Once a King

by Erin Summerill

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.

  Chapter

  13

  Lirra

  AODREN RETURNS TO THE CHAMPIONS’ TENT surrounded by hordes of people. They gather close, but the guards who now surround him keep the crowd far enough away that no one actually touches him. Some speak praises, while people on the fringes openly discredit him. I watch from a grassy slope near the back corner of the champions’ tent. I bypassed the crowd, rushing here as soon as the horns sounded.

  Aodren’s helmet, still on his head, limits my view of his face, but from where I stand, I can see his gait is stilted. An injury from the melee? I scan the amassing crowd, searching for Baltroit and Lord Segrande, and find them a few dozen heads behind Aodren, caught in the crush. More onlookers gather, shoving together like pigs at a trough, trying to catch a glimpse of the king of Malam even after he’s made it to the tent. Baltroit and Lord Segrande follow him inside.

  A leader competing in his own name is unusual. The surprise of it must be the reason for the press of people and why they don’t leave. More champions follow, and with them, the numbers grow. The chatter is nearly as loud as the cheers during the melee.

  Minutes go by. Then a quarter-hour. Then a half.

  The crowd doesn’t disperse. If Aodren’s waiting for them to leave, he’ll be here all night. And so will I. It’s a frustrating thought. But the wait is manageable. Besides, after he hands over Da’s letter, we’ll have no reason to meet again. This is what I wanted. And yet the thought doesn’t please me like it should.

  I liste
n to the chatter about the champions, most of which is focused on Aodren. Some good, most not. There’s a lot of speculation and negative opinions being shared. But for all their criticisms, no one says a word about his sword fighting skill. He was an impressive sight to behold tonight.

  “Make way, make way!”

  The shout comes from a driver. Four horses pull a carriage, painted maroon and etched with the symbol of a stag, through the reluctantly parting onlookers. It comes to a stop outside the champions’ tent, and moments later, Lord Segrande appears. He demands the people move back, and when they do, Aodren steps out of the tent. Still dressed in armor and a helmet, he now wears an identifiable formal cloak pinned to his shoulders. Most people drop their eyes to the ground, while people in maroon and gray lower themselves to a knee.

  Aodren stalks forward, paying the crowd no heed, like an angry bull might charge across a field of daisies. There’s no longer hesitation or stiffness in his walk, but his back is slightly hunched, so unlike his typical kingly posture and more like the man he pretended to be in his disguise. Something isn’t right, so I look closer. The man entering the carriage has a heavier step. He moves with purpose, but not the confidence that comes with a lifetime under a crown.

  That man is not Aodren.

  The crowd has fallen for the ruse, however, and as the carriage attempts to roll away, many follow, impeding the convoy’s movement.

  So what’s Aodren’s plan now?

  I move closer to the back side of the tent to peek in. Voices filter from within, hushed, but not close enough to hear. I duck behind the nearest barrel, sinking to the shadowed ground just as the flaps of the tent open. Two people exit and pass near my hiding spot.

  “What’s the count?” The barrel beside me creaks. The man talking must be leaning against it.

  “The Plovians are last. Our score is shy above theirs. You fought like a sorry scrant tonight.” Irritation whittles the second man’s words to sharp points. I hear no noticeable accent, and realize they’re Shaerdan’s champions, Otto Ellar and Folger Falk.

  A huff. “You saw the size of the Kolontians.”

  “Nah, what I saw was the king of Malam score so many points off you, you may as well have lain down and played dead.” It must be Folger who says this, since Otto was the one who fought Aodren and lost. What a sight that was.

  “It won’t happen again,” Otto says.

  “That so? You got some kind of remedy for being pathetic?” A soft scuffle follows. Then, a sharp inhale. “Where’d you get it?”

  Otto’s voice is a scratch lower than a whisper, and I can’t hear his response.

  “How much?”

  “Enough for tonight, and twice more for the final melee.”

  Their conversation continues in quieter tones, dropping more words than I manage to hear. The blade in one of my pockets is poking my thigh, but I don’t dare move. I hold still and listen. I catch Channeler, stronger, oil—which seem nonsensical when strung together. From what I gather, they’re going to try a Channeler remedy to help Otto fight better. I nearly snort at the idea, and have to clamp a hand over my mouth and nose. If such a remedy exists, I’ve never heard of it.

  Are they talking about Beannach water? I doubt it.

  All the champions have access to Beannach to help replenish their energy after tonight’s fight, so drinking some wouldn’t give Otto an edge over the other fighters. Although, maybe Otto thinks the Malamians and the Kolontians won’t use the Channeler water since their kingdoms have always been afraid of Channeler magic.

  A cramp is eating my right calf. I suck in a breath, ignoring the pain, and wait for Otto and Folger to clarify, but the men abandon their spot by the barrel and return inside.

  I rise, shaking the ache out of my leg, when the tent flap slides open again, and I flatten myself to the ground.

  The crunch of grass sounds.

  I peek from my hiding spot and find Aodren walking toward the low hills in hurried, long strides. Wearing the clothes I gave him, he’s nearly unrecognizable, with a slumped posture and a hat hanging down around his ears. Dressed like this, he will be able to avoid any unwanted attention from the crowds. The king of Malam is not well-loved and it is dangerous for him to go anywhere without his guards. I race after him, steps as noiseless as possible. He’s impressively adapted my tips. I draw nearer and call out to tell him as much.

  Aodren spins around, hand shifting to the blade on his belt. He realizes it’s me and straightens, but not before I see his startled expression. More than surprised, it looks haunted.

  “No one but me,” I say, hands out at my sides.

  “Will you always sneak up on me?” He teases, though his tone’s edge is sharp and his gaze skits to the shadows around us. There is a scant scattering of a crowd near the front of the champions’ tent. The field is mostly darkened now, and fewer than half the merchants’ lanterns remain lit. Is he worried about someone noticing him now? Or is there something more?

  I close the distance between us. “You are a king, and since every eye in the five kingdoms is on you, there are few opportunities for a commoner girl like me to get close without a little sneaking.”

  “You are hardly common.”

  Spoken with such certainty. It paints a blush on my cheeks. Does he know that a lifetime ago, before my father brought me to Malam, that statement was true? “You, on the other hand, have taken up the commoner act quite impressively.”

  “You’ve taught me well,” he says, and then plucks a piece of grass from the end of my hair. “I thought you might’ve left.”

  He continues walking, and I fall into step beside him. “Same here. You almost had me fooled with the royal carriage.”

  “Was that wishful thinking?”

  I laugh. “It seems to be a theme when I’m around you.”

  His smile sparks, spreads, and illuminates his entire face beneath the shadow of his cap. Stars, he could put out an eye. “Is that so, Lirra? What do you wish for?”

  My pulse skitters erratically.

  I tip my head, hiding my grin behind a length of hair. If any other boy and girl were alone under the same indigo sky speckled with stars, sharing our same smiles, same laughs, same words, I’d think they were flirting. But reality shakes that thought. A king would never show interest in me, a Channeler from Shaerdan, the daughter of his kingdom’s most infamous traitor.

  He must have loads of admirers. He doesn’t need one more. Besides, all I want from him is information about my da. Once I have that, my life will return to normal, managing Da’s deal and sneaking in time for my gliders.

  “Tonight, I wished for you to hurry along,” I say, with a forced yawn. “I’d like to return home sometime before dawn.”

  “Right,” he says after a beat. “Let’s pick up the pace.”

  He strides toward the cathedral, each of his steps requiring two of mine, quietness hovering between us like an obstinate gray storm cloud. I’m annoyed with myself for ruining the playful banter.

  Eventually, he slows so jogging isn’t necessary.

  “Baltroit took my place,” he says. “I wasn’t prepared for the rush . . . after the melee . . .”

  “Me either.” I glance over, catching a glimpse of distress on his face, and I suddenly want to ease that burden and see his smile again. “Some people aren’t comfortable in crowds,” I say, thinking of how Orli was months ago. It’s something she’s mostly overcome. “Even if you didn’t mind crowds, tonight would’ve been nerve-racking.”

  “It shouldn’t have been. My entire life has been in front of a crowd.”

  In front. Not a part of the group, but an outsider looking in. I suppose in this way we are similar.

  “Baltroit didn’t put up a fight about letting you return to the castle alone?” I ask, wondering what became of the champion. “Isn’t the royal guard supposed to provide you protection?”

  “He did, just not in a traditional sense.” He grimaces. “His diversion gave the crowd reason to
disperse. All I had to do was wait. I bathed in the meantime.” He slides the hat off his head, so his mussed hair, darkened and damp, falls in chunks against his light golden skin.

  I remember the subtle roughness of his jaw in spite of his clean shave when I touched him at the Elementiary. My hands twist the material of my dress. “Why aren’t you wearing the beard?”

  “It was cumbersome.”

  My palms face him. My body’s energy pulls the breeze toward me and, along with it, a whiff of Aodren’s masculine, soap-scrubbed skin. And then my wits snap together, realizing what I’ve done with my Channeler magic.

  Bloody seeds. I stumble to a stop. What is wrong with me?

  “Everything all right?” Aodren asks.

  Thank the gods for the quarter-moon that doesn’t put off enough light to show the mortification burning from my earlobes to my toes.

  “Fine,” I say. “I’m fine.”

  His brows arch up.

  I brush past him, annoyed at myself, though more so at him. The king of Malam comes to town, and I start acting erratically, saying things I wouldn’t usually say and feeling generally unsettled.

  Nothing could be clearer—as soon as I have the information my da gave him, this arrangement will come to an end.

  Chapter

  14

  Lirra

  ENTERING THE CASTLE IS EASIER THAN I’D anticipated, but then, that could be because Baltroit has notified the guards of the king’s unconventional return. I hope that’s not the case, because I don’t want them to be aware that someone has snuck in and out of the castle recently.

  After Aodren changes back into his regal clothing, we pass through the tunnel into the lower levels of the keep. We climb the stairs and find most of the castle halls empty. Twice, we sneak past a guard, but our movement draws no attention. I wonder if our actions are ridiculous. The guards may have heard word of Aodren’s performance in the melee. If they are smart, they will have pieced together my arrival and Aodren’s appearance tonight. They will know we’re sneaking around the halls. But I’m not sure they’re that clever, and sneaking around with Aodren is more fun than I’ve had in a while.