Chapter
15

Aodren

LIRRA KEEPS HER ATTENTION ON THE FIREPLACE while her teeth rake against her bottom lip, making the blood rise up so her mouth looks like a summer rose.

I force my gaze away. “You’re thinking about finding him.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“Not always.” Not enough.

She yawns behind her hand and then smiles. “You say the oil has no negative effects?”

“That’s what I’ve gathered. But there are many who do think it’s harmful.”

“I don’t understand why Da thinks he’s in danger. But maybe the person Da angered is a territorial trader, and they suspect Da is trying to steal their business.” Lirra yawns again and stands to leave, smoothing out her skirts. “I guess, thank you?” A hollow laugh. “I’m not sure that’s the right thing to say, so maybe I’ll just part with Good luck in the tournament and the summit.” Her hands flit around, gesturing to the silent castle. Everyone is asleep. The only sound is her dress swish-swishing on the floor. It feels like we’re alone in the world.

“Thank you,” I say.

The moon beyond my window shines down on a countryside filled with a city of tents, a tournament field, and the makeshift shops for the Kingdoms’ Market. She cannot be close to home. The idea of her alone in the night coils uncomfortably through me. I cannot forget the fight at the fountain.

“Stay,” I say suddenly.

Lirra turns around, her brilliant blue eyes unable to disguise how my request has startled her.

“We do not know each other well, but we’re not enemies,” I quickly say. It’s improper for her to sleep here in this room, but it’s been a tiring evening and she has a long way to travel.

She nods slowly. “Friends?”

“Yes, friends.” I blow out a breath. “I don’t want to tarnish your reputation. But offering you a place to sleep is the least I can do after all you’ve done.”

“Reputation,” she mouths, and then smiles to herself.

“I wouldn’t do anything to—”

“I know,” she says, her smile turning shy.

“And it’s late and you’re tired. I would offer a ride. However, opening the stable would draw more attention than either one of us wants right now. There are no homes anywhere within an hour’s walk. Unless you’re staying in the camp. Are you?”

Her head shakes a negative, and my feeling that she should remain here grows stronger.

“You know, I’m capable of caring for myself,” she says. “I’ve faced dangers far worse than walking home alone at night.”

“I’m aware. You saved my life, remember?”

A real smile bursts onto her face. It infuses me with a second wind of energy I shouldn’t have after an eternally long and taxing day.

Lirra is fully capable of wielding the dagger hidden in her dress. I tell her as much. What goes unsaid is how crippled I am by the thought of her needing it on her way home. It shouldn’t matter to me. But when I consider, too, that she would have to face the tunnel once more, I repeat my request. “Stay, Lirra. It’s been a long day.”

I cross the room to the wardrobe to withdraw nightclothes, and hold up one set. My offer for her to stay rattles through my head. I’m a king throwing propriety to the wind. And I don’t really care. My hands shake, so I grip the fabric tighter. “Yours to use. That is, if you don’t have a change tucked into your functional pockets.”

She chuckles softly. “I’m fresh out.”

Lirra takes the offering and moves to the far side of the room, where a partition separates a small washbasin and the entry to the garderobe from view. When she’s done, my shirt hangs off her narrow shoulders and swallows her arms. It’s impossible to stop cataloging how the garment falls loosely on her . . . and where it doesn’t.

I break my gaze and look away.

By the time I’ve shucked off all my formal layers, pulled on trousers and a shirt, and returned to the open area of the room, my blood is running a few degrees hotter. I tug the collar from my neck, cursing the sweltering Shaerdanian weather.

The bed, an island in the middle of the chamber, is untouched. There’s no sign of Lirra. Did she change her mind? I stalk the room from end to end, my tired steps more like stomps.

“Tooooloud.” The slurred groan comes from the opposite side of the bed.

Lirra lies curled on her side, nestled on a pouf of green material. Amused, I note her dress has yet another function.

“You don’t have to sleep on the floor. Take the bed.”

Her breath flows between her parted lips, a soft, slow scrape. She’s fast asleep.

The urge to move her somewhere more comfortable tenses through my hands. Only, I don’t act on it. Lirra probably wouldn’t appreciate being touched while she sleeps. I settle for sliding a pillow under her head and covering her with a blanket.

She’s gone in the morning.

Instead of wondering when she left, if she had to sneak past servants and guards, or how long it took her to trek home, I focus on the leaders, who would rather discuss the tournament than trade. Judge Auberdeen announces the ranking for each kingdom based on the first night’s point tally. “In last place, Plovia. Then Shaerdan. Malam is tied for second alongside Kolontia. Akaria leads.”

Malam is in second place? We fared better than I imagined. We likely won’t win the melee banner, but second-place points will give us a solid start. If we do well in the following events, we could still win the cup.

“Is that the tally, including the young king’s points?” Gorenza asks. Since the meeting started, this is the third time he’s insinuated that I should not have been able to compete.

Queen Isadora rests her hands on the sides of her chair, a long braid of ebony hair snaking over her shoulder. “And why wouldn’t King Aodren’s points be included? He’s done nothing to merit disqualification. Or are you raising opposition to him merely because you dislike competition for your boy?”

Gorenza’s lip twitches into a sneer. “Nothing wrong? The man was deceptive. Why was it none of us knew of his intentions until the moment the tournament began?”

A few dignitaries add their murmurs. It worries me that we are starting the meeting discussing the tournament, instead of getting right to the meat of trade discussion. I don’t want this conversation to affect opinions or willingness to trade. But then, I should’ve considered my participation in the melee would garner interest and opinions.

“How did you get from the castle to the tournament unseen?” Judge Soma asks. “None of the guards noticed you leave.”

“I think the guards might’ve been too busy betting on champions to notice King Aodren’s exit. Clearly, the man walked right out of the castle.” Segrande catches my eye. He wasn’t pleased to find out my plan after the tournament, but he’ll be nothing but loyal and supportive in public.

It wouldn’t bode well for Lirra if Auberdeen and Soma were to discover her involvement. They wouldn’t like to know she has a secret way in and out of the castle. Segrande and Baltroit are the only two privy to that information, but I have sworn them to secrecy under the threat of losing their titles. I would’ve told all this to Lirra, but she left before I had a chance.

“That’s an interesting maneuver you pulled.” Gorenza stares at me from across the massive mahogany table. “I didn’t think you were capable.”

“Are we discussing my sword skill? Or my ability to make undisclosed choices?” I ask, my voice unintentionally sharp. Between Gorenza’s comments and my thoughts of Lirra, it’s a struggle to keep a lid on my irritation.

He flicks his mustache. “The fight was passable. I meant your deception.”

“Now, there wasn’t deception, per se,” Segrande pipes up beside me. “King Aodren exercised his right to fight in his own name, and he did so by the rules of the tournament. He is under no obligation to reveal his plans to you before he is ready to do so.”

Gorenza chuckles. “So you agree, he hid the truth?”

“What is the point of this query, Gorenza?” the Plovian queen asks.

“The point, Isadora, is that all champions must be announced before the melee. He didn’t make it known beforehand that he would be fighting in his own name.”

She leans back in her chair, appearing bored. “Is that a rule? Or a custom?”

Gorenza repeats her questions to Judge Auberdeen, who sits at the end of the table, head tipped toward Judge Soma in a whispered conversation.

Judge Auberdeen straightens in his seat. He props his elbows on the table and steeples his hands under the curtain of his brown beard. “It is a rule that proxies are announced before the tournament begins. There is nothing specific to rulers who choose to join the fray at the last moment.” His spectacled gaze shifts to me, displeasure writ across his face.

“My choice was one made in haste due to the unexpected affliction suffered by my captain.” How can they dispute that?

Gorenza slides his chair away from the table. He brings his hands up behind his head, as if he’s sunning himself on a rock while sneering at the sky. “If a man is declared a king’s proxy, do the rules state that the king himself may come back and steal the man’s place?”

Steal? I flatten my hands on the table, drawing resolve from thin air.

“Your wording is harsh, no?” says Fa Olema.

“Perhaps,” concedes Gorenza. “But this situation is unprecedented. It wouldn’t be right for us to allow rules to be broken simply because we’re not able to have a direct and, yes, harshly honest conversation.”

“Privacy isn’t against the rules,” Judge Soma says in my defense, surprising me. Even Judge Auberdeen, who sits beside him, appears shocked. “Technically, in a mere matter of moments, King Aodren declared himself as a participant, and his name was clearly announced as a competitor in the melee.”

Gorenza’s palm lands on the table with a resounding thud. His mouth curls into the curtain of his mustache. He looks to me and then to Soma. Fury under a placid expression, like a calm ocean, hiding churning, deadly waters beneath.

“Shall we move on to matters of trade?” Segrande attempts to guide the conversation.

Nobody responds.

“Not ready to turn that rock over?” Segrande forces a chuckle. “All right, what else did you think of the tournament? We’ve said enough about King Aodren. Let’s discuss the other competitors.”

“I found your warriors impressive. I am not surprised they’ve earned the most points,” Judge Soma tells Ku Toa. Since learning that he imprisoned those involved in the fountain fight, I’ve judged him harshly. His engagement with the Ku shows the side of the judge that I was expecting to meet at the summit.

“It is a lifelong discipline for them—their mothers and fathers before them were warriors,” says Fa Olema. “But they were no more impressive than King Aodren.” He tips his head in a small bow to me. “You show unique training.”

“Thank you. Though if we’re discussing work ethic, Baltroit Bromier must be mentioned. Mastering the poleax demands extensive training that can last years.”

Segrande’s chest expands a notch in pride.

Queen Isadora pushes her braid over her shoulder. “Yes, he was a sight to behold. But might I add, your sword skill far exceeds anything I’ve seen from Kolontia in decades.”

Her castigating snub draws King Gorenza’s anger. “A good thing,” he drawls, “that you’ll have another chance to watch King Aodren.”

“No, I’m afraid she won’t,” I say, thinking my comment will be all that’s needed to release the tension in the room concerning my participation. “Leif isn’t here right now because I encouraged him to rest. But he’s on the mend, and”—I glance at Ku Toa—“thanks to the healer and the remedies he’s been given, he’ll be ready to step back into the champion role tomorrow night.”

Gorenza looks to Auberdeen, expecting something.

Judge Auberdeen adjusts his spectacles on his nose. He drags out the tome that he’d placed on the table the first night we met as leaders. “Yes, well, the rules state that King Aodren can fight in his own name, but there is no rule that allows competitors to change places with one another once the event has begun.”

“What does that mean?” Isadora looks back and forth between Gorenza and Auberdeen.

“It means,” Gorenza says with relish, “that our little boy king must finish the tournament.”

“No.” Segrande’s response comes out as a bark. “There is no time for him to do both. How will we be able to continue the summit?”

“Perhaps he should have considered that before.”

The room erupts in a clash of opinions.

For a moment, I sit frozen in shock. I thought Gorenza wanted me out of the competition and would do all he could to make that so. I didn’t think for one moment that he would argue for me to stay in. If what he’s proposed is declared the rule by Judge Auberdeen, many of my plans for the summit will be thwarted. I trust Segrande, but not so much that I’d turn over executive power to make decisions on all trade. Malam has been at odds with the other kingdoms since my father’s reign. We need to make the most advantageous deals possible if we’re to have a hope of turning around Malam’s fortune. How will that happen if I cannot be a part of all summit meetings?

Soon everyone in the room is expressing an opinion except for Ku Toa and her quiet, watchful dignitaries. Most of the other men and women around the table reject Gorenza’s suggestion because they can see that kingdom agreements and policy meetings benefitting them would also be thwarted. Chief Judge Auberdeen stands and calls the room to order, his rough voice rolling over the arguments until everyone falls silent.

He places the large volume on the mahogany table. His fingers rest on the open pages. “It says here that champions must finish an event or withdraw, but once an event begins, substitutions cannot be made.” He turns to me. “Only you and Baltroit may compete in the second night of melee. After that, your captain may fight in your name in the remaining events.”

Gorenza crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, clearly displeased.

“Now that it’s settled,” Judge Soma interrupts, “let’s save talk of the melee for after the final round. Then our time won’t be wasted on the losers.”

We return to trade discussion. The leaders vote to close a mountain route, opting for trade to continue through the seaports, with the only opposition coming from Gorenza. He claims pirates make the ocean too dangerous for trade. When Isadora contradicts him, Gorenza accuses her of protecting her family’s livelihood. A family relation he outlandishly claims to be Song the Red, a young ruthless pirate.

Their argument eventually runs its course, and we adjourn for a midday meal.

Once seats are taken and plates are dished, talk returns to the melee. Segrande nudges me. “One more night. Then your focus can shift entirely to the summit.”

Gorenza spears a piece of cabbage with his knife. “That is, if he makes it. Anything can happen in the melee.”