Chapter 13

Many days lap over many days and all I have mostly done is meditative exercises. Fighting styles and techniques taught to the different soldiers of the nine provinces vary. Most military plebes are trained with Vanguard principles, whetting their physical constructs into sharp models of combatants, hewing a being into a beast. The same principles my own training was founded upon. This is truth masked by false ignorance.

Even now I have spent the last few hours 'honing' my form and I have grown weary of the tedious stagnant stances I am forced to spend in from dawn to dusk. Stances I am already acutely acquainted with.

My drillmaster, the Primus, who refuses to tell me his name, expressed fervidly that I must be the first one at the training yard and the last one to leave. Whilst the other Herems spar, sharpening their sword skill and become even better fighters. I, however, exercise meditative efforts that are no more banal than a praying abbot.

"Focus."

My thoughts crash into each other. "I am focusing."

"I can sense your upheaval. You are not focused."

"You speak the truth," I admit, still steeped in a stance. "I am concerned. Time waits for no mortal and whilst the Herems grow stronger," I say, hoping to speed things along. "I have learnt nothing."

"You have learnt nothing?" A sonorous echo, deep-sounding with contempt.

A frown captures my face. "What I meant, Primus, is that I should be learning how to fight, how to wield a blade and guide it to the hearts of my adversaries."

He remains behind me, always lurking at my rear like the sight of me repulses him.

He inhales a breath, the sound like a strong gust through a yawning cavern. "You believe yourself ready?" His resonant voice amplifies every word.

"I am ready to be ready, yes."

A sudden brute force knocks my world off balance—my side smacks against the paved floor, pain flaring up to consume my entire right flank. My cheek peels off the ground and I turn my face skyward, immersed in the shadow of a looming, lone mountain.

"How can you fight when you cannot even stand strong?" He lifts his gaze. "Up."

I thwart a retort. I push myself up onto all fours, going into a lunge—his boot sweeps under my bent leg—I allow it, dropping to the ground with a wince, and flopping over onto my back. A scowl fractures his stony face.

"Slow reaction time, poor reflexive and transdisciplinary skills." Even in the noontide, his hard-angled face clings to the gloom, sunlight polishing the sharp edges. "You may be a Valwa, belonging to the Regnum of wisdom, but true wisdom is accepting that you know nothing. A truth very applicable in your case."

I have tried my best to stomach his words, but they are blows against my resolve, leaving dents that abstain from repairing. Though we spend hours together in training, every day, he only communicates through suffocating silence or berating me every chance he gets, with a hushed hostility, and yet he never seems to get his fill.

I rise again, dusting myself off.

"First stance."

I enter the form. By his command, I transition from one to another until I reach the twelfth. My back knee is bent whilst pushing it back so it is closer to being over the rear ankle. My front leg extends forward whilst still maintaining a fifty-fifty weight distribution.

"Yielding functional and isometric movement in favour of transferring eccentric strength to the muscle. More muscle fibres can be recruited during a maximal isometric action than during concentric movement."

He emerges in my periphery, then sinks to his haunches. He clutches my calve—the scorch collides with the frost—my back leg twitches.

"Grounding yourself is concentrating your internal energy and having it flow through you." His hand glides up—otherworldly sensations surge—his touch conjures it. "It is not a physical application. It's mental."

***

The castle servant serves me my plate.

Solaris looks over at me and whistles. "I think they swapped our meals."

I flick him a jaded look. "Does my portion size concern you?"

"On the contrary." His fork embeds into a sliced piece of pheasant. "It's simply not a common sight."

I start tending to my plate overflowing with meats and vegetables: venison, pomegranate molasses, juniper, pekin duck with a honey-balsamic glaze and marion piper potatoes. Though I could eat twice more than what's been provided, it is ample.

"Not my choice," I mumble, the lies merged with my breaths. "My dietary regime has been greatly altered by my drillmaster."

"The Primus?"

My eyes zip to him.

"What?" he asks, chewing through a smile. He swallows. "You didn't think I would know? I know. All know because he is a Primus, thee Primus. His reputation precedes him. It does provoke one's curiosity as to why he was tasked with overseeing your training in particular."

"The mystery behind the mind of a High King."

"How goes your training?" He pivots on the outdoor bench. "Are you faring well? From what I see in the yard, he treats you harshly."

"I incurred widespread odium from a decision that was not even my own. I am sure he would rather be dealing with border skirmishes than a prissy Hera."

Enchanting blue eyes sparkle with interest. "You are not prissy."

"Neither am I a warrior." I snatch the glass of red wine, drawing it to my parched lips just to put it down again. My eyes rove through the sparsely populated outdoor seating area, all occupied by the Herems. "You have all been trained to fight men; I have been taught to use my feminine wiles to charm them. Even in that, I gladly fall short."

Solaris purses his lips in mock thought. "That is a comment in which I must dispute."

***

I enter the last stance, deepening my form with every exhale.

"Bend a little lower for us, Hera," a Herem hollers from across the yard.

I snap straight, glaring at an idle line of them sharing a round of laughs, some carrying swords. They all cock up as if frightened by something, they grumble amongst themselves, suddenly dispersing to exercise with different training equipment. Confusion gathers my brows. My chest inflates, drawing a long breath, rapt by the inexorable power that his presence emanates.

I swivel around to witness a black storm rising.

Kelan advances with his hands stiff at the sides.

"Primus," I greet.

He disregards me.

Today we finally begin with the nuances of fighting: hand-to-hand combat, a sequence of basic blocks and the synergy between them. The outer forearm block, low back, high block and inner forearm block.

The Primus demonstrates with a strong sweep of his hand. "Knife hand block, execute this block by having your guard up and your hand flattened like a blade. This block deflects face-bound attacks."

Both hands clench into fists, and he raises them in a high guard, framing his face. "Deflect your opponent's strikes." His weight equally distributed, one leg further extended than the other. "This stance deter attacks to your head." He snaps his arm out, pointed downward. "Low block, performed with your outside arm to protect your lower body." The same arm whips upward with his palm facing out. "High block, deters strikes like kicks from your head." His arm extends vertically with palm facing inward. "Inner forearm block is performed by stepping forward with a chopping motion."

He continues to school me in the series of blocks. After he makes me perform them, starting with stances and flowing into the basic blocks. And I spend hours in the yard whilst he observes me, scrutinises me, critiquing my form and makes the necessary adjustments. Even when the Herems and their overseers abscond from the yard, the Primus will not release me.

***

The following days he layers onto the basics, mounding rudimentary skills and teaching me basic kicks, compounding an arrangement of the fundamentals of fighting. When I am in the shelter of his presence, the Herems dare not bother me, both a blessing and a curse. I am always sheltered for he is always near.

I practise my drills with a narrow wooden structure, the same height as I, arm bridges sticking out, several appendages extending out from its body like stiff limbs, beams made of resilient wood. The stand has several strategic angles, tendons attached to the arms and legs fitted through mortise holes.

The Primus teaches—what I already know—that repeated practice brings proper use of energy and power, power that comes within that I shoot out straight to the core. The footwork varies while maintaining close proximity to the wooden stand. He introduces me to the high concept of clean but robust execution of technique; the proper formation of a fist and the positioning of fingers.

When striking the long limbs, the thumb folded inward across the bottom of the index knuckle. This puts the forearm muscles into the correct tonus, directing my internal energy to the wrist rather than letting it escape through the fingers. Releasing a barrage of punches to the trunk, forming a proper fist by clenching in the interim between blocking and coming to full extension of my punches.

The Primus seizes my wrist—a blaze of searing frost—he adjusts my fingers to have them rolled tightly down to form a fist with my thumb wrapped around the front.

"This simple movement must be mastered so that in the split-second conversion from an open hand block to a short range jab, with no retraction of the punching hand."

He nods. I release, unleashing a long succession of punches until the skin feels like it's breaking, each jab tearing off slivers of flesh from my fists. A familiar pain quaking through my knuckles with every blow. The Primus observes my expression with scrutiny, silently crucifying me for my apathy towards the apparent agony that I should not be comfortable with.

"It hurts."

My complaint falls on deaf ears.

"It pains me," I try again.

"Yes, you definitely appear tortured," he says, subduing his sarcasm, then he adds, "This kind of conditioning will develop your ability to transfer power, the continuum of striking from a combination of angles without the interruption of speed and momentum."

The footwork of each complete motion, factoring in what I learnt from perfected stances. The first set of movements is hand-focused work, a variation of striking past the beams and at the face with deflection techniques. Moving with snapping action to add raising power to execute low sweep and high chop block.

"When I return, that is when you take your leave."

And with that, he withdraws, leaving a chill in the warm winds.

I do as ordered. I practice until my skin becomes torn and my knuckles begin to bleed.

The night draws a shroud over the sky and yet here I remain; in the training yard.

"Hera."

I endure my drills without looking back. I recognise her voice, small and saccharine like Pinta. Her name is Deidre, she is one of the personal handmaids assigned to me.

"You should come inside and eat, my' Hera."

"I cannot." The pain in my fingers scream for me to stop. "Though I appreciate your concern, only my drillmaster can relieve me."

"That's why I am here. The Primus sent me to relay his order; you are done for this day."

I nearly drop to the ground from relief.

I follow her out of the training yard, the surrounding edifices draped in darkness. My eyes level, roaming around the interior that is accompanied by fire torches and guards. A great shadow moulds with the darkness, in league with the blackness of nightfall. It moves and shifts as if it has whims of its own.

Deirdre escorts me to my royal chambers, and after a tedious trek, we arrive. Thankfully, my dinner is served out for me on a newly positioned dining table, placed right beside the expansive window, situated temporarily. The interior is decorated with a parade of candles. I rush to occupy the only seat, piling the plate with food and wolfing down the meat greedily.

"Hera." Her gaze fastened on my grazed hands. "Shall I run you a bath, so the waters will be ready for you after you dine?"

I moan with pleasure, nodding eagerly. "That would be lovely," I say with a mouthful.

Deidre stifles a smile, dips her head, and hastily makes her way out. Not long after, she comes back to see me slumped sluggishly against the chair in a manner that would make my mother riot. Successfully gorging down a meal that could feed ten men that now sits happily in my belly.

After I bathe, Deidre stands ready to envelope my bare form with a towel robe, but she seems rather distracted. I slip out of the bath, watching her watch me, concern creasing her smooth skin.

"Is something the matter?"

She erects from her stupor, "Forgive me, my'Hera" she says, hurrying to shroud the robe over me. I slide my arms through the velour sleeves with a tantalised smile.

"The matter is… you have many old scars, ones I thought I'd never see on a highborn."

"We all have our secrets, as do the highborn."

Succeeding my change into my nightwear. Deidre tends to my hands, applying a salve on my blistered knuckles, then binding them with a bolt of linen cloth, bandaging my hands but liberating my fingers.

"The Primus works you hard."

Her face is suffused in candlelight, highlighting her sweet, round features.

"I fear I'm yet to experience the full extent of his cruelty.