The Valiant (The Valiant #1)(39)

Left high-left side, right low-right side, left low-right side, right high-right side, sweep and switch . . .

The patterns changed and became more complex as I practiced. I felt, for the first time since the morning of the Lughnasa feast, as if Mael were right there, close enough for me to reach out and touch. I almost felt as if his spirit guided my blades for real. But when the heat of the sun on my left shoulder went cold—blotted out by a shadow—my eyes snapped open. I saw the silhouette of a crested helmet on the barn wall in front of me. Without thinking, I spun around, both wooden blades slashing horizontally through the air.

“Aiy!” Decurion Caius Varro yelped, leaping back to avoid the blows.

My momentum carried me forward, and suddenly, as if released from a spell that had kept me mesmerized as I’d practiced, I felt the full weight of exhaustion hit me. I staggered a few steps toward the Decurion, who put out a hand to stop me from falling on my face.

“Tell me,” he said after a moment, “are you going to get tired of attacking me anytime soon?”

I glared at him, silent except for the breath heaving in and out of my lungs.

“Working on that wrist strength, I see.”

“What are you doing here?” I panted.

His lip twitched with amusement. “I was watching you,” he said. “It was quite entertaining. And enlightening. I’m not sure what grudge you bear that poor stable post, but it’s obvious you have some real talent and some training.”

“Some,” I agreed dryly.

He nodded. “But you’re clutching your weapons too tightly. You’re sacrificing accuracy and fluidity for brute force.”

I rolled my eyes and brushed past him so I could return the wooden blanks I’d been using to the pile for finishing. But when I looked down at them, I saw that they were ruined, with the unpolished edges dented and hewed to splinters. I threw them into the basket of scrap wood beneath the table. It was possible the Decurion had a point, but I certainly wasn’t going to tell him that.

I sat down on the bench beside the table and kneaded at the burning in my neck muscles with tingling fingers. After a moment, I realized that the Decurion was still standing there watching me. There was a look of curiosity—or maybe it was uncertainty—on his face.

“What are you really doing here, Decurion?” I asked.

He sat down on the other end of the bench and clawed at the chinstrap of his helmet, lifting it off his head. His hair was damp with sweat from the day’s hot sun and plastered to his scalp until he scrubbed his palm briskly over his head to make it bristle.

“Officially?” He shrugged. “I’m running errands on behalf of Caesar to his Lanista.”

“And unofficially?”

“Satisfying my curiosity. Or trying to . . .” He glanced over at me and paused for a moment, as if trying to decide whether or not to continue. Then he asked, “What does a mark in the shape of a knotted triple raven mean to you?”

My breath stopped in my throat, and everything around me seemed to get very quiet. Even the singing of the birds in the trees died to silence. And in that stillness, I could hear the Morrigan’s throaty dream-voice whisper my name. Was she telling me to trust him? Or was she trying to warn me?

“Why do you ask?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” he countered. “If your expression is any indication, it clearly means something.”

Of course it meant something. It was the symbol of my goddess and the brand that had marked my blade. I had no idea why he was asking, but even the way he posed the question made me cautious. I didn’t know how to answer, and so instead, I just stared at the donkey, which stared back, no help at all.

“All right.” The Decurion sighed. “Let me tell you a little story.”

I eyed him warily and stayed silent, listening.

“The slave auctions are almost always an entertaining bit of distraction for the good citizens of Rome,” he continued. “And never more so than when Charon comes to town to market his wares. He’s theatrical, certainly. Shows every piece of—” He bit off his words abruptly. “That is, he shows every, uh, person off to their best potential. Costumes, cosmetics, wigs . . . the works. As I’m sure you noticed. But your mock duel? That was extravagant, even for him.”

“It was hardly a mock duel,” I said. “A man died. I don’t think Charon was expecting that.”

“No, but he also thought it worth the risk. The high price he got for you bore that out. And that’s what was so surprising about the whole affair.” The corner of the Decurion’s mouth lifted. “Truthfully, sparkling costumes and a dead Alesian notwithstanding, there was nothing particularly extraordinary about your performance that day.”

I sputtered in outrage, but he was right. Even that day’s kill had belonged to Elka, not me.

“Pontius Aquila started off with a high enough bid,” he continued, “but then, in the interval while they cleared away the corpse, Charon sends me into the crowd with a message for the Lady Achillea.”

“What message?”

“A trunk.” He watched for my reaction. “With a sword in it. A sword with a triple raven etched upon the blade.”

My mind flashed back to the chaos of the slave galley sinking beneath me as I helped Charon heave his trunk over onto the other ship. Was that what had been so vitally important to him? My sword?