“Those girls were always fussing over you,” his father said. “Your mother, too.”
Because he was born poisoned and was sickly as a baby, Oriana was constantly worried that Oak would overextend himself or that one of his sisters would be too rough with him. He hated her fretting. He was forever running off and swinging from trees or riding his pony in defiance of her edicts.
After months apart from his father, though, he felt ashamed of all the times he went along with her wishes.
“I’m not very good with a sword,” he blurted out.
Madoc raised his brows. “How’s that?”
Oak shrugged. He knew that Madoc never trained him the way he trained Jude and Taryn, certainly not the way he trained Jude. If he’d come inside with bruises the way she used to, Oriana would have been furious.
“Show me,” Madoc said.
Which is how he found himself on the lawn of a cemetery, blade raised, as his father walked around him. Oak went through the exercises, one after the other. Madoc poked him with a mop handle when he was in the wrong position, but it wasn’t often.
The redcap nodded. “Good, fine. You know what you’re doing.”
That part was true. Everyone had seen to that. “I have a hard time hitting people.”
Madoc laughed in surprise. “Well, that is a problem.”
Oak made a sour face. Back then, he didn’t like being laughed at.
His father saw the expression and shook his head. “There’s a trick to it,” he said. “One that your sisters never quite learned.”
“My sisters?” Oak asked, incredulous.
“You need to let go of the part of your mind that’s holding you back,” Madoc said moments before he attacked. The redcap’s mop handle caught Oak in the side, knocking him into the grass. By the conditions of his exile, Madoc wasn’t allowed to hold a weapon, so he improvised.
Oak looked up, the breath knocked out of him. But when Madoc swept the wooden stick toward him, he rolled to one side, blocking the blow.
“Good,” his father said, and waited for him to get up before striking again.
They sparred like that, back and forth. Oak was used to fighting, although not with this great intensity.
Still, his father wore him down, hit by hit.
“All the skill in the world doesn’t matter if you won’t strike me,” Madoc shouted finally. “Enough. Halt!”
Oak let his blade sag, relieved. Tired. “I told you.”
But his father didn’t look as though he was going to let things go. “You’re blocking my blows instead of looking for openings.”
Barely blocking, Oak thought, but nodded.
The redcap looked like he was going to gnash his teeth. “You need to get some fire in your belly.”
Oak didn’t reply. He’d heard Jude tell him something similar many times. If he didn’t fight back, he could die. Elfhame wasn’t a safe place. Maybe there were no safe places.
“You need to turn off the part of you that’s thinking,” Madoc said. “Guilt. Shame. The desire to make people like you. Whatever is getting in your way, you need to excise it. Cut it out of your heart. From the time your sword leaves your sheath, put all that aside and strike!”
Oak bit his lip, not sure if that was possible. He liked being liked.
“Once your sword is out of your sheath, you aren’t Oak anymore. And you stay that way until the fight is over.” Madoc frowned. “And do you know how to tell the fight is over? All your enemies are dead. Understand?”
Oak nodded and tried. He willed himself to forget everything but the steps of the fight. Block, parry, strike.
He was quicker than Madoc. Sloppier, but faster. For a moment, he felt as though he was doing okay.
Then the redcap came at him hard. Oak responded with a flurry of parries. For a moment, he thought he saw an opportunity to get under his father’s guard but flinched from it. His nightmares flashed in front of him. He parried instead, harder this time.
“Halt, child,” said Madoc, stopping, frustration clear on his face. “You let two obvious openings pass.”
Oak, who had seen only one, said nothing.
Madoc sighed. “Imagine splitting your mind into two parts: the general and the foot soldier. Once the general gives an order, the foot soldier doesn’t need to think for himself. He just has to do what he’s told.”
“It’s not that I’m thinking I don’t want to hit you,” Oak said. “I just don’t.”
His father nodded, frowning. Then his arm shot out, the flat of the mop handle knocking Oak into the dirt. For a moment, he couldn’t get his breath.