Daughter of the Sword

4 || Training

MY DREAMS WRITHE WITH shadows and monsters, smoke twisting into figures with embers for eyes, yawning voids in their smiles. They reach for me, toy with me, tug me this way and that, around and around as I curl on the floor, my arms helplessly covering my head. "Should we kill her?" my father asks.

"Stop," I whimper.

"Should we kill her? Should we kill her?"

"Stop!"

I fly through the shadows. Into a stone room far, far away, statues lining its walls like sentinels. A boy with his arm outstretched. A gentleman with a crown. And a woman—

Looking at me.

Her eyes glow with those same embers, but she does not smile along with those wisps of black, those wishes for death. She just stares, and my skin prickles. Something glows in my palm, and I glance down at it, this ball of light, stronger and stronger, brighter and brighter, until it's a blinding spot of white against the shadows of this place, this temple, this tomb—

I jolt awake. My hands are empty.

I blink through the darkness, squinting in the meagre light of the moon through the window, the first purpling traces of dawn. My back throbs, and pain lances up my muscles. Somehow, I drifted off to sleep last night, after hours of tossing and turning, desperate for comfort, for warmth. Someone has thrown a pair of trousers and a blouse on my bed, a rough bundle of straw that has left scratches on my skin. I sit up and pick them up between pinched fingers, holding them at arm's length. Trousers.

Bracing a hand on the wall, I push myself to my feet, focusing on the cold bite of the stone to keep me from collapsing on my shaking knees. My fingers fumble with the strings at the nape of my neck, holding the collar of my gown in place. They're so cold they barely move, much less with the dexterity needed, sluggish and clumsy. I finally undo the fabric around my neck, but as I twist my arms backward, I cannot reach the fastener to my bodice. Never in my life have I had to dress myself. I let out a whimper.

After multiple attempts, I finally loosen my gown and slide out of it, grunting at the effort as I yank it down past my hips. The sound of a tearing seam echoes with deafening shame in the silence of the cell block. Then I shrug off the camisole and the first petticoat before pausing, out of breath, staring down at the remaining garments trapping my body. How to find the fastener for the next petticoat? And the next? The sun inches higher and I bite back my frustration, a small panic growing that the soldier from yesterday will see me so exposed. I feel the powers thrum in my hands. "No," I whisper. They subside.

I peel off layer after layer, my fingers sore and trembling, until at last I reach the final one. All that remains are my stockings and my corset. I fumble at the whalebone contraption, letting out repeated grunts as it resists, and the room begins to close in on me, the corset squeezing me tighter, and in a flash my fingers singe a hole through its bindings and it pops off, my hands still warm from the flame. I gasp and jump back, throwing it across the room, and push my spine against the wall, letting the cold calm me again. Shivering, I stare at the garments strewn across the room and let my heart calm down. I feel a flicker of pride.

I shrug on the trousers, too big around the waist, and yank one of the laces off my corset to bind it like a belt. The shirt comes on next, a blouse with billowing sleeves that reminds me of the seamen at the royal docks, except it wilts over my small shoulders and tiny arms like a child playing dress-up, no muscle to fill it out. I'm almost grateful there's no mirror.

A door slams, and footsteps echo from down the hallway. A new soldier appears, casting a glance over the storm of garments scattered about. He huffs a laugh, and then he turns to me, the laughter growing. "You look ridiculous."