Black Sun (Between Earth and Sky, #1)(37)

“What kind of training is this?” he asked, angry.

“I’ll just knock them down again,” she said, flippant.

“Don’t!” His breath was short, panicked.

Movement, and he heard something else fall farther along the shelf. “You’ll have to stop me.”

“I can’t see!” he shouted, all his calmness, his hard-won control, slipping in the face of the destruction of the things he had made, the things he loved.

“No shit, crow son. But you don’t need to.” She had moved, somewhere by the door. He turned, following her voice. His heart stuttered. She was near the table by the window, the one where his carved trunk with the map of the Meridian continent sat.

“Don’t touch it!” he screamed. He had suffered for the map, bled for it. He would not let her destroy it.

She spit the words one by one: “Come. Stop. Me.”

He rushed her, arms outstretched, knowing his folly even as he did it but having no choice. It was seven strides compensated for with speed, but she easily sidestepped him. He slammed shoulder-first against the stone wall, his hip grazing the table. Pain radiated down his arm until his fingers tingled. He cried out and braced a hand on the table, feeling desperately for his trunk. He exhaled in relief to find it there, untouched from what he could tell.

“Well, at least you still have your balls,” she said, critically. “Now what?”

She had moved again, back to the shelf. He forced himself to calm down, to think. He wasn’t going to physically overpower her this way, flailing ridiculously, tripping over his own feet. He had to outthink her.

His hand roved the table, searching for something of use. His fingers closed on something slick on one side, rough on the other. A mirror, circular with a slate backing. He recognized it as something his mother had used for divination. It had been sitting on the table, four years forgotten.

Her image flooded his mind, a beautiful creature under a cascade of black hair, calling him over to peer into the mirror that led to another place, a dark canvas that allowed his mother to see things others could not. A gateway into shadow.

Shadow was his to control. He knew it instinctively as if the thing he had stolen from the sun awoke with his need, the power that he had earned through blood and loss. He pressed his open palm against the reflective side of the mirror and concentrated. He thought of winter’s kiss against the fresh cuts of his haahan, of the burn of the sun as it seared away his vision, of ice and snow and shadow. He could feel the shadow rising to his hand, a dark power for him to command.

“Well?” Eedi asked, sounding bored. “Do something, or the next thing I break is your bones.”

Serapio’s left hand closed around the wooden crow in his pocket. In his right was whatever had come from the mirror, a roiling icy smoke boiling around his fingertips.

He thrust the mirror forward, willing the smoke to fly. She cried out. He knew that her eyes had followed his movement and that the mirror had released its icy shadow.

He yanked the wooden crow from his pocket, aimed for where he thought Eedi’s head should be, and threw it as hard as he could.

She grunted as it struck. Her spear clattered to the floor.

Serapio rushed forward, retracing his path, and this time he connected. Their bodies collided. She went down hard on her back, him on top.

Quick as lightning, he wrenched the chisel from his pocket and swung at where he thought her face should be. But she had already moved, or he had miscalculated. The blade skidded against the stone floor, jangling the bones in his arm. His fingers spasmed in pain.

Not waiting, he clawed to his left, seeking her eyes. She caught his hand, holding it back. But he was strong, two years of woodworking lacing his hands and forearms with muscle. He broke her hold, raking a hand across her cheek, close enough for his fingernail to catch her eyelid.

She screamed in agony. He pushed harder.

“Enough!” she cried out, voice a spike of pain.

But it wasn’t enough. His rage told him it would never be enough. He screamed, a half-formed sound, and doubled his efforts.

The punch to his nose knocked him back. Bright lights flashed in his head, and he rolled away. Another punch to the side of his head, as if for good measure, and he rolled farther.

“You fucking villain!” she shouted, panting. The noise was near the floor, like she was splayed out on her back. Her breathing was heavy, her words cruel, but her voice sounded elated. “What the fuck did you do?”

“I didn’t want you to break my map,” he said, lying beside her, struggling to get his own words out around the adrenaline racing through his body.

“My fucking eye!” she cried, stumbling to her feet. “You tried to tear out my fucking eye!”

“I didn’t succeed?”

“Fuck you!”

And she was stumbling for the door, shouting for a healer. He laughed, he couldn’t help it. It had felt good to strike back, to stop her. He did not like her breaking the things he loved.

“Villain,” he mouthed, liking the sound of it, the weight of the word on his bloodied lip. If protecting his crows made him a villain, then a villain he would be.



* * *



He wasn’t sure how long he lay there before she came back. Part of him was surprised she had returned at all. He had all but convinced himself that he was done with tutors, that he did not need them anymore. But he recognized her steps, the tap of her staff, and breathed a quiet sigh of relief that she had not left him.