No Sound

“Again.”

Pebbles and twigs crunched under his feet as Lucien twisted his sword in hand and swung at Rahko.  Wood swished through the air but was interrupted by a thunk.  

Rahko grinned down at him over his waster sword, showing his long canines.  “You’re quick, Lucien.  But it’s getting easier to guess your feigns.” 

He whipped his sword to the side, forcing Lucien’s away.  Panting, Lucien went back to his ready stance, his feet placed firmly on the rocky loam. “It might be because we’ve been going at it for four hours,” he managed.

Rahko’s furry round ear twitched with amusement.  “Do you think soldiers in the War got water breaks?” 

He took another long swipe without warning, forcing Lucien to back away.  And their sparring began again.

They never had their lessons in the same place twice; today, Rahko had picked out a ravine in the woods near Saduki.  The ravine, which was more or less a pit dipping into the rocky hills, was wide enough to warrant room for training, and deep enough to hide them from any eyes or ears.  The clatter of their waster swords and Rahko’s booming instructions echoed against the stone around them while the leaves rustled gently above.

After an hour (or maybe only a few minutes, Lucien never knew during their lessons), Rahko lowered his sword.  He barely looked winded, though his long, coarse fur was soaked with a healthy gleam of sweat.  “Water.  So you don’t burst into flame in front of me and catch my coat on fire.”

Lucien was quite happy to obey.  Breathing heavily, he set down his sword and tugged off his sweat-soaked tunic.  He only took a few hits; a quick examination of his arm showed a bruise that was already starting to form from a swipe he hadn’t been able to block in time.  But it was not the worst injury he’d gotten during training with the Kontio: Lucien had walked (or limped) out of a lesson with a bruise on his thigh so black he was sure that if the hit were from his trainer’s steel sword, he would have lost a leg.  

But he was glad that Rahko didn’t hold back.  Mainly because he still offered a hand to help him up when he fell, a courtesy that his brothers never offered.

Rahko set aside his sword and sat on a nearby boulder with a big huff .  His claws sank into the moss as he chugged almost half of his large gallon tankard.

Lucien sat as well, taking several gulps of water.  It was so strange how his mind focused during sparring: with a weapon in hand, this was nothing else in the world but his opponent.  But when the sparring was over thoughts grew like dormant sprouts set back out in the sun.  

His mind went to Tamlin and Andras. He missed sparring with them, even though Rahko offered him different challenges to learn from.  He could still train in Spring: he would have to sneak through the border just as he did on Calanmai, but that had been relatively easy with a bit of luck.  Andras had been reproachful, and Tamlin adamantly stubborn—

Suddenly, a flash of images shot through his mind: Tamlin’s fearful, angry face; a dead Kontio; a heaving, growling Rahko, his russet fur covered in armor and blood, his black eyes filled with terror—

He lowered his flask, staring into the air.  “Can I ask you a question?”

“No.”

Lucien ignored him, knowing his friend’s gruff sarcasm.  “When the human war was stirring, what did it feel like?  What were the signs?”

Rahko paused, then set down his tankard.  “What an oddly serious question, coming from you, boy.”

Lucien eased his expression into cool carelessness.  “It was sparked from pure boredom and curiosity, I promise you.”

The veteran sighed, and Lucien swore the forest sighed with him; the air suddenly felt heavy with a stirring wind.  Then, Rahko spoke, his voice heavy and dark. “It is sometimes difficult to feel signs of anything coming in Autumn.  This Court is so used to death and isolation that they begin to just feel normal.  I’m sure you’re aware of that.” He nodded to Lucien, and continued, “But as new laws were enacted, and Beron’s already tight grasp on the fae switched to violent possession…it became quite obvious what might happen.  And it was even worse when our damned High Lord refused to choose a side while secretly readying his tools and watching out for his southern neighbor.” He scoffed, rubbing at his sword absentmindedly.  “So, if you’re asking what the beginning of war feels like, Lucien, it feels just like this.”

Silence drifted between them, and a slight breeze grew in the air and blew over the stony walls of the ravine.  That familiar, flickering fear rose in Lucien’s chest again, like some creature stalking out from the dark underbrush.  Impatient to break the silence, he said, “Thank the Mother I have such an excellent trainer to help me prepare for this future war, then.”

Rahko huffed.  For a moment, Lucien was sure he would tell him off.  No, training in Spring wasn’t going to be safe anymore, but how was training with Rahko any better, when his kind was being watched?  

But he also knew his friend.  They had a vast amount of differences, but the one thing they had in common was they were both stubborn.  And so hopeless that they were oddly convinced nothing could hurt worse than how they felt now.

The male set down his canteen.  “Well then,” he said cooly, rising from his seat.

Lucien barely had time to duck as Rahko grabbed his sword and swiped at him with surprising speed.  He laughed as he dropped low, picked up his own sword, and began another vicious round of sparring.  Time passed by unnoticed as they swiped and dodged, as their swords met with a loud clatter.  His anxiety lingered, but the adrenaline from fighting made his mind focus again on his sword.

Just as he dodged yet another violent blow, Lucien heard a rustle above their heads and caught sight of something gold in the corner of his vision.  He blocked Rahko’s next blow and dared to look up.

Jesminda sat on a branch of a tree.  Her skirts swayed as she kicked her legs casually, looking perfectly one with the red, gold, and brown.  She had an apple in her hand, a crisp scarlet freckled with green.

Her eyes shimmered with amusement as she scanned down the entirety of his bare chest.  Lucien grinned up at her, the sword in his hand forgotten.  “Why don’t you come down?” he called.  “Bring that axe of yours—we can make a fun exercise out of it.”

Jesminda ripped the stem off her apple and tossed it into the ravine.  “I’m perfectly content with my view from up here.”

“The view is better up close.”

“It’ll be my treat for later, then.”

He opened his mouth to ask what, exactly, later would entail.  But there was a hiss of wood through the air, and he managed to lift his sword just in time to block the sword that came down at him with the might of a mountain.

Rahko’s eyes twinkled with amusement or irritation.  Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.  “You High Fae are no better than dogs.  Sniffing at every female you see.”

The impact of his next blow was so powerful it knocked Lucien’s teeth together, and Rahko barely gave him time to recover before swiping again.  The six-foot wooden sword hissed through the air the same way the ancient trees whispered and creaked in the wind.  Pay attention, it’s hissing warned. Rahko’s umber eyes said the same thing.  

Jesminda took a bite of her apple, the crunching echoing through the ravine.  Lucien was strangely hyperaware of every move he made—not because Rahko was pushing him harder than usual, but because he could feel Jesminda’s opal eyes pinned on him the entire time.  Her presence sent a pleasant array of goosebumps down his skin, a relieving chill that woke him up and paired with his sweat and heat. 

Rahko backed off suddenly, and Lucien nearly stumbled, gripping his waster sword hard.  The Kontio male set the tip of his enormous sword into the ground in front of him and watched him pant.  “I think we’re done for today,” he said simply.

With his heart pumping up to his ears, Lucien instinctively glanced up at the tree again.  Just a single casual glance that didn't feel at all casual.  He felt like a little kid trying to look at the sun.  Sneaking second-long glances, blinking away the white-flecked amazement burning in his eyes.  

But his joy fell when he saw that the branch was empty.  Jesminda had disappeared so quickly that he hadn’t heard or seen.

“There was your other excuse to come to Sakudi.” 

Lucien grinned despite the reproach in his friend’s voice.  But just as he opened his mouth to give a snide reply, Rahko added, “Do you know what kind of faerie she is?”

His voice sounded more accusatory than usual.  Lucien forced his gaze away from the canopy and grabbed his shirt, brushing off the twigs and lichen.  “If she wants to keep some parts of herself secret from the world, then I have no objections.  I was going to ask her when it felt appropriate, but it seems like you want to spoil the fun—”

Rahko brusquely interrupted, “She is a Jvalana fae.  Ever heard of them?”

Lucien slung his cloak over his arm and paused.  The air had grown tense again without him realizing it.  It felt like it did when he brought up the war, but…different.  It was sadder and heavier.  “I haven’t.”

“No, of course you wouldn’t.”

He waited for his trainer to explain, but the male was busy wiping invisible dust off his waster sword. “Are you going to tell me or will you leave me hanging like you usually do?”

“I thought you were going to ask the female when it was appropriate,” Rahko said coolly.

Lucien bit the inside of his jaw.  Rahko studied him before saying, “The Jvalana is just another race of faeries the High Fae snuffed out.  I doubt it’ll be something you could look up in one of those history books the Forest House keeps buried, but you’re welcome to try because I bet you’re going to be too much of a coward to ask her.”

“I doubt it’ll teach me anything I don’t already know.”

Rahko bared his teeth.  “No,” he agreed.   And what you know is tainted by High Fae biases.”

Lucien strapped his sword across his back, his head whirring with too many thoughts to sort through.  But as he stood upright, the sound of wings echoed over their heads.  When he looked up, a wave of terror hit him as hard as the war veteran’s sword.

A raven landed on a branch of the same tree Jesminda climbed.  It blinked down at them before rubbing its skinny wings with its long, disfigured beak.  It didn’t laugh like its kind; instead, it gave a hoarse croak, the sound barely audible over the stirring wind.  

The branch bobbed precariously, sending a few leaves to drift down on them: and before Lucien knew it, the bird took off again as if it was never there.

He grit his teeth.  “That’s a Liekkiö, Rahko.”

His friend’s eyes were distant, following the bird into the forest.  “It is,” he said quietly, “but it’s a friend’s.”  He clipped the halter of his scabbard across his chest, his gaze dark.   “I’ll send you a message later about the next lesson.”