The Continent (The Continent #1)(57)

I sigh and hold out my hand for the rings. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

I step behind the charcoal line he has drawn on the patio and hold one of the rings close to my chest. “All right, here I go.” I toss the first one, which nicks the peg, but does not encompass it.

“Not bad,” Noro says.

“Shhh,” Keiji says. “No talking.”

I exchange a smile with Noro and turn back to the peg. I concentrate this time. My second ring goes firmly round the peg, as does the third. “Look!” I say, excited, and turn around to see Noro and Keiji each wearing a look of suspicion on his face. I feel immediately deflated. “What is it? I was behind the line, I did it just as Keiji always does.”

“Throw the rest of them,” Keiji says, all business.

I face the kiko pitch, slightly insulted and more than a bit determined to put my last two rings on the peg. The first one is wide, and I feel my cheeks burning. Five minutes ago, I didn’t care one whit about this game. But the fact that Noro and Keiji apparently expected me to do poorly has more than gotten my ire up. I take a deep breath, hold the ring out before me, and toss it cleanly onto the peg.

I cross my arms, a satisfied smile upon my face. “How’s that then?”

Noro collects the rings and hands them back to me. “Three out of five, and a fourth nearly. Do it again, girl.”

“It’s Keiji’s turn!” I say.

“Go again, Vaela,” Keiji says.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I say, but I move behind the line once again. This time, four out of five land neatly around the kiko peg. I turn back to the brothers and raise an eyebrow.

Keiji gives me a little bow and I laugh.

“That’s very well done,” Noro says. “Stay here.”

He turns and disappears into the house, and I look at Keiji in confusion. He shrugs and gathers up the rings, ready to take a turn. He lands two of five, leaves all where they fell, and goes back to his game of marbles.

Noro returns with a wooden block under one arm and a roll of black leather under the other—I recognize the bundle immediately as the case he uses to store his knives. Understanding dawns on me and I say, “Oh, no, I’m not throwing those.”

He ignores me and tosses the block to Keiji, who sets it up. I’ve seen them both practice before, and it makes me uneasy whenever they do it—I haven’t forgotten about the Topi warriors killed by those same knives.

Keiji collects the rings from the dirt, then positions the block on top of a stool at the edge of the yard, near the makeshift kiko pitch. Noro unrolls the bundle atop my little table and slides one of the knives from its place.

“Did you not hear me?” I say. “I don’t want to throw your knives, Noro.”

He sets the knife down. “Go and wait for me at home, Keiji.”

I can see in Keiji’s face that he wants to protest, but he rarely—if ever—disobeys his brother. He trudges into the house without a word and closes the door behind him.

Noro turns back to me. “I only want to see if you have an aptitude, girl. Let us see what you can do.”

I shake my head. “The game is one thing—these are another. I know what these are meant for. And I know what they have done.”

“Forget what they have done,” he says, looking down at me in that clear, steady way of his, “and forget what they might do. Simply throw.”

If it were anyone else, I would insist upon withdrawing to the house and taking up a more pleasant way to pass the time. But Noro has a way with me, because I trust him implicitly. And I can hear Yuki’s voice in my head: get a weapon. Perhaps this could be a tiny, tiny step in that direction. I take the knife and move once more to the charcoal line.

I pinch the handle between my fingertips and aim for the block. “No, not like that,” Noro says, and moves in to correct me. Carefully, he slides my fingers to the blade. “Hold from here, and let go as you extend your arm. Watch me.”

He takes a knife for himself and stands beside me. “Like this,” he says, and the blade moves from his fingers to a knothole in the block in one deft movement.

I start to protest, to explain that I can’t possibly do what he has just done, but he nods toward the wooden block and extends his arm in example once more.

I hold the blade between my fingers and bend my elbow as Noro did, the haft resting against my shoulder. I exhale through pursed lips, then fling the knife forward. It misses the block completely and skitters across the paving stones. “You see?” I say, flustered.

Noro smiles. “Patience, girl. Watch.” He demonstrates the correct motion again, slowly this time. Then he moves behind me and takes my wrist, bringing it back and then forward again. I feel his breath upon my neck, and I flush at his nearness. “Try again,” he says, his words dancing across my skin as he places another knife in my hands. “See its path—look only at the target—and let go.”

He steps back, and I try once more. The blade sticks firmly in the wood, about an inch or so from the bottom—probably six inches from the knothole, but who cares? I wheel around, my eyes wide with excitement. “Did you see?”

“I saw,” he says softly. But he is not looking at the knife. His gaze is fixed on me, and something in his expression sets my heart beating faster. This is the way I want him to look at me.