“Is winning a fight easier with a sword?” she asked.
Vashet’s outward calm should have warned me I was stepping onto thin conversational ice, but I was distracted by the nauseating pain radiating from my groin. Though honestly, even if I hadn’t been distracted, it’s possible I wouldn’t have noticed. I had grown comfortable with Vashet, too comfortable to be properly careful.
“Of course,” I said. “Why else carry a sword?”
“That is a good question,” she said. “Why does one carry a sword?”
“Why do you carry anything? So you can use it.”
Vashet gave me a look of raw disgust. “Why do we bother to work on your language, then?” She asked angrily, reaching out to grab my jaw, pinching my cheeks and forcing my mouth open as if I were a patient in the Medica refusing my medicine. “Why do you need this tongue if a sword will do? Tell me that?”
I tried to pull away, but she was stronger than me. I tried to push her away, but she shrugged my flailing hands away as if I were a child.
Vashet let go of my face, then caught my wrist, jerking my hand up in front of my face. “Why do you have hands at all and not knives at the ends of your arms?”
Then she let go of my wrist and struck me hard across the face with the flat of her hand.
If I say she slapped me, you will take the wrong impression. This wasn’t the dramatic slap of the sort you see on a stage. Neither was it the offended, stinging slap a lady-in-waiting makes against the smooth skin of a too-familiar nobleman. It wasn’t even the more professional slap of a serving girl defending herself from the unwelcome attention of a grabby drunk.
No. This was hardly any sort of slap at all. A slap is made with the fingers or the palm. It stings or startles. Vashet struck me with her open hand, but behind that was the strength of her arm. Behind that was her shoulder. Behind that was the complex machinery of her pivoting hips, her strong legs braced against the ground, and the ground itself beneath her. It was like the whole of creation striking me through the flat of her hand, and the only reason it didn’t cripple me is that even in the middle of her fury, Vashet was always perfectly in control.
Because she was in control, Vashet didn’t dislocate my jaw or knock me unconscious. But it made my teeth rattle and my ears ring. It made my eyes roll in my head and my legs go loose and shaky. I would have fallen if Vashet hadn’t gripped me by the shoulder.
“Do you think I am teaching you the secrets of the sword so you can go out and use them?” she demanded. I dimly realized she was shouting. It was the first time I had ever heard one of the Adem raise their voice. “Is that what you think we are doing here?”
As I lolled in her grip, stupefied, she struck me again. This time her hand caught more of my nose. The pain of it was amazing, as if someone had driven a sliver of ice directly into my brain. It jolted me out of my daze so I was fully alert when she hit me the third time.
Vashet held me for a moment while the world spun, then let go. I took one unsteady step and crumpled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. Not unconscious, but profoundly dazed.
It took me a long time to collect myself. When I was finally able to sit up, my body felt loose and unwieldy, as if it had been taken apart and put back together again in a slightly different way.
By the time I gathered my wits enough to look around, I was alone.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY
Kindness
Two hours later I sat alone in the dining hall. My head ached, and the side of my face was hot and swollen. I’d bitten my tongue at some point, so it hurt to eat and everything tasted of blood. My mood was exactly what you might imagine, except worse.
When I saw a red form slide onto the bench across from me, I dreaded looking up. If it was Carceret, it would be bad. But Vashet would be even worse. I had waited until the dining hall was almost empty before coming to eat, hoping to avoid them both.
But glancing up, I saw it was Penthe, the fierce young woman who had beaten Shehyn.
“Hello,” she said in lightly accented Aturan.
I gestured, polite formal greeting. Considering the way my day was going, I thought it best to be as careful as possible. Vashet’s comments led me to believe Penthe was a high-ranking and well-respected member of the school.
For all that, she wasn’t very old. Perhaps it was her small frame or her heart-shaped face, but she didn’t look much more than twenty.
“Could we speak your language?” she asked in Aturan. “It would be a kindness. I am in need of practice with my talking.”
“I will gladly join you,” I said in Aturan. “You speak very well. I am jealous. When I speak Ademic, I feel I am a great bear of a man, stomping around in heavy boots.”
Penthe gave a small, shy smile, then covered her mouth with her hand, blushing slightly. “Is that correct, to smile?”
“It is correct, and polite. A smile such as that shows a small amusement. Which is perfect, as mine was a very small joke.”
Penthe removed her hand and repeated the shy smile. She was charming as spring flowers. It eased my heart to look at her.
“Normally,” I said, “I would smile in answer to yours. But here, I worry others would view it as impolite.”
“Please,” she said, making a series of gestures wide enough for anyone to see. Bold invitation. Imploring entreaty. Familiar welcome. “I must practice.”
I smiled, though not quite as widely as I would have ordinarily. Partly out of caution, and partly because my face hurt. “It feels good to smile again,” I said.
“I have anxiousness about my smiling.” She started to gesture and stopped herself. Her expression shifted, her eyes narrowing a bit, as if she were irritated.
“This?” I asked, gesturing mild worry.
She nodded. “How do you make that with the face?”
“It is like this,” I drew my brows together slightly. “Also, as a woman, you would do this,” I pursed my lips slightly. “I would do this, as I am a man.” I drew my lips down into a small frown instead.
Penthe looked at me blankly. Aghast. “It is different for men and women?” she asked, disbelief creeping into her tone.
“Only some,” I reassured her. “And only small things.”
“There is so much,” she said, allowing a note of despair into her voice. “With one’s family one knows what every small movement of face means. You grow up watching. You know the all of what is in them. Those friends you are young with, before you know better than to grin at everything. It is easy with them. But this . . .” She shook her head. “How can one possibly remember when to correctly show one’s teeth? How often am I supposed to touch eyes?”
“I understand,” I said. “I am very good at speaking in my language. I can make the cleverest meanings. But here that is useless.” I sighed. “Keeping my face still is very hard. I feel I am always holding my breath.”
“Not always,” she said. “We are not always still of the face. When you are with . . .” She trailed off, then quickly gestured, apology.
“I have none I am close to,” I said. Gentle regret. “I had hoped I was growing close to Vashet, but I fear I ruined that today.”
Penthe nodded. “I saw.” She reached out and ran her thumb along the side of my face. It felt cool against the swelling. “You must have angered her very.”
“I can tell that by the ringing of my ears,” I said.
Penthe shook her head. “No. Your marks.” She gestured to her own face this time. “With another, it might be a mistake, but Vashet would not leave such if she did not wish everyone to see.”
The bottom dropped out of my stomach and my hand went unconsciously to my face. Of course. This wasn’t mere punishment. It was a message to all of Ademre.
“Fool that I am,” I said softly. “I did not realize this until now.”