Weapon of Blood by Chris A. Jackson

power.
    Tonight, in the first real test of her
skills, two assassins had died with the flick of effort she would have used to
swat a fly.
    She moved, smiling as her muscles rippled
beneath the runes.  Years of training had hardened her body and, along with the
magic, made her into something more than she had been, something dangerous,
something beautiful.
    You are an attractive, powerful young
woman …
    The memory of Lad’s words brought her up
short.  Mya had long ago abandoned any thoughts of a close, personal
relationship with a man.  She had never craved that kind of attachment,
thinking it would only open her up to more pain.  Besides, no one would look at
her thus and think her attractive.  Tracing her fingertips down her torso, she
felt the raised flesh of her inked skin.
    A memory stopped her movement.
    Runes of emerald fire had burned beneath
Lad’s skin when she tested the bonds of his magic.  Perhaps there was one man
who might not think her secret so shocking or unsightly.  She and Lad were the
same, both etched with magic, both imbued with gifts no mortal could aspire
to.  He, if anyone, would understand her.
    “Lad…”
    Her own voice startled her, echoing off
the four mirrored walls.  She stood at an angle and looked into the infinite
reflections of herself.  Are there really that many Myas?  Am I really so
much?
    Without thought, she began the dance of
death.
    Step, sweep, spin, punch …
    This, too, she owed to Lad.
    Block, step, turn, strike …
    He had taught her the dance, the perfect
form, the symphony of movement he had devised from the six formal styles of
unarmed combat.  In five years, with all her training, she had not been able to
improve upon it.
    Lunge, step, kick, spin …
    Mya increased the cadence, flowing
through the dance as effortlessly as the blood flowed through her veins.  Heat
flushed her skin as she moved faster and faster.  To normal eyes, her movements
would have been a blur, but Mya was not normal.  She saw every lightning-fast
strike of arm and leg with utter clarity, analyzed every nuance of motion and
form.  She was the dance, felt the rhythm, the grace, the perfection.
    Thoughts of the Grandmaster’s letter
blinked into her mind, and just as fast blinked out.  She nearly laughed; he
didn’t know who he was dealing with…
    Step, turn, strike, block …
    Blindingly fast now, each strike
hammering the air with audible force, each step squeaking on the polished
floor, each spin sending a shockwave of wind across the room, she was a deadly
whirlwind.
    No one can touch me.
    Step, spin, strike, block…
    No one can hurt me.
    Kick, strike, block, sweep…
    No one…except —
    Mya halted the dance in the flick of a
hummingbird’s wing, staring at her reflection in the mirror, a faint sheen of
sweat glistening over the ever-shifting runes, as she considered her last
thought.
    No one…except —
    Closing her eyes, she pictured the day
that Saliez died.  In her mind’s eye, she saw again a rune etched in the air,
heard the gasps of pain and surprise as both Lad and the Grandfather lost their
magic.  One person knew her secret.  One person held the magic that could snuff
out her gift, rendering her helpless.
    One last threat hung in the air like a
blade ready to sever her spine.
    Mya strode to the corner where she’d
kicked her wrappings and picked them up.  With an ease born of long practice,
she rewound the cloth around her body, covering her secret from the eyes of
those who would harm her if they knew.  She tucked away the last flap of the
wrappings and examined herself in the mirror again.
    Tonight.  It will have to be tonight .
    She strode from the training room toward
her bedchamber.  From the dresser she chose a dark, slim-fitting shirt and
trousers to don, then changed her mind.  Vonlith’s home was well protected. 
The man was almost as paranoid as an assassin.  Breaking in would only alert
him.  No, she needed to play this differently.  She