at least) began. It continued over the next few hours or so and grew more and more intense as I tried hard to follow Branwyn’s directions. I was soon informed that I had almost no discernible talent at all when it came to using a sword, and the best I’d ever be able to hope for was a low level of skill that even a mentally challenged ape might be able to approximate. That might keep me alive long enough to be rescued by my guards. And while there was no way that I’d ever be able to defend myself against an enraged warrior, I might be able, with enough time and practice, to use the element of surprise to attack them first. Perhaps I could learn to sneak up on them from behind or jump down on them from a tree.

All of this abuse had come straight from Branwyn’s mouth and those were the nicest things he had to say about me.

Branwyn taught me that a good combatant always tried to gain and then keep the initiative, if possible, in order to maintain control. He told me that he despaired of my ever being able to do that, but I could practice launching myself at my opponent and surprising him so badly that I’d put him on the defensive immediately. Then when and if I could manage to get my opponent off-balance enough, and if he didn’t kill me first, then I might be able to use my short sword to wound him enough to keep myself alive—or at least enough to distract him, as I waited for help to arrive. Branwyn said that I did move pretty quickly, with a natural grace, which might help me get away or keep my opponent working hard to corner me if I ran around the room dodging him. He said that my shield and my ability to run fast would be my best chance of survival. He also suggested a bigger shield.

The use of the shield was one of the first things he taught me. When I first saw the thing, made of stretched and tanned animal hide, my first thought was that my arm would soon tire as I held it, but I found that with practice I could learn to handle a well-balanced one for fairly long periods of time. Especially when Branwyn gave me the added incentive of a sword or battle axe coming at my head. Branwyn taught me to hold the shield in a forward position, parallel to my body, a good position to shift an incoming attack with little effort on my part. Which he said was a good thing, because from what he’d seen so far, I’d be sure to put very little effort into it.

He said the best weapon for me would be the short sword. With the addition of the hide shield, and finding a suitable tree to climb, he felt they would be my best defenses. Running away quickly was also highly recommended.

“The short sword is best used underhand, which would be easier for you as you’re inexperienced, and likely a bit shorter than your opponents. Here…” he pointed to a spot beneath his breastbone. “Here is the spot to aim for. Avoid the breastbone—it’s harder than you think and can deflect your weapon— go straight in and up and you’ll be in the heart. If you get the short blade stuck in the bone, they’ll have you.”

Branwyn acted as a victim, turning his back so I could try to sneak up on him or leap at him from behind (which I thought was cowardly), or come at him with a longsword overhand. At first, I told him it was a bad idea because I could hurt him. Later, I wanted to do just that, but he said there was such a slight possibility of it happening that he’d take his chances. He was right.

It was hard work and exhausting, and Branwyn was able to easily repel my attack. But slowly over the course of my “lesson,” I improved—in my mind at least. At least enough, I thought, to show me how to hold my opponent off for a few seconds with my shield to give my guards a chance to save me. Branwyn told Lord Fionn it was the best he could reasonably hope for, and that if he had any interest at all in keeping me alive, he would keep me far away from any battle or swordfight if he could.

And with that remark, my lessons ended pretty abruptly. There was no more talk of me avenging my father, and if I even looked as if I were going to bring the subject up again, Fionn simply walked away.

Chapter Nine

It was a week later that we left for the Gorian Kingdom. Fionn couldn’t manage to get away before then. It was gloriously sunny and warm—a perfect day. It was odd to think that at home, in the mortal realm, it was probably snowing and the lakes and streams would still be full of ice. I wondered if the men sent to find my uncle Leofric had any luck, and if he was safe at home with his family. I hoped so, but I felt guilty and feared for him, and every day that passed when Fionn’s men didn’t return with news of him, I feared more and more for his fate.

The servants woke me up early on the morning we left for Gorias. Fionn had left my bed much earlier, but I’d turned back over and had gone back to sleep, forgetting that this was the morning we left for Gorias, the kingdom of my birth.

Fionn had told me we wouldn’t arrive in time for the elaborate funeral, anyway, which had been held days ago, out of necessity in the warm weather, but we would be there in plenty of time for the ceremony accompanying the erection of King Callum’s burial stone. The stone masons had begun carving it as soon as the physicians said there was little hope for his recovery, so they were able to finish it only a few days after his death. The ceremony was set for three days from now, so we could attend, and that would also give us plenty of time to reach Gorias.

After I ate, I dressed in my riding clothes, which consisted of black trousers, a tunic and coat to cover it that were both a lovely shade of aqua blue, trimmed in silver. It was warm outside, so the coat was made of linen, as was the tunic underneath. My boots were black and made of soft leather. And on my head, I wore a silver circlet. Fionn had insisted on giving me a new wardrobe designed for me, saying that I should be at my best when I met “our” new subjects. I felt like a fraud and an imposter, but I was almost getting used to that feeling by now, and I was getting used to the image I saw in the mirror each day. I wondered if there would ever come a time when I simply accepted it.

Fionn was already in the courtyard adjusting his saddle as I came out of the castle and began walking down the steps to greet him. He was wearing all black with a small, silver crown, studded with emeralds. His long black hair came down to his shoulders, and I thought he was devastatingly handsome. He turned and saw me coming, motioning to one of his captains and calling out for him to bring my horse around.