by Shannon Hale
“Razo,” Brynn called.
“And Victar,” said the Tiran secondman.
Razo hopped into the ring, wiped the sweat from his palm, and gripped the wooden sword. He was so relieved it was not Tumas, he winked at Victar as though he were having a lark. Like Finn, Razo dodged the first swing and the second, made a few jabs, and dodged again. His focus was so taut, a rope could have tied his gaze to his opponent. He swung and dodged, rolled and hopped up again, and felt he was really doing well.
“Match, for Tira,” said the secondman.
Razo had not even felt the sword graze the middle of his jerkin. A few of Bayern’s Own shook their heads.
Two failed matches later, noon was nearing, and the heat fell straight down, pushing his shadow into a pool around his feet. That spit of shade did nothing—his toes were hot and scratchy. Razo thought there might be just one more chance to redeem himself.
When Brynn called his name again, he strutted into the ring, calm and confident, and took his stance opposite Tumas’s red-nosed, lisping friend. The Tiran swung, Razo dodged, swooped. And met a sword hilt in the stomach.
He stumbled forward, shuffling on his toes, and vomited cheese and olives beside someone’s sandals.
“Was that necessary?” asked the Tiran in slightly stained sandals.
“Sorry,” said Razo. He straightened and saw that the other ring’s match had ended and all eyes were on him.
Tumas was elbowing his friend. “I told you that little one is a joke, and if you ask me, he makes the whole lot of them laughable.” He glanced at Ledel as if checking for his permission to keep speaking, then said to Brynn, “When my horse didn’t do the job, I put him out of his misery.”
“That’s enough,” said Brynn, because Ledel, for some reason, did not.
Razo shambled a few more steps away and flung the wooden sword at the ground. Words were churning in his belly that he was ready to belch up. He almost said, “That’s it.” He almost yelled, “I’m through. I quit. I’m an embarrassment, a scarecrow, noodle-armed, sized for tossing. I’m gone.”
The words burned like stomach acid on the back of his tongue, and if he had spoken them, he would have lived by them—he would have gone home to the Forest and spent his days solitary among his brothers’ families. At least, in the moment before he spoke, he envisioned that future. It was a prospect he would not have to test out, because Finn spoke first.
“Try him with a missile weapon.”
Finn had been sitting on a stone, his sword upright in the dirt, his hands resting on the cross. He had been silent after each of his three victories and silent as he watched. When he spoke, his unruffled voice was loud enough to cut through the noise.
Some of the Tiran laughed.
“A game of spears would be the cake to this meal,” said Tumas.
Finn shook his head. “Razo’s sling to your spear.”
Some of the Bayern looked away, as though embarrassed that Finn had brought a sheep boy’s plaything into a soldier’s battle. The Tiran laughter pitched and climbed.
Razo sidled up to Finn, swatting at the sweat trickling into his eyes. “What’re you doing? Trying to humiliate me further?”
Finn stood, tapped the dirt off his sword tip, and put it in his sheath. He met Razo’s eyes, and his expression was as sincere as that of a child too young to lie. “You’re the best sling I ever saw.”
“I am not. Why’re you making up stuff? I’m just…Never mind, the captain wouldn’t want me flaunting my sling around anyway.”
“Why not? Talone didn’t tell me to pull back during sword bouts. It’ll be good for the Tiran to have a little respect for us.”
Razo laughed through his nose. “I’m not good enough to cause fear.”
“Then there’s nothing to worry about,” said Finn, but a glint in his eye said he thought otherwise. It made Razo want to go prove him right.
Ledel was giving orders for their march east, soldiers were sheathing swords, gathering idle javelins and spears. Finn walked right into their midst.
“Captain Ledel, we’re not done yet. Let Razo sling.”
A couple of Bayern groaned. Ledel met Finn’s eyes without blinking, reminding Razo of some lidless creature, a snake, a spider. His voice rasped. “We are not sullying a match of men with a peasant weapon.”
That smacked of insulting Bayern, and a few soldiers, especially Conrad and Luzo, who were also Forest-born, put up a fuss.
“That is enough,” said Ledel, his voice sharp enough to split skin.
“Hello!” Dasha bounded up the path, waving and smiling.
“Lady Dasha.” Ledel inclined his head respectfully, and his men stood at attention.
“Captain Ledel, good morning.” Behind her trudged six men loaded down with leather satchels and clothing bundles. Her orange hair was loose, wisps tickling her face. She brushed them away with a smile as though they were playful kittens. “And all my Bayern friends. I am off and wanted to say farewell and tell you…” She paused, seeming to notice the chilly mood. “What’s happening?”
“Razo’s challenging the Tiran to missile weapons,” said Finn, “his sling to their spears, but Captain Ledel won’t have it.”
Dasha laughed, thoroughly amused. “And why not, Captain Ledel? You aren’t afraid?”
The muscle under Ledel’s face scar twitched. “Go on, Antoch,” he said to his secondman, “but I will not stay to watch. We leave at eighth bell.”
The Tiran did not wait until Ledel was out of sight before they began to draw lines in the dirt and hold tug matches to determine who got to face Razo first.
Razo hefted his pouch of stones like a merchant guessing weight and price. What if he lost? Certainly his mark as the greatest failure in Bayern’s Own would be indelible. But if he succeeded, could it spark another clash like the one after Finn’s victory? Or something worse? The stifling heat was the kind that smothered good judgment.
Then Razo noticed that Dasha was watching him, her smile full of marvelous expectation. He stepped up to the line.
The secondman indicated a tree trunk some twenty paces away as the target. Razo frowned.
“Losing heart, are you?” Tumas yelled.
If Razo had not felt so hot and wretched after losing three sword matches, he would have laughed. That target was a mite easy. He put his toes behind the line in the dirt, inserted a stone into his sling’s leather pouch, spun once, and released. The stone hit the center of the trunk with a noise like a long whip cracking.
Most of the Tiran wanted a go, some hitting the tree with their spear, grazing it, or missing altogether. Razo’s stones smacked against the center, again and again.
“Put other thlingerth at the mark,” said Tumas’s lisping friend.
The best Tiran slingers fetched hemp slings and almond-shaped lead bullets from the armory. Now the targets were three metal pails sitting atop a log forty paces away. Razo put three stones in his left hand and turned his left side to the pails. He placed the first stone in the leather pouch, swung and released, heard the whiz of stone cutting air and the metallic clang of the pail even as he placed another stone in the pouch, released, whiz-clang, never stopping the circle, and a third whiz-clang. Those sounds felt as satisfying as cold water in an empty belly.
Out of the ten Tiran slingers, only the squinty-eyed soldier hit three for three. The Tiran soldiers cheered him until Finn said, “Move the target back.”
The pails now waited sixty paces away, and the Tiran missed twice. Razo’s turn was a song that rang out in threes.
The Bayern were getting restless and bunched together, keen for their turn at the pails. After a couple of rounds, only Conrad and Luzo had hit all three.
“Move the target back,” Finn said, smiling.
Brynn placed the pails at seventy paces. It was a respectable distance. Two pails chimed for Conrad, one for Luzo. Razo readied three stones and noticed a slight tremble in his hand.
Easier than a squirrel who scam
pers, he thought. Easier than a twitching hare.
He swung and released three times. Three pails lay on their sides.
There was a general gasp and chatter that did not have time to build before Finn’s clear voice cut through.
“Move the target back.”
Some of the men laughed. Brynn, with a mischievous look, took one pail under his arm and walked on. And just kept walking.
“That was far enough five minutes ago,” Conrad yelled.
Brynn set it down and jogged back. “One hundred and fifty paces, Razo. Miss already so we can get out of this sun.”
Razo stared at the pail, a dark glint on white stone, and felt the heat pressing on the top of his head, insisting itself into each breath. A short sling could never reach that distance. He shook his head and looped up his sling, fastening it to his side.
“Coward,” said Tumas, standing very near.
Without pause, Razo pulled his long sling from his waist. It was a small target for the distance sling, but everyone was watching. Dasha was watching. He felt clamped in and squeezed inside the moment, and the only way out was forward.
He tried pretending that he was alone, that the heat was the pressure of Forest shadows, and the whispers and shifting of boots were just the trees moaning.
He placed the shot in the pouch and whipped the sling at his side, angled to the ground. His body leaned with the motion, tipping forward, slanting back, pulled always toward the stone as it clung to the sling’s pouch. The weight of the stone felt good, the length of the sling just right. When the stone completed the third circle, he let go his thumb, his right arm stretching forward. He could hear the stone cut through the air, a hum that lowered in pitch until it exploded in a metallic crash.
He breathed hard as though he had run a league and turned slowly to face the others. They were silent, staring at his downed target. The Bayern started to smile.
“What about Razo,” Conrad whispered, his breath full of awe.
A few soldiers chuckled, laughing as though they could not believe.
“What about Razo!” Conrad spoke louder, inviting a cheer.
“Bayern!” some shouted.
“Bayern’s Own!”
“Razo and Bayern!”
Razo shivered in the heat, waiting for the Tiran reaction. Dasha was the first to respond. She was smiling.
“Ledel was right to have been afraid.”
Victar laughed his deep belly laugh. “He schooled us well. Excellent.”
The Tiran who had shared Razo’s breakfast table that morning smothered him with congratulatory jabs. Hands clapped his back, shoulders lifted him aloft, then dumped him back into more backslaps. He laughed nervously, feeling at once large as a mountain and small as prey. Finn was beside him.
“Why didn’t you tell me before that I was so good?” asked Razo. He found he was almost angry about it, except that he felt like crowing.
“Didn’t seem to matter before,” said Finn.
Enna was sitting in the thin shadow of the barracks, wiping laugh tears from her eyes. She seemed surprised to be laughing and so pleased with it as to keep it up as long as possible.
Brynn and others were anxious to go lunch in a nice, shady place, and they pulled Razo along with them. Tumas made a point to leave in the opposite direction with several of Ledel’s soldiers, their lips moving as though they grumbled. The secondman had disappeared.
“Never saw such slinging,” said one of Victar’s friends. “Good show. I hardly thought it a weapon, but I see that a sling can be deadly in the hands of a master.”
A master, thought Razo. He means me.
“Razo.”
Razo’s skin shuddered under sweat at Talone’s voice. He ducked away from the group and went to his captain.
“I did something wrong,” said Razo.
“Yes. I wish you had not shown an entire company of Tiran soldiers how handy my spy is with a sling. You’re supposed to be invisible.”
“I didn’t know I was that good! I swear, Captain.”
“Neither did I.” Talone frowned. In a way that Razo could not explain, the frown remained a frown but also became a smile. “Be ready with that sling. You may have to use it.”
13
The Season of the Prince
Summer tightened its burning grip. The air was dense and wet and followed Razo around like the hot huff of some large creature. The city was half-empty, making everything feel naked, stripped down to the skeleton, the whole world stone hard and dangerous.
At least the Tiran food was growing on Razo. The pastry chef had taken to him like a mother, plying him with bowls of cold beans and red bacon, chilled fish soups, and fig cakes. That was something. For a week he ate, lounged, and waited for something to happen. The diversion from tension was a relief.
Then it got boring. So Razo decided to get sandals.
“Do you think it wise to lose all your Bayern garb?” asked Talone.
“When Lady Megina saw my new clothing, she thought it paid a compliment to the Tiran, said I looked like walking peace.”
“She did? Sometimes she surprises me.” Talone rubbed his chin. “So far, it seems our presence hasn’t made a dent in the hatred for Bayern, and I don’t like the thought of you out there in the city alone. But you’re right, we can’t do much good locked up here. Be careful.”
Razo found Enna and Finn holed up her room, enjoying a curious little wind that spun around them like a beast pacing its cage.
“Are you sure you two won’t come? Think of it—sandals,” Razo said provocatively.
“Why step into that blaze and be drenched in sweat?” Enna leaned back on her hands and smiled. Her black hair swirled, her tunic and skirt flapped as though with glee. Over the past month, she had spent nearly every day as Megina’s attendant at scores of dinners with assembly members, and she had declared that if the summer heat chased away all those droning fancy folk, then it was welcome. Of course, it was easy for her to smile at the heat when she had wind on hand to shoo it off. Razo let the breeze suck the sweat from his brow before dragging himself away.
Out in the streets, the morning heat struck him like a blacksmith’s hammer. He held the edge of his lummas over his black hair as the Tiran often did to protect themselves from the sun, though he did it to hide.
He had never been alone in the city. For the first few blocks, the freedom was exhilarating, but the farther he walked from Thousand Years, the more exposed he felt. By the time he reached the heart, his sick stomach and tired pulse made him wish he had not come.
“The heart,” Ingridan citizens called the assembly building and surrounding squares. It was the center of Ingridan, the hub of order, business, and law, and it thrummed with activity at any hour. Victar had claimed that a member of each Ingridan household passed through the heart at least once each day, if not on business, then just to gather gossip.
The cobbler’s stall reeked enough to make his eyes sweat, so Razo jumped into business, choosing deep brown leather and a style that wrapped up his ankle. Soon he was shod in fresh sandals and wriggling his toes, terribly pleased, until he recognized the man browsing the front of the shop from one of the formal banquets at Thousand Years. It was the prince.
He was around Geric’s age and had a round face and thin arms. His neck was laden with ropes of amber beads, his fingers alight with rings, the kind of showy richness that made Razo sniff. Several men and women surrounded him, young and old, their hair darker than most Tiran, their skin a richer tone.
Long live His Radiance, Veran’s murderer had exclaimed.
The city seemed massive and the palace painfully far away. He was just one rather squat boy alone in his enemy’s city. What did he think he could possibly do?
Isi was just one girl, he reminded himself. And she changed Bayern.
“Excuse me, you’re the prince,” said Razo.
The prince smoothed the embroidered edge of his tunic. “So I am! And if I’m not mistaken by your a
ccent, you are Bayern.”
Razo’s heart sped up, his blood felt slippery in his veins, but he let the lummas drop to his shoulders. “Yes, pleasure to meet you. Um, should I bow?”
“Most people do. On second thought, why bother now? Let us pretend that you already did.”
“All right.” Razo paused. “That was a nice bow I gave you.”
“Indeed it was,” said the prince with enthusiasm. “And what luck! I have been itching to talk to a Bayern for weeks, and here you are. I have a certain question I must ask. Have you or anyone you know ever… eaten a baby?” His eyebrows twitched up with interest.
“No, Bayern don’t eat babies.” Razo spoke loudly enough that all the prince’s companions might hear. “Not baby people, at any rate, though I don’t mind a chicken egg or two, cooked right….”
“Ha! I didn’t think so. Rupert owes me a tithe. He bet me, you see.”
“I’ve been asked about the baby thing a lot.”
“I’m sure you have. Well, farewell.” He turned away from the shop.
“Wait, um, uh, prince? Do you mind if I walk with you? Around? For a bit?”
The prince paused, and his innocent surprise made Razo believe no one had ever made such a request of him before. “I… I suppose so. What is your name?”
“Razo. Of Bayern’s Own. And thanks, Prince … um, I don’t think I’ve actually ever heard your name.”
“I don’t have one. My mother gave me a nursery name, but no one else will call me anything but Radiance until I wed and my wife grants me a household name.”
“Truly?” A man without a name. Razo’s thoughts were lost in that maze.
They emerged into the vicious sunlight, the prince’s entourage pushing them forward on the breeze of their fans. Razo kept glancing back, worrying that one of the prince’s guards would cut his throat in the first shady alley, until he saw that none bore a sword.
“Why don’t your guards wear weapons?” he asked, too curious to play cautious.
“The Wasking are my friends, not my guards! No one will harm the prince’s body. It would mean shame and ruin to them, their children, their grandchildren, their great-grandchildren… Celi, do you remember how many greats? Hm?…Well, no matter. Unless, that is, you mean me harm. Have you ever used that sword of yours to kill?”
