Rogue Legacy by Jeffrey L. Kohanek (classic reads .txt) đź“–
- Author: Jeffrey L. Kohanek
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Rather than fall, he stumbled, righting himself in time to deflect the upward thrust of Lyra’s dagger such that it harmlessly skidded across his cuirass. Overextended, she couldn’t avoid his shield. It slammed into her helmet, knocking her aside with a loud clang. Lyra stumbled, her ears ringing as she struggled to remain upright. She fell to one knee, her eyes watering as the world tilted, and spots invaded her vision, causing it to narrow into a blurry tunnel.
“Match,” she heard a man’s voice from somewhere distant, somewhere beyond the ringing.
With her eyes squeezed shut, she fought to keep her stomach under control, refusing to give into the nausea. She opened them to find her opponent squatting before her, his dark hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, his helmet tucked under one arm.
“Sorry, Lyra.” Mandrick grinned. “It was a good match. You’ve come far.”
“However, she must control her emotions. Committing to a thrust like that only works if you can poke a hole in your opponent. Once he blocks the thrust, it leaves you exposed.” Lyra turned toward Elan, squinting at the bald man as he approached. “How are you?”
“My head feels like my brains are trying to escape. I don’t think they enjoy being shaken like that.”
Elan nodded. “You might be on to something.”
Mandrick chuckled. “You were always an insightful instructor, Elan.”
Elan shrugged. “You were not always an apt pupil, Mandrick. But once I was able to cool that hot head of yours, you acquitted yourself quite well.”
Mandrick patted Elan on the shoulder and turned to leave.
Lyra tossed her training dagger and sword, the rounded points and dulled edges of the blades bouncing off the dirt floor. After sliding her helmet off, she shook her head to loosen her damp black hair, the motion causing her to stumble.
“Ugh. I’m dizzy.”
“It’s a side effect of getting your head clobbered,” Elan noted. “Don’t let it happen, and you won’t have that problem.”
“Thanks for the sage advice, oh wise Weapon Master.”
Elan smiled, which was an uncommon event for the aging war veteran. “Go on and get yourself cleaned up. Return tomorrow at sunup, and we’ll work on your technique. I spotted a few small things during your duel that I hadn’t noticed in recent training sessions.”
“Thanks, Elan.” Lyra held her hand to her temple, which was still pounding. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She turned and walked away, almost making it out of the training yard before Elan spoke again.
“It’s your emotions, Lyra. You must learn to contain them. You’re smart and you’re quick…maybe the quickest I’ve ever seen. You could be dangerously good or just dangerous. Get your emotions under control before they kill you or someone you care about.”
Lyra paused, facing the door, pressing her lips together. After a moment, she pushed it open and left the man alone.
With an underhand toss, Lyra sent her sparring helmet to her sofa as she passed her bed and headed toward the bathing room. She slipped inside and found Tiri in one of the tubs, no different from every other morning since Lyra had moved into the adjoining room. Glynnis sat in a nearby chair, knitting as usual. The woman’s eyes flicked up as Lyra entered and then refocused on the half-finished shawl on her lap.
“Good morning, Lyra.” Tiri smiled.
Despite Lyra’s headache, she smiled in return.
“Hi, Tiri.”
Lyra unbuckled the straps of her padded sparring jerkin, peeling the sweaty leather off her torso before tossing it to the floor. Her breeches and shift followed, joining the growing pile of garments before she added hot water to the cool liquid waiting inside the tub. She stepped in, and a long sigh seeped out as she melted into the steamy bath.
“How did your duel with Mandrick go?”
Lyra opened her eyes and looked at Tiri, finding a layer of soapy lather coating her smooth skin.
“It lasted much longer than last time. For a moment, I thought I had him beat, but I overcommitted and he smacked me with his shield. My head is pounding like it might pop right off if I breathe wrong.”
Tiri frowned. “That sounds horrible. I don’t understand why you insist on combat training. You certainly don’t have to do it. There are plenty of other things you can do without placing yourself in harm’s way.”
Lyra sighed, a common practice when this subject arose. “I can’t rely on others to protect me, Tiri. I’m not a princess, like you.”
Tiri sat up, the morning sunlight beaming down on her shapely physique.
“But, you are a princess. Father loves you and calls you his daughter. He’s the king and that makes you a princess.”
Lyra snorted. “He might be the king, but a king calling a beetle a butterfly still doesn’t make it a butterfly.” She shook her head. “I can’t afford to think that way, Tiri. I learned the hard way when my father was killed…you cannot control fate. Things change. I prepare my mind and body for a life beyond these walls because I don’t know how the bones might fall in the future.”
Tiri frowned. “The bones again. Not everything equates to a game of knucklebones. I think we have more control over our lives than that.”
“Are you done with that soap?” Lyra asked, accepting the foamy bar as Tiri handed it to her. “I’m not saying that you shouldn’t try to make your own life, influence your own fate. I’m just saying that things happen that you can’t foresee. I never expected to end up living in a castle. While I love it here, and I love both you and your father, the events that brought me here aren’t something I’d choose to relive.”
Lyra shivered as she thought of the army of giant soldiers and their magic-enhanced screams. Surviving that confrontation was a near thing, with an amazing blend of bravery, luck, and magic required to prevent disaster. She remained amazed that they were able to send The Hand’s army, along with its Arcanists, through Cal’s portal.
After wetting the bar of soap, Lyra began scrubbing her body. “Perhaps I’m being overly negative and nothing will happen. Maybe I’ll just live here for the rest of my life, sharing this amazing castle with my sister, the Queen. If I’m wasting my time learning how to fight, I can live with that.”
“I guess, but I don’t like you getting hurt. Just thinking about getting hit in the head with a shield makes me nauseous.” Tiri lowered herself into the water, dunking her head beneath the surface. When she resurfaced, she ran her hands through her hair, squeezing excess water from it. “Oh, I forgot to tell you that Father has an important dinner arranged for tonight…with Baron Clavelle and the Artisan Guild Master. He requested that we attend.”
“Let me guess, I’m to wear a dress and do something with my hair,” Lyra said with a sarcastic tone. She paused and turned toward Tiri. “Am I to…play?”
Tiri nodded. “Yes. He wants to know why the artisans recently raised their rates. They claim that they must do so to survive, but Father is doubtful.”
“I wish he would just use the throne instead.”
“The throne might tell him that they’re lying, but it doesn’t necessarily reveal the truth. Besides, it has…become somewhat famous, and people know what it can do now. They are careful not to lie in front of it, instead saying things that are true, yet hiding the real answer behind duplicity.” Tiri rose from the water and Glynnis wrapped a towel around her. “In addition, your playing allows him to get the info he needs without anyone remembering the conversation. It helps to prevent unnecessary friction.”
Leaving a trail of water on the stone floor, Tiri padded toward the door to her bedroom. She turned toward Lyra as Glynnis opened the door.
“Will you join me for lunch and a walk in the garden?”
Lyra smiled, nodding. “You know I will.”
Tiri’s bright smile appeared. “Wonderful. I’ll see you in a bit.”
The two women exited through the doorway, leaving Lyra to herself. She closed her eyes and sank deep in the tub, her temple still throbbing from the blow to her head.
Sixteen candles mounted to a massive circular chandelier lit the center of the room, the lighting fixture hovering above a dark oak table. At each end of the room, torches mounted in wall sconces straddled a pair of closed doors, their flame dancing wildly
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