I knock Destik’s blade away with a flick of my wrist and step backward. The poma is large enough for me to see his movements through the white mesh of my face mask, but he is still quick enough to match my speed.
He approaches and thrusts his epee toward my stomach; I try to parry again, but Destik sweeps the tip of his blade under and around mine. I switch my hips, but not before he pins yet another charcoal mark against my chest.
I square my feet, but let my head and arms hang. Destik puts his epee under his arm and tilts his head to one side.
“Come on, Klóe.” I can hear the encouragement in the voice coming out of the elongated fencing mask, but I can’t feel it. “You’re getting so much better. Don’t lose faith.”
I groan. “I’m trying, believe me.”
“I do.”
The clang and clatter of meeting metal ring out in staccato beats all around me. Shuffle, shuffle-shuffle thump, and a classmate somewhere is feeling about as poorly as I feel right now.
Destik’s sword taps mine twice.
“Come on, Klóe,” Destik sings. “Let’s reset.”
Okay. Okay, okay. You can do this!
I roll my shoulders and stand up straight. I turn to my partner and match his stance: I slide my left foot back a little, bend at the knees, hold my left arm at a low angle to my side, and raise the tip of my epee.
“On guard, Klóe?”
“On guard, Destik.”
He steps forward, and I hop back. Destik twirls the point of his sword a couple of times, but I know better than to let that distract me.
I duck and thrust. Destik takes a couple of swift steps backward for nothing. I watch his footwork (impeccable as usual) and, as he settles into a stationary stance, I step toward him and trace a large circle in the air in front of me. He counter-circles, but does not move.
I stay light on my feet, trying to find or create an opening to attack as Destik pokes and prods at me. Had we not known each other so well, I’d think he were teasing me rather than letting me avoid and deflect minor attacks. He’s trying to build my confidence; I hate to admit that it’s working.
Destik stiffens his spine from his neck to the tip of his tail and thrusts with a big step forward. I parry, step back, swing low, and thrust up. He pivots and deflects, almost sweeping the sword from my hand. I steady quickly enough to block his follow-through with a desperate vertical swing.
I settle back into my guard. He flicks his blade up. I follow his lead, but he ducks and lowers his blade. I bring my hilt and my stance low in response, but Destik simply advances. I try to retreat, but I only end up tripping over my own ankles. I turn to land on my hip and free hand.
Destik walks forward. He reverses his grip on the hilt and extends his free hand.
“Are you okay, Klóe?”
I roll my eyes and let him pull me onto my feet.
“Yes.” I sigh and rub my throbbing hip. “I suppose I didn’t bungle so badly that our teacher saw fit to—”
“I saw the whole round, Miss DiRossi.”
I flinch and turn. When I find Ach’erti Alderman three feet to my left, I snap to attention. I hear Destik do the same, yet I somehow missed our teacher’s approach among the clanging and shuffling around us.
Ach’erti Alderman’s fencing suit is black. Through the mesh of my mask, I see nothing handsome enough to start an argument. Yes, I sometimes wish I could have his hair’s platinum sheen, and his sharp cheekbones and pointed chin are easy to look at. But nothing is such a distraction that I lose the ability to speak complete sentences around him as Maisey does.
His ears are quite striking, though. They lack the long, cartilaginous tip of full-blooded elves, but they’re also much slimmer than most humans’. His eyes, one an ocean blue and the other an otherworldly lavender, flit from me to Destik.
“Mr. Pendrási. Explain your tactic for defeating Miss DiRossi.”
Destik nods. “She’s faster than me, Ach’erti. I did not want to overextend my power and create an opening, so I attempted to overextend her speed in order to destabilize her movement.”
“Attempted and succeeded. Miss DiRossi, your speed is an asset; you should neither expect nor attempt to meet each strike with your own steel. If your opponent closes too quickly, even for you, remember to present as small a profile as possible.”
With an audible snap, Ach’erti Alderman presents the left side of his body to me and whips his dulled practice saber upright.
“Mr. Pendrási’s power became his advantage, but you needn’t do what he did were your positions reversed. Assume this stance.”
I plant my feet and pivot to my right at the waist. I hold my epee straight up, with the hilt at my belly.
Ach’erti Alderman swings his blade at me with a flourish. His sword hits mine crosswise with a surprisingly light tap. He scrapes the lengths of the two blades together a few times.
“For the current term, the blade will not be used offensively. Your opponent must either move or allow you to move in order to score a hit.” He taps my sword and looks to Destik and me. “Form and fundamentals are important, but we are practicing the sport of swordplay here. Martial lessons take place at a separate level. Experiment within the rules; mistakes here are acceptable, provided you learn from them. As you were.” Ach’erti Alderman’s face hardens as he turns away. “Miss Foster-Price! Your idle chatter robs your peers of precious training time…”
I hitch up my shoulders and grimace at Destik. “So, do I slow down?”
Destik chuckles. “Yes, but no. You need to conserve your energy. Here, let’s work it through.”
Of course, he clarifies it for me. Destik and I talk and motion out when and how to retreat, dodge, and block according to my strengths. When we return to proper sparring, I fare much better. I know he lets me score my first point of our resumed session, but each point I earn afterward comes honestly. Even though he still lands more hits than I do, I make Destik put in more effort than I had seen him give in months.
Ach’erti Alderman calls for a short recess before the month’s test. Destik and I slide our epees into the side rings of our jackets and unstrap our face masks. I remove my right glove and approach him.
“Thank you for the advice, Destik.”
He smiles and twitches the whiskers at the end of his muzzle. “You’re always welcome to it. Good luck on the test,” he says, shaking my hand.
“Could I have some of yours?”
“Sorry, ma’am. No luck here; this is pure skill.” He curls one fist toward his shoulder and puts on a goofy, contagious smile. He walks away, swinging his thick, arm-length tail behind him.
I shake my head and look around the sparring room’s white walls, one of which is covered by a long, floor-length mirror. I spot Adelaide deep in discussion with Basil, one of Ach’erti Alderman’s assistants, at the mirror’s far corner. She speaks with noticeably more verve than she did during lunch. I would like to attribute her change to the new pants and plastron; since the plastron is hidden beneath a jacket turned nearly beige with age, though, I’d rather believe that Adelaide is finally comfortable.
I search the mirror wall again. When I finally spot him, I wonder how I could possibly think he’d be anywhere but against the wall directly behind me.
I turn and hurry toward him. “Did you see me this time?”
“Of course, I did.”
I wring the edge of my mask in my hands. “Yes, and? What do you think?”
Judah looks me down and up. “Despite your improvement and progress, I believe my services will not soon be in jeopardy.”
I frown. Why would he say something so—?
I gasp. “Oh! Is that a joke?”
“Yes. Do you receive it well?”
I cover my mouth to keep from laughing. “It’s not bad. The delivery could use some work, though. Improvement and progress, as you say.”
Judah lifts his head a little. “I did say that, yes.” He turns his head to and fro in small ticks.
I narrow my eyes at him. Surely, he’s not offended by my retort? It was just good-natured, old-fashioned riffing, passed down through generations of friendships and siblings. I reach out to one of his wrists at his side. I almost start explaining myself when I notice his eyes.
Judah insists he doesn’t make facial expressions, but I do occasionally see minute, subtle changes in the ways his sigils glow. Now, for instance, the steady throb of light that flows through the lining of his face has lost some of its pulse. His eyes, which usually crackle and waver like fire, now barely ripple like the surface of a pond. He’s piecing something together.
I turn around.
A larger portion than usual of the twenty-six-or-so-person class is gathered near the mirrored wall so early in the recess. Pairs and loners relax elsewhere around the room, but the people along the wall seem clustered for a meeting. I can’t quite tell who all are involved, but Judah stares right into the group.
“Is something wrong, Judah?”
He takes a moment to answer as the group disintegrates one-by-one. “I am uncertain. The congregation seemed… singularly motivated.”
I blink and turn to him. “What do you mean?”
Judah looks slightly left. As his sigils resume their usual activity, quick and light footsteps approach at high speed beneath the classroom chatter.
“Klóe!” Maisey collides into my hip, nearly knocking me down. “Klóe I’m matched with Para for the test today. I’m finally ranking up! Can you believe it?”
“Hardly,” I say with a hurried smile. “That’s excellent, Maisey, but Judah’s worry sensors are going off.”
Maisey’s eyes shoot open. Her mouth snaps shut. She spins around me and places her back to mine.
I look up at Judah. “Well? Could you hear what they were saying?”
“I did not hear the entire exchange, but what I could hear bears no truth. I am baffled.”
“Stop right there, Nolan,” Maisey commands. “State your business.”
I squint and turn around. In front of Maisey stands Nolan, a human boy about a year my junior, wringing his gloves in his hands.
“I—I just wanted to offer my condolences. To Klóe.”
I raise an eyebrow.
Maisey looks over her shoulder at me. “Ohh…kay?” She steps aside.
Nolan steps forward. He looks up at Judah, then back down to me. His gulp is as visual as the beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
“Hey, Klóe. I just wanted to say… to say that…”
I lower my head and raise my other eyebrow. “To say…?”
Nolan stops breathing. After he finally gulps in air, he spouts it back out in a rush of words.
“I just wanted to tell you not to worry about it, and that you’re too cool for him, and he’s too old for you, anyway, and I was hoping you would take this opportunity to reconsider my offer for dinner sometime?”
Maisey and I both stand up straight.
“What?” we ask with similar levels of incredulity.
Behind me, Judah makes some motion that creaks like stone across glass. Nolan looks up at him; his eyes widen before he scurries away.
“You all have three minutes to prepare yourselves,” Ach’erti Alderman announces from the center of the room. “Refer to the post at the center mirror for your testing order, and, please, remember: odd-numbered students line up to the left, even-numbered students line up to the right.”
I back up against Judah and look at the side of his head. “What is going on?”
“I do not know. I will continue to observe—”
“Gal ‘acréoné!”
I recoil from the hissed phrase, more out of surprise than any knowledge of what the words mean.
Maisey’s jaw drops open. Her eyes lock onto the retreating form of Triss, another gnome friend of Edith. Maisey takes a single step after her and lets loose a burst of Mechanian-Gnomish so fast and harsh that I’m not sure I want to understand it.
I put a hand on my forehead. “What were you two saying?”
Maisey shakes her head and forces a weak smile onto her face. “I’ll tell you after class.” She takes my hand and starts pulling me toward the mirrors. “You need to focus on the test.”
I follow Maisey for two steps, then stop. I yank my hand from her grasp and look from her to Judah.
“Will one of you tell me what’s going on, please?”
Judah steps forward, but Maisey pulls on my arm again, this time downward. When I’m doubled over to her height, she puts her mouth close to my ear.
“Triss just called you a…” She grits her teeth, shuts her eyes, and takes a steadying breath. “A homewrecker.”
I stand up straight with a confused sneer. Gnome tradition is founded on, bound around, the idea that a home consists of the family “both blood and beyond.” It’s not that no single gnome can have their own identity, but that each gnome bears the weight of entire family histories with each and all of their actions. How they present themselves to the world is considered a reflection of who they want to present as having made their best selves. To accuse someone of destroying all of that…
Nothing since the recess started has made any sense.
Maisey touches my cheek. “Listen, Klóe, you can’t worry about that right now. Okay? Let’s just get in line and focus on the test.”
“Okay.” In the meantime, I can only focus on my breathing. “Yes, okay.”
Comments (0)
See all