Chapter
12

Aodren

SNEAKING OUT OF THE CASTLE IS EASIER THAN sneaking in,” she says after we’ve dodged a chambermaid, kitchen help, and two guards on our descent to reach the tunnels under the castle. Since I am not familiar with these halls, it’s difficult to keep up. I try to guess which way she’s going to turn next, and fail.

It seems everything she does keeps me guessing. For example, her appearance tonight. It’s more befitting a court gathering than an evening of covert activity. Her arms are full of her dress, hefting it up high enough that her ankles are displayed as we race through the depths of the castle. I cannot fathom why she would’ve worn it.

“Is that the least conspicuous outfit you own?”

She rolls her eyes. Did she not chide me at the Elementiary about my appearance drawing attention?

“Less noise,” she whispers, and hoists the gown so it cannot scuff on the stairs.

Lirra pulls me into an alcove. The echo of a guard’s footsteps comes closer and then continues on, until it’s out of earshot. She then explains that the guards patrol the castle, walking the same routes each night. How easy it is to sneak in and out when you know the pattern. Lirra would make an excellent security adviser.

When we reach the lower levels of the castle, she smooths her full skirts down and gestures for me to stop. To my confusion, her hands disappear in the green folds of fabric. An instant later she withdraws a . . . Is that a map?

Her clever pockets are impressive. She unfolds the aged parchment, presenting a well-worn sketch of the castle’s layout, and consults the map. After a few moments, she refolds it like an accordion and slips it into her hidden dress pocket.

“That way,” she says.

We wind through the castle’s belly, where the maze of halls would be impossible to navigate without her leading the way. And then without warning, she stops beside a low wooden door that nearly blends into the surrounding rock.

Lirra digs through her dress’s pockets, this time producing a hand-size waterskin. After taking a sip, she offers it to me. I decline but watch, enrapt, as it disappears back into the material. Waves of her black hair fall over her shoulder as she starts twisting side to side and slipping her hands into her skirts. The urge comes to tuck the curls behind her ear to see what else she’ll unearth. Her hair is blocking my view.

Lirra glances up and catches me staring at her.

A coy smile replaces the look of concentration, her thick, sooty lashes batting twice and then open wide. “Your attention flatters me, Your Highness.”

I step back. “I wanted to see what else you have in there.”

All signs of flirtation vanish. “Your gaping makes me itchy. Stop it.”

“It’s your dress,” I say, not wanting to admit the true course of my thoughts. “It confused me at first, but now I can see its utility.”

She rolls two small metal sticks in her palms. “Did you think I wore it for you?”

“No.” I shift my weight. “It appeared too restrictive for the night’s activity. But its functionality is impressive.”

“Thank you.” She curtsies, a smooth motion worthy of any highborn lady and not something I’d expect of the Archtraitor’s daughter. Until I remember that before he was the Archtraitor, Millner was a member of the Malamian nobility, making Lirra a highborn lady. Though she wasn’t raised that way. “At the tournament, ladies will be dressed in their finest. This gown helps me blend in. Also, dressed like this, no one would ever think I’m hiding six sets of throwing daggers.”

Godstars.“You are?”

She laughs and inserts the sticks into the lock. “Only one set. But I could carry six sets if I wanted to.”

I cannot decide if I find her candidness aggravating or refreshing. But she has me smiling and intrigued to know what she’ll say or do next. It’s a refreshing change from how others treat me.

A few twists and the door unlocks, swinging open to a wide hole of pitch-black.

“This path runs in a straight shot from the summer castle’s keep to the cathedral on the cliff,” she says.

I maintain my neutral expression, ignoring the cloaking darkness ahead.

“If you reach out with both hands, you could touch either side of the tunnel. If you stand to your full height, you’ll probably bang your head. Remember that. Ready?”

“Yes.” Though I am not. The space is tight and close, giving too much freedom to my dark imagination.

After we enter, Lirra closes the door behind us.

We have gone a few steps when a hic, hic, hic of her jerking breath echoes in the pitch-black. I am not the only one uneasy. Something has spooked her.

“Lirra?” I ask, forgetting my own discomfort.

“I’m fine,” she says. I don’t know her well, but I can tell she’s lying.

Her steps echo, indicating she’s moving forward, so I follow close enough behind that I can feel the hem of her dress connect with the toe of my boot. The musty tunnel is cooler than the castle halls, but the temperature hasn’t dropped enough to be the cause of her shivery breath.

“Lirra,” I say again, and then nearly knock her down when I run into her back.

My fingers seek her arm in the darkness and then trail down to her hand. Lirra allows me to sandwich her hand between both of mine. Hers is made of ice. My palm covers hers, sliding up to her wrist and back down. She releases a breath. Neither of us breaks the silence, but the tension in her arm eases and stays that way as we continue forward until eventually entering the cathedral’s catacombs.

The light is too strong at first. But after blinking a handful of times, my eyes adjust. We’ve emerged in a dusty cavern. Lirra lets go of me and slides her hands over her arms.

“They always have one lantern lit,” she whispers, not quite meeting my gaze. I want to know what rattled her, or at the very least, know how to help her. But I doubt this headstrong girl will admit anything to me.

She points to the satchel on my shoulder, and mouths, “Hurry.”

That single word returns my attention to the night’s purpose. I step into an adjacent burial chamber and switch outfits. All I have to do is travel unnoticed to the tent where the champions wait in preparation for the first event. Once there, I’ll have no more than a few minutes to gather armor and Leif’s sparring swords before the event begins. It’s not too great a challenge. I’ve already passed the hardest part—keeping the plan from the other leaders and sneaking out of the castle.

When I emerge, Lirra inspects my work, adjusting the cap over my hair. “You’re ready,” she pronounces.

Less than a quarter-league from the cathedral, makeshift merchant shops and small bonfires surround the tournament field. Voices rumble from gathering crowds while more people approach, their wooden carriage wheels crackling on the gravel road. Anticipation is as vivid as the dozens of torchlights made to shine directional light, illuminating the tournament field by Channeler magic.

I stand outside the champions’ tent, my stomach high in my throat. Lirra disappeared as soon as this part of the bargain was filled. I was disappointed, though not surprised. She is helping me only in order to gain information about her father. And yet, for a moment in the tunnel, with the sound of her fearful breaths and the touch of her small, chilled hand, I felt useful. Needed by another person.

Despite the servants and nobility who move through the halls of Malam’s Castle Neart, the life of a king is one of solitude. In my twenty-two years, I can hardly remember a time when someone has needed me for me and not just for the power of my crown. Perhaps that is why the moment her fingers left mine, I felt the absence down in my core. I’ll not soon forget the touch of her hand, nor what it felt like for her to lean on me.

It felt like trust and belief.

If only my people felt this way about Malam. I’m here tonight for this very reason.

Everything I’ve prepared runs through my head—the request for Leif’s weapons to be brought to the tent along with my practice armor, which bears the colors of Malam, but no specific royal marks. My nerves are frayed, hoping it will all come together.

Around the field, the crowd buzzes like a sentient thing. A loud hum of banter comes from the people streaming by. I see clothing in blue and gold for Shaerdan, black and silver for Kolontia, red and yellow for Akaria, and green and brown for the Plovian Isles. They talk about their kingdoms’ competitors, chanting and cheering the fighters’ names. I cannot help but notice few wear Malam’s maroon and gray. And those who do are quieter, more subdued.

I stand outside the champions’ tent, waiting as the fighters stroll out and gather at the edge of the tournament field.

“Bloody Malamians, I hope they’re destroyed on the field,” I hear someone say from a crowd of Kolontians and Shaer-danians passing by.

“On the field? Soon enough that kingdom will fall.”

I bite my tongue and push through the tent’s flaps. Inside, rows of benches and curtains separate the expansive staging area into six sections. If the respective flags are any indication, the competitors from each kingdom have been allotted private space to prepare. The remaining area, where the curtain is open for all to view, is a healer’s station. No one is there. They’ve all left for the start of the tournament.

Keeping my head ducked, I hurry forward and push through the curtain leading into Malam’s section of the tent.

Baltroit Bromier pushes his long sandy hair out of his face and glances up. I halt, pulse kicking through my ears. I thought the space was empty. I’ve sparred with him many times on Castle Neart’s training grounds. He’s sure to recognize me in spite of the borrowed lesser-noble clothes and false beard. I haven’t even confessed my plan to Segrande, but perhaps now is a good time to tell Baltroit. We can use the next few minutes to discuss a joint attack for the melee.

“You got something to say? Or you mute?” His animosity is unexpected. Shocking. “Figures they’d give me the lame one.”

He thinks I’m a page.

Baltroit starts sharpening his blade. Sharpening his blade?

“Only practice swords are allowed,” I say, remembering to moderate my voice halfway through my comment. I sound like a lad in the throes of puberty. What am I doing?

“That’s right. This is for later. In case I need it.”

What would he need it for? Baltroit has always been a little erratic. The bitter violence he’s harboring is new. Or, at least, a side I’ve not seen before. “What would you need it for?”

His stone zips along the blade. “You a Malamian? You sound like one.”

I nod.

“You hear what they’re saying about us. No respect. If yer not given it, you take it.”

My eyes narrow. “You mean to start a—”

“I’m starting nothing. But I’ll finish it.” He rubs his beard just like his father does and scowls. “Yer a nosy filly. Get outta here and tell them I’m coming.” He sheathes the sword and stands, grabbing his helmet.

Outside, the sounds of the tournament grow to a loud drone. It’s soon to start. I step out of the curtained area, stunned by Baltroit’s malice. He’s not acting like himself. It must be adrenaline for the fight. But I can’t worry about that now. I’m running out of time to get ready.

“Hailing from Kolontia, fighting in the name of their king, are Hemmet Vonk and Zane Marza.”

I rush out of the tent as I tug on a helmet. After Baltroit left the champions’ tent late, I had mere minutes to pull on chain mail and hardened leather body plates. I reach the field as the roar from spectators rises to a deafening pitch.

Hemmet and Zane cross the field.

Another spark of cheers ignites when Hemmet pumps his broadsword in the air.

I hide behind a healer’s cart where Baltroit stands waiting for his name to be called. Here I can keep an eye on him and watch the tournament field.

The noise dies down, and the speaker calls on the next two champions, Io and Fehana Caloi, sisters from Akaria. Whispers of awe rush into the night, sounding like a wind in the trees. Feet hammer the ground to welcome the two women warriors. Dressed in black from head to toe and each carrying two thin swords, they’re a fearsome pair. The seams of their clothing show sewn-in armor, pieces of hardened leather to protect all their vital areas.

“Easy prey,” I hear Baltroit say.

He’s wrong. If he studied their movement, he’d recognize the tell of agility. They’re alert and light on their feet.

Baltroit is a fool to think these women are any less lethal than the eight male champions that will be fighting this evening. I shift my grip on Leif’s sword. It’s heavier than my own sparring weapon, a fact I hadn’t accounted for. But I have my short sparring sword fixed at my waist as a secondary blade.

The announcer yells for Malam’s fighters, and my heart jumps into a gallop. I give Baltroit a half-dozen strides before I move away from the cart and walk onto the field. Baltroit crosses to the center, where the other competitors have lined up. I head to the announcer’s stand. The man finishes his introduction of Baltroit before taking notice of me.

I’ve nearly reached the stand when the man leans away from the cone he’s been shouting into. “Look, not just anyone can take a champ’s place. Only King Aodren himself can compete. You can’t just walk on for Malam. If you wanted to fight—”

I pull off my helmet.

He blanches. Nearest us, sounds of confusion replace the chatter and cheers, while farther out, voices still yell for champions and cry for the tournament to begin.

“As you know, my captain, Leif O’Floinn cannot fight tonight.” I draw my shoulders back and pull on every bit of kingly propriety, wearing confidence like a fake beard. “Therefore, I’ll fight in my own name.”

The announcer’s gaze darts from me to the platforms around the field, where the other leaders sit, to the spectators who still have no idea what’s happening. “Yes, yes of course, Your Highness. But the, ah, risks, sir. Have you considered those? It’s why proxies fight for their ruler.”

“Yes.”

His mouth stutters open and closed. Word of my appearance moves on waves of whispers through the crowd. Their loud chatter drops into low tones, and the weight of a thousand eyes falls on me. It doesn’t take long for people to remember their voices. At first it’s a murmur, then chatter, and now a roar. I cannot hear what they’re saying, but the message is clear. They’re not pleased.

“I’ll take my place on the field.” I pull on the helmet and go stand with the other competitors.

Baltroit’s confusion morphs into embarrassment. “Your Highness, I—I didn’t know—”

“The final champion,” the announcer’s voice booms, though many cannot hear it. “Hailing from Malam . . .”

Applause is swallowed by jeers.

“Fighting in his own name . . .”

Hurrahs buried under hisses.

“Aodren Lothar Cross, King of Malam.”

Eventually a hush settles over the crowd, silence, bloated with uneasiness and hesitancy, so the announcer can declare the rules. I cannot see the other competitors’ expressions. But I feel the weight of their stares.

The melee will take place over two nights, with one day of rest and other festivities in between. The battles will run until one man is left standing or until the judges sound the horn for time. Each hit is recorded, and the team that lands the most hits will win. No one may strike a fallen champion. Anyone who falls must stand within ten seconds or be eliminated for the remainder of that night’s battle. At the end of the second melee night, hits will be tallied, and the kingdom with the most will be declared the winner. The winner takes home the coveted melee banner and earns twenty points toward the All Kingdoms’ Cup. Second place takes fourteen points. Third place—ten, fourth place—eight, and fifth place—four.

A short song rings from trumpets, tearing my focus from the crowd.

I can do this. I flex my hand on the pommel of my sword and unsheathe the weapon. My head clears of everything beyond the men and women around me. For Malam.

The trumpets cease, and the fight begins.

Baltroit immediately runs forward, poleax in both hands. His approach is more aggressive than mine. In the frenzied beginning moments, I assess the others around me. Some men cut across to the nearest champions, vicious in their attack to rack up points. Others exercise caution.

A ring of steel against steel releases jeers from the audience. I move in, Leif’s broadsword at the ready, its extra weight throwing me slightly off-balance.

One of the Plovians rushes in my direction, raising his club. I sidestep and twist, narrowly avoiding a blow, then swing my sword down and catch his leg.

He grunts, topples forward. I strike again, but miss when he rolls and pops off the ground.

He’s fast, blocking my next slash with his club. I land another hit to his core, but then he manages to hook his club against Leif’s sword. His movement rips the weapon from my grip. I’m fumbling to take it back when the man’s heel lands against my knee. His club hits my back. I buckle, sharp pain zinging through my leg and between my shoulder blades.

A gasp and a curse fly from my mouth. I shake off the pain, the ten-second rule in mind, and scramble to my feet. The man has moved to take on another opponent when he notices that I’m standing again. He changes direction and charges. I seize the short sword from my belt, barely managing to block his club. There wasn’t time to locate my first weapon.

The echo of the crowd starts to edge back in. I hadn’t noticed it before. Embarrassment over the terrible start sweeps over me, but I push the feeling away. Focus. Fight for Malam.

I don’t think about the disadvantages of the short sword. Instead I use the closer proximity and the weapon’s lower weight to pick up my speed. Years of training sharpen my movements. Swing, block, parry, strike. I advance on the man, my precision scoring point after point until he falls.

I stumble back, pulling gulps of air, and look around. Champions are paired off. As soon as one falls, the victor moves on to another. Points. I must keep landing hits if I want to rack up points.

Grabbing the discarded broadsword, I run toward an unoccupied Shaerdanian. Whoever he fought before me dented his helmet and bloodied his face. He carries one end of a broken pole and a short sword. Our duel of blades begins. We circle, and when his sword dips a fraction, I lunge and strike. Leaping in and out, dropping low and twisting away, I manage to avoid all but two hits from him, while my blade scores a dozen more points before I manage to divest him of his sword.

I go after the Shaerdanian’s broken pole. Baltroit suddenly appears behind him. My co-champion slams the butt of his weapon against the man’s head, his features twisted with hate and rage.

What was that?

Anger rushes through me, but there’s no time to process his action before I’m pulling up my sword to parry a strike from one of the Akarians, Io, I think. Her swings are stealthy and quick, her face impassive, her focus sharper than her true battle sword.

I push Baltroit out of my head and match Io. Strike after strike, she’s relentless. But I block and swing. When she lands a hit, I come back to score an equal point on her. We take over the field, dodging other champions, leaping over fallen weapons, dueling with waning energy. I stop thinking of winning points. Instinct guides my movements. The world fades, and with it, the crowds, the tournament field, even the strain in my limbs.

Our speed increases, our blades clanging, crashing, snapping.

And then a horn bellows.

The first night of the melee is over.