Thread of Ash and Fire

Ch. 53: Who Would You Bet On?

Anna hadn't imagined that her day would consist of trying not to kill birds. Then again, she also hadn't imagined that Ryne Delafort would be sitting next to her, drinking a lemonade with a pink umbrella in it, so today was full of surprises.

She raised her hands. A silver whip flew out and struck a large grey boulder. A flurry of birds shot into the air, squawking indignantly. Anna lowered her hand, assessing the blow; not bad in terms of distance — a good fifty metres — but nowhere near the tall pine tree that she'd been aiming for.

Shit.

"Try again," Ryne said.

He was sitting in a lawn chair next to her, sipping on a glass of strawberry lemonade. He wore smart trousers and a green waistcoat today, and he brushed crumbs from the fabric. The only evidence, Anna observed, of the loaf of bread and wheel of cranberry cheese that Ryne had consumed during their two-hour practice session.

Well, her practice session.

Ryne had been open about the fact that he was just here for the food.

Anna sent out another whip. The magic struck a bush this time, sending squirrels scattering in all directions. She tilted her head.

"Was that closer?"

"It wasn't farther away," Ryne said diplomatically.

Right. In other words, that had also sucked. Anna sighed. "I should have been practicing this years ago."

Ryne stirred his drink. "You were busy trying to steal my throne."

"Months ago, then," Anna countered.

Ryne took a sip. "Locked in a tower."

"Weeks ago."

"Fighting in a battle that destroyed half of Lox," Ryne offered.

"Goodness," Anna said, raising her hands. "We really have been busy. So hard to find time to pursue one's hobbies in between maiming people." Her magic shot to the left, nearly striking a man in a tweed cap, and she swore. "Sorry!"

The villager raised an arm, waving at her good-naturedly. He stood in the shadow of the castle, surrounded by thirty other men and women, all carrying axes and crossbows and swords. Grayson stood by a firepit, swinging a sword in a demonstrative fashion. Explaining how to parry, by the look of it. The man in the tweed cap cringed and took a large step back.

Anna sighed.

Grayson was doing his best to teach the villagers to fight, but there was undeniably someone better suited to the job. Her eyes flicked to the tower. What was Isaac even doing up there? Knitting? Painting? Constructing clothes from carpet fibres?

Anna turned back to the pine tree. The branches swayed slightly in the winter breeze, as if curling its fingers mockingly in a come-hither gesture.

"This is ridiculous," Anna muttered. "I should have hit it by now."

Ryne pulled out a fistful of beef jerky. "Most weavers can't even cast without touching someone. You're doing fine."

Anna blinked. She wasn't sure what was more surprising: Ryne's endless supply of food, or the fact that he'd offered voluntary praise. She pulled on her gloves, flexing her numb fingers. A burning sensation had begun in her bad shoulder. Never a good sign.

"Any word from Tristan?" Anna asked.

Ryne slurped more lemonade. "Nope."

"Isolde?"