Assassin of Curses: (The Coren Hart Chronicles Book 3) by Jessie Eaker (best novels in english TXT) 📕

She looked down. “I can transfer my sword skills directly from my brain into yours.”

I considered her. “Zofie has shared her memories with me before. It was a little disorienting, but it didn’t seem dangerous. Is this technique something similar?”

She rubbed her palms on her thighs. “It is similar in process, however not in scope. You see, sharing the memory of an experience is simply putting the sights and sounds of that into your head. It’s the same as listening to a story or reading it from a book. But transferring a skill is different. It resides not just in your head, but also in the organs, nerves, and muscles of your body. So all of those must be transferred too.”

I looked at her skeptically. “Sounds too good to be true. What’s the catch?”

She nodded. “There are several. For one, you could die. Sometimes, the body rejects the skill refusing to take it, yet not be able to get rid of it. This can cause a wasting of the body until the person dies. However, if done properly, that rarely occurs.”

“That doesn’t sound encouraging. What are the others?”

“Well, it takes a lot of myst and requires several sessions to transfer all that is needed. It will take at least a day to rebuild my myst for the next session. And also the techniques I would give you are mine. The skills transferred are only as good as the source. So any mistakes or bad habits will come with it. And finally, you will still need to practice what is transferred, or they will quickly fade. You have to practice them to make them your own.”

She paused. I could tell we had reached the part she really wasn’t sure about.

I looked at her levelly. “That’s not all, is it?”

She hesitated in her answer. “There are... side effects. The skills themselves are tied to my own memories of when I learned them. You will see things that I’m not really comfortable showing you.” She looked down. “Things that will make you despise me.”

I looked up in surprise. “Fumiko, I don’t want you to do something that makes you feel violated. If you’re not comfortable with it, then don’t do it. We’ll just have to think of another way.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to lose any more of my precious people. I only ask that you not tell my secrets. Not even to Zofie. What I’m about to share is more intimate than being lovers.”

I leaned back. “Fumiko, I don’t know about this. As you would say, I don’t feel worthy of this gift.”

She turned her face toward me, and she gazed squarely into my eyes. I could see a mixture of dread, hope, and sadness. “Will you accept my offering? It is the only way I can help you and the princess. Both of you mean more to me than life itself. You’ve given me a home, friendship, and a purpose. You have no idea how grateful I am.”

I glanced over to the bed where Zofie lay. In the silence of the room, I could hear her softly breathing. I thought back to the conversation Fumiko and I had in the carriage. How far would I go to protect Zofie?

Pretty damn far.

I turned back to Fumiko and nodded. “What do I need to do?”

She ran a hand through her hair. “This will be exhausting for both of us. I suggest you lay on your pallet since you will fall asleep immediately afterward. It’s part of the brain’s process to absorb the information. I’ll kneel beside you and manage the flow.”

I laid back on my blankets while Fumiko took her place beside me. She took my hand and raised it to her forehead. I felt her myst gathering.

“You don’t have to do this,” I said softly.

“Oh, but I do, precious person Coren. I most certainly do.”

And then the world began to fade, and I suddenly saw the world through Fumiko’s eyes.

The man that I faced seemed huge. Dressed in dark gray with a face and head completely shaved, he had to be one of the largest men I’d ever seen. Of course, most people were larger than me. I was already twelve, but I still looked like a child.

“Again!” he commanded.

The room was filled with over thirty students, boys and girls, all dressed in gray pants and a belted shirt. The air was filled with the sounds of grunts and yells and carried the smell of sweat and exertion. Like me, all were practicing the new form with a stick sword. Only most of the others were paired with other students. I was still with the teacher. Thank the Creator we weren’t using real swords. He would have cut off a leg by now.

I assumed the initial position of the form we were practicing. I tried to ignore the stinging pains in my thigh. I had been unable to follow the form one time too many, and the teacher had issued motivation in the form of hits to my thighs and buttocks.

We started again from the base form and then proceeded slowly through the routine: turn, step, point, stab—

Wack! The stick was immediate. I blinked and refused to give up my tears.

“Your stab is too low. It needs to be higher.”

The room was full of children and teachers going through similar motions. I had not been the only one to receive motivation, but for most, they had become sufficiently motivated that they didn’t need it anymore. I, on the other hand, was not doing so well. And being last in this class frequently resulted in one disappearing.

No one knew where.

The instructor considered me a moment. My battered leg began to tremble, but I ignored it.

He sighed and stroked his chin. “You’re normally better than this,” he