brightens often when she is near, and it makes her feel sparkly as well.
Which is ridiculous.
She tells herself that this is a natural bond between two warriors. That it will make her stronger, and strength is what she needs to endure the passage of time. That maybe this—knowing someone inside and out, needing them near, skin prickling when they are—is what it means to be family.
Kala doesn’t know much about family. But she knows family doesn’t make your stomach flip when they smile. Family’s touch doesn’t feellike an electric charge.
Kala doesn’t believe in lying to herself, so she is forced to admit: it is not family, and it is not friendship. It is something more.
And something more is definitely forbidden.
Kala swings the ax in a wide circle. It cracks hard against the staff of Alad’s ax. Her teeth clack together with the impact.
Alad feints left, swings right, Kala anticipates him, blocks the attack.
She always anticipates him.
He is fast; she is faster.
“You’re dragging today,” he teases her. An undercurrent of tension hums in his voice. He’s lost three bouts in a row, and he’s about to lose this one too.
They both know how much he wants to win.
“I’m just taking it easy on you,” Kala says, and pretends this is a joke. She leaps gracefully as he swings his ax at her ankles. The blade whirs harmlessly beneath her feet. Kala twists in the air, head over heels, landing behind him, her ax already in motion.
He dances away just in time. The blade slashes at his tunic, tears through the thin cotton. She can see his anger rising, has come to recognize the telltale signs. The sweat beading at his neck, the twitch of his ear, the way his grip tightens on the ax. He’s not angry at her—never at her. He’s angry at himself.
She attacks; he blocks.
She attacks again; he blocks, swiftly and surely.
But she can feel his ax give way to hers when she bears her weight against it, and she knows his arms are tiring.
She wields the ax like it’s weightless. Like it’s an extension of her arms. She spins and dances, whirls and leaps. In her hands the blade is a quicksilver, a blur of deadly motion.
“I’m just waiting for the perfect moment to make my move,” he says, and jabs at her. She grins at his boast as she darts from reach.
She can hear the gasps beneath his words. He’s tiring. She could fightforever.
Instead she swings the ax up hard, then turns it at an abrupt right angle, spins around, knocks his feet out from under him. That fast he is on his back, the tip of her ax pressed to his chest.
He smiles up at her, and she can see what it costs him to lose, and to bear it. “You’re beautiful when you’re a sore winner,” he says.
“I didn’t say anything,” Kala protests.
“You’re thinking it.” He winks.
She clasps his hand and pulls him to his feet. Every time they fight, he hopes to win, but she knows he never will.
It’s not that he’s a lesser fighter. It’s that he’s too eager to win. Too needful. When Kala takes a weapon in her hand, she gives way to the emptiness at her center. She needs nothing but to make clean cuts, to let the ax or dagger or sword do its job. She lets herself not care—because she has come to understand that in battle, caring gets in the way.
She’s glad Alad doesn’t ask for the secret of her triumph. She doesn’t want him to know how easy it is for her. Especially now that she sees there is another way. Now that she sees what it is to be desperate, to need . She envies his heat, draws close to him as if to warm herself on his fire.
She wonders, sometimes, if her fighting will suffer. But it’s easy to put that fear out of her mind.
There’s a certain advantage in knowing how not to care.
They sleep in bunkhouses—one for the boys, one for the girls—as it has always been. Little more than cabins of hard clay, with narrow cots and cubbyholes for their belongings. They have very few belongings: knives and swords,
Which is ridiculous.
She tells herself that this is a natural bond between two warriors. That it will make her stronger, and strength is what she needs to endure the passage of time. That maybe this—knowing someone inside and out, needing them near, skin prickling when they are—is what it means to be family.
Kala doesn’t know much about family. But she knows family doesn’t make your stomach flip when they smile. Family’s touch doesn’t feellike an electric charge.
Kala doesn’t believe in lying to herself, so she is forced to admit: it is not family, and it is not friendship. It is something more.
And something more is definitely forbidden.
Kala swings the ax in a wide circle. It cracks hard against the staff of Alad’s ax. Her teeth clack together with the impact.
Alad feints left, swings right, Kala anticipates him, blocks the attack.
She always anticipates him.
He is fast; she is faster.
“You’re dragging today,” he teases her. An undercurrent of tension hums in his voice. He’s lost three bouts in a row, and he’s about to lose this one too.
They both know how much he wants to win.
“I’m just taking it easy on you,” Kala says, and pretends this is a joke. She leaps gracefully as he swings his ax at her ankles. The blade whirs harmlessly beneath her feet. Kala twists in the air, head over heels, landing behind him, her ax already in motion.
He dances away just in time. The blade slashes at his tunic, tears through the thin cotton. She can see his anger rising, has come to recognize the telltale signs. The sweat beading at his neck, the twitch of his ear, the way his grip tightens on the ax. He’s not angry at her—never at her. He’s angry at himself.
She attacks; he blocks.
She attacks again; he blocks, swiftly and surely.
But she can feel his ax give way to hers when she bears her weight against it, and she knows his arms are tiring.
She wields the ax like it’s weightless. Like it’s an extension of her arms. She spins and dances, whirls and leaps. In her hands the blade is a quicksilver, a blur of deadly motion.
“I’m just waiting for the perfect moment to make my move,” he says, and jabs at her. She grins at his boast as she darts from reach.
She can hear the gasps beneath his words. He’s tiring. She could fightforever.
Instead she swings the ax up hard, then turns it at an abrupt right angle, spins around, knocks his feet out from under him. That fast he is on his back, the tip of her ax pressed to his chest.
He smiles up at her, and she can see what it costs him to lose, and to bear it. “You’re beautiful when you’re a sore winner,” he says.
“I didn’t say anything,” Kala protests.
“You’re thinking it.” He winks.
She clasps his hand and pulls him to his feet. Every time they fight, he hopes to win, but she knows he never will.
It’s not that he’s a lesser fighter. It’s that he’s too eager to win. Too needful. When Kala takes a weapon in her hand, she gives way to the emptiness at her center. She needs nothing but to make clean cuts, to let the ax or dagger or sword do its job. She lets herself not care—because she has come to understand that in battle, caring gets in the way.
She’s glad Alad doesn’t ask for the secret of her triumph. She doesn’t want him to know how easy it is for her. Especially now that she sees there is another way. Now that she sees what it is to be desperate, to need . She envies his heat, draws close to him as if to warm herself on his fire.
She wonders, sometimes, if her fighting will suffer. But it’s easy to put that fear out of her mind.
There’s a certain advantage in knowing how not to care.
They sleep in bunkhouses—one for the boys, one for the girls—as it has always been. Little more than cabins of hard clay, with narrow cots and cubbyholes for their belongings. They have very few belongings: knives and swords,
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