Silver Flame (Vampire Girl #3)(43)

The training yard is near empty this time of night, but a few practice in the shadows far off. The smell of roses and peaches carries on the wind, tickling my nose, as I wipe the sweat from my brow. White flowers and green vines spill over the walls around the field, sprinkling the darkness with touches of light. There is no fancier training yard in all Seven Realms, and I wonder why Dean mixes combat and beauty. War is simple, brutal, devoid of art, and yet my brother approaches the two as one and the same. I’ve seen it in the way he fights, twirling through a battlefield, jumping over his foes, more dancing than cleaving. There is elegance to his technique, but foolishness as well. Too often he leaves his back exposed. Too often he strikes with more flair than speed. I see his methods in the others practicing here. The Style of the Rose, I hear them call it. Such a soft name for such a soft form.

Despite myself, I begin to adopt its stance. Upright, blade far from the body. Legs bent slightly and loose. I twirl, spinning my blade like a storm, ravaging the stone pillar. I leap, leaving myself exposed, but covering a far greater distance than usual. My heart rate begins to rise. There is some sense to this method after all. Perhaps I will never use it in battle, but it will be of use if ever I am forced to fight Dean’s soldiers. If ever I am forced to fight my brother.

I whip the blade left and right, up and down, as if it were more string than steel. Clatter and clashing fill the air, but through it all, I still hear him, gliding over the grass.

"What do you want, Varis?"

The Druid’s footsteps stop. He stands behind me. I can smell the fur on his clothes, the scent of places far away on his skin. Of Avakiri. It must be a world far different than my own, a sight to behold one day. If I live long enough to see it.

The Druid speaks softly, the wind stirring at his words. "You are fierce with the blade, Prince of War, but blind to the other forces at play. Blind to the earth and wind. Blind to the heat and water in all things."

"I see enough," I say, lowering my blade to my side.

He steps closer. "Let me train you. Let me do what your mother could not."

"You knew her." The words slip from my tongue. I do not wish to speak to the Druid, do not wish to know of his way, but I crave to learn more of her. More of the woman who haunts my dreams.

"She was my mentor," says Varis. "My friend. She was the oldest of the four Wild Ones. Our guide in peace and war. I would have given my life for hers if I had but the chance. I would give my life for her son…"

His words hang in the air, thick and heavy between us. This man, he sees me as more than foe, more than vampire. Perhaps even more than common Fae. But… I am a Prince of Hell, and he is but Druid. "We are not friends."

"No," says Varis. "We are not. But it does not mean we cannot co-operate, for prosperity, for peace." He pauses. "Your powers will continue to grow, and one day, you will lose control. Who shall suffer when the time comes? Asher? Arianna?"

"I am as I always was." It is a lie. I know. Something within me has stirred these past few days, something primal and dark. It slithers at the edge of my mind, hides by the side of my heart.

He steps closer once more. "I was once the same, you know. I was but a boy when the Spirit chose me. I had a family, a home. It was your mother who arrived to take me away. I would not leave with her. I would not leave my brothers and sister and mother and father. I did not want the gift bestowed upon me. I did not want the duty. I told your mother as much."

He pauses. "To my surprise, she did not force me, as I had heard was often done. Instead, she stayed at my home, pretended she was little more than honored guest, and allowed me to go about my days. First, I resented her presence, despised her like I didn’t know I could. She was a hero, you understand, a hero of my people, and yet she was my personal enemy. For days, I did not look at her. Though we ate together and she shared words with my mother and father, I would not speak. I would not show her any kindness until she let me be. But, as all things, over time my resistance withered.

"I began to smile at her jokes. Laugh when her wolf Spirit licked at my face. Once, I even shared my meal with her. It was the next day, when it happened. My sister and I were playing by the Old Willow Well. Some boys from the village, older and bigger than we were, came by to play their own way. They smashed my face against the stone well. One held me down, for I was a small lad back then. The other took his hands to my sister. She was young, a little girl, but that did not stop him from running his hands over her. A darkness filled me then. Primal and hungry. I had felt it before, as hate for Lianna, your mother, but now it turned to rage. It poured from me like a river of blood and ice, and the wind bent in its wake. It tore through the air like a wave, knocking the boys back, slamming them against the tree and stone. It tore through my sister. She fell back. Back. Into the well.

"The screams still haunt my dreams. Her bloody face still scars my nightmares. It was Lianna who found us, who pulled out my poor sister. The girl yet lived, but her head had been crushed near the top, like an apple someone stepped on. Her words were slurred and strange. Her memories wrong and frightful. Lianna tried to heal her, but even the power of the Spirits was not enough. And after a few days, it was clear my sister would never be the same. It was then that I left with your mother. It was then that I began my training. I would never lose control again, you see. And I never did."

My heart pounds in my chest at his words. His story flows through my mind, and instead of him, I see myself playing by the well, instead of his sister, I see Kayla. And when she falls. When her head is caved in and scooped out, I see Arianna.