Read Online Blades Of Illusion: Crown Service #2 by Terah Edun - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Terah Edun
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been something fascinating, then and now, about the tiny bit of machinery crafted by the arms smiths that made its owner someone much more admirable than an ordinary warrior. He was different . Sara wanted to be different.
Sara had ended that day with enough cuts to her hands that she’d had to have them wrapped in salve and gauze that night under the watchful and glaring eyes of her mother, the dark-skinned Anna Beth, with eyes like the moon and a pinched brow. Her father had taken one look at her mother—with her arms crossed and a look of fury on her face—and hastily tried to explain why her only child had hands that looked like she lost a fight with a clawed cat. He had quickly lost that battle before the first sentence had issued forth from his lips and been banished from the healing room.
Her mother had explained, “I’ll deal with your father tonight. You I want answers from now! What in the gods’ names were you doing with those swords, Sara? Juggling them?”
Sara still remembered her righteous indignation as a child. She had tried explaining about the amazing knife sharpener-cum-mapmaker with his one hand that etched out landscapes as fast as her eyes could watch. She had done so with all the eagerness of a thirteen-year-old girl who had just discovered a new hero.
Her mother had relented with amusement flashing in her eyes. “Well, did you at least speak with him, or just spend your time gaping like a fish?”
Sara had hastily assured her that they had made introductions.
“He even told me why he is the way he is!” she had said in excitement.
Anna Beth’s eyebrows had raised as she listened attentively. Sara had been so eager to share her story that she hadn’t noticed as her mother wrapped another layer of gauze over her wounds.
“And why is that?” Her mother’s voice had been patient.
Sara had launched into the story of how the man had protected her father’s life in the arena and how he had come to live in their villa, as if her mother didn’t already know the story herself. But to a child, first-hand knowledge of an event was everything. Anna Beth hadn’t gainsaid her and had let her tell it with the enthusiasm befitting a youngster’s new tale.
The short form of the history between her father and the monstrous man was that they had been warriors together in the gladiatorial arena. When another gladiator had swung out a studded shield to catch her father in the side and knock him down to finish him off, the older man had stepped in the way. He had fought off her father’s opponent but had taken a strike directly to his spine. A blow from which he had never recovered.
He had had to be dragged out of the arena by slaves, half of his body useless and his sword fallen from his hand to lay in the sand, his enemy’s blood glimmering on the blade.
From the moment Sara had relayed that story to her mother, she had resolved with vigor that she would never again refer to him in her head as a monster for the facial features he couldn’t control and the arm and leg that lay useless by his side. When she had thought to speak to her father about the matter afterward, he had made sure to educate her on the realities of the world and that there were people far more monstrous out there, both physically and mentally, than the man she fondly referred to as Sir.
Staring into Ezekiel’s brown and spectacled eyes, she smiled at the memory, because despite the deadly situation, it made her remember a time when paralyzed features didn’t mean a bleak outcome was inevitably coming for them.
Ezekiel, however, wasn’t feeling so optimistic. The right side of his mouth, the only side he could use, was turned down in a frown. “I’m slowing you down.”
Sara snapped out of her reverie.
He spoke in a slur, as he couldn’t move the lips on the left side either. In fact, the entire left side of his body lay still and droopy, as if his body had been painted out and the artist had smeared the left
Sara had ended that day with enough cuts to her hands that she’d had to have them wrapped in salve and gauze that night under the watchful and glaring eyes of her mother, the dark-skinned Anna Beth, with eyes like the moon and a pinched brow. Her father had taken one look at her mother—with her arms crossed and a look of fury on her face—and hastily tried to explain why her only child had hands that looked like she lost a fight with a clawed cat. He had quickly lost that battle before the first sentence had issued forth from his lips and been banished from the healing room.
Her mother had explained, “I’ll deal with your father tonight. You I want answers from now! What in the gods’ names were you doing with those swords, Sara? Juggling them?”
Sara still remembered her righteous indignation as a child. She had tried explaining about the amazing knife sharpener-cum-mapmaker with his one hand that etched out landscapes as fast as her eyes could watch. She had done so with all the eagerness of a thirteen-year-old girl who had just discovered a new hero.
Her mother had relented with amusement flashing in her eyes. “Well, did you at least speak with him, or just spend your time gaping like a fish?”
Sara had hastily assured her that they had made introductions.
“He even told me why he is the way he is!” she had said in excitement.
Anna Beth’s eyebrows had raised as she listened attentively. Sara had been so eager to share her story that she hadn’t noticed as her mother wrapped another layer of gauze over her wounds.
“And why is that?” Her mother’s voice had been patient.
Sara had launched into the story of how the man had protected her father’s life in the arena and how he had come to live in their villa, as if her mother didn’t already know the story herself. But to a child, first-hand knowledge of an event was everything. Anna Beth hadn’t gainsaid her and had let her tell it with the enthusiasm befitting a youngster’s new tale.
The short form of the history between her father and the monstrous man was that they had been warriors together in the gladiatorial arena. When another gladiator had swung out a studded shield to catch her father in the side and knock him down to finish him off, the older man had stepped in the way. He had fought off her father’s opponent but had taken a strike directly to his spine. A blow from which he had never recovered.
He had had to be dragged out of the arena by slaves, half of his body useless and his sword fallen from his hand to lay in the sand, his enemy’s blood glimmering on the blade.
From the moment Sara had relayed that story to her mother, she had resolved with vigor that she would never again refer to him in her head as a monster for the facial features he couldn’t control and the arm and leg that lay useless by his side. When she had thought to speak to her father about the matter afterward, he had made sure to educate her on the realities of the world and that there were people far more monstrous out there, both physically and mentally, than the man she fondly referred to as Sir.
Staring into Ezekiel’s brown and spectacled eyes, she smiled at the memory, because despite the deadly situation, it made her remember a time when paralyzed features didn’t mean a bleak outcome was inevitably coming for them.
Ezekiel, however, wasn’t feeling so optimistic. The right side of his mouth, the only side he could use, was turned down in a frown. “I’m slowing you down.”
Sara snapped out of her reverie.
He spoke in a slur, as he couldn’t move the lips on the left side either. In fact, the entire left side of his body lay still and droopy, as if his body had been painted out and the artist had smeared the left
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