by D L Sims
“She knows,” the man said, circling around Yvney as a shark does it prey, “and though she’s not happy about the deal, she has agreed to marry you, should you win the Trials.”
I knew it. Ikar had known that the shit Yvney had fed him about competing in the Trials for their family name and honor was all a lie. His brother had always been driven by two things: money and women.
“You make sure I get my coin, King Pytir.” Yvney turned then, and Ikar could see the cold hatred in his brother’s eyes. The look a snake gets right before it strikes, but the king looked unmoved by his brother’s poisonous gaze. “If I don’t have my coin before sunrise tomorrow, I will kill you.”
Why does the King of Soldare care about our Trials? But then Ikar answered his own question. The King wanted access to the Opal Stone mines.
Ikar felt like such a fool.
“Don’t make idle threats, boy. You wouldn’t want to make an enemy out of me.” With that, the king strolled towards the door. Ikar had no time to get away. He stood frozen in spot as King Pytir opened the door and exited. His brown eyes fixed on Ikar, and he smirked. “Are you going to tell someone what you heard?”
“I…” Who would believe him? Elthare had an allegiance with the Soldaren King. Soldare was indebted to them; if he soiled the king’s name, it could start a war between the two kingdoms. Wars had been started for less. “I didn’t hear anything.”
The king’s smile grew. “Good answer, boy.”
Ikar watched as King Pytir disappeared from view through the trees that surrounded the Manor’s lands. Once he could no longer see the Soldaren king, Ikar entered the combat house, finding Yvney leaning against the large post in the center of the room as if all the wind had been knocked out of him. He looked up as Ikar entered.
“What do you want?” He demanded, standing straight and curling his upper lip.
“Of course you lied to me. I can’t remember the last time you told me something true,” Ikar accused, coming closer. His hands shook at his sides. “I should turn you in to Master Roxell.”
“Here is some truth for you.” Yvney stalked toward Ikar, his hand on the hilt of a dagger tucked into his belt. “If you turn me in to the Master, you little bug, I will squash you. I will drive this blade deep into your chest and watch the life leave your eyes.”
A sarcastic quip died on Ikar’s tongue. He shook with fear now, the rage dissipating, dropping from him like water washing away dirt. “You would kill me?”
Several emotions played on Yvney’s face: hatred, guilt, regret, contempt. He settled on a sneer. “You’re lucky I haven’t killed you yet, little brother.”
Despite the many years of knowing how much his brother hated him, the knowledge that his brother would kill him brought a pain to his chest like nothing he had ever felt before. He shook his head, trying hard to get rid of the feeling. “I’m not going to tell anyone.” His voice was small, distant. He didn’t recognize it as his own.
“Why are you here?” Yvney leaned back against the pole, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Did mother send you?”
“No. She doesn’t know you’re out here.” Something flashed in Yvney’s eyes at those simple words, a look of deep hurt and longing. “The second battle’s been announced.”
“Oh? Who’s fighting?”
“Phinn Monneaire--”
“Filthy time-thief,” Yvney spat.
“--and you.” Ikar had expected to feel the satisfaction of telling his brother this, but he felt nothing. His mind was still locked on the conversation he had witnessed between his brother and the King of Soldare.
He thought about how Yvney would kill him with little to no remorse. I am nothing to him. That feeling weighed heavy in his chest, making it hard for him to breathe.
Chapter
Sixteen
The tavern was near empty. The barkeep was wiping down glasses with a cloth, and the lute player was packing his instrument in its case. There were only three patrons huddled over pints of ale in the far corner, with books scattered around the table between them. Ikar’s gaze landed on the bar, where he found Phinn sitting on a stool and sipping on his apple wine. Ikar winced at the look of dejection on the man’s face. He had hoped to drink alone, but found himself strolling to the bar where Phinn sat.
“You look like shit,” he said, sliding onto the stool next to Phinn. “Are you thinking about the battle?”
Phinn snorted. His blond hair had fallen in his blue eyes, making him look younger. “I wasn’t even thinking about that.”
“What can I get you?” the barkeep asked.
Ikar waved the old man away and turned back to Phinn. “What has you so down then? Has your apple wine gone sour? Who drinks apple wine anymore?”
“Milden Oslen.”
“She drinks apple wine?” Phinn shot him a look. Right. Now is not the time for wit. “Did you fuck her too?”
Phinn’s face puckered, and Ikar snorted that Phinn took offense to his blunt words. “I did, but not in the way that you are thinking.”
Ikar’s laugh was as sharp as a blade. “Is there another way to fuck someone? I thought it was fairly straight forward.”
“It was nothing more than a transaction. Not the carefree tumble you believe occurred.” Phinn looked at him with the pathetic expression of an animal that had just been kicked. “After my parents lost everything, I took a job to help bring in some income.” Red splashed across his round cheeks, and he looked out across the bar at the other patrons who were pouring over the stack of books in front of them. They looked to be legal counsel or at least studying law at the university. “I’m not proud of the job, but I was good at it. Made a lot of coin.”
Ikar leaned forward on his elbows, studying the young lord. He already knew where this was headed, but he wanted to hear the full story from his companion’s mouth. “Now, I am intrigued. What was this job?”
“Have you ever heard of the Masked Man?”
Ikar leaned back. He had not been expecting that. “Yes. He’s a male whore from Palamar, and his sexual prowess is known throughout Elthare, blah, blah, blah.” He waved a hand through the air. “A woman in Alithane raved about him. The man sounds like a myth to me.”
Phinn swallowed, his cheeks becoming even redder. “That man is me.”
Ikar was stunned into silence. He couldn’t take his eyes off the young Palman lord, and then he laughed, a short guffaw that was cut short at the end. “You’re not as innocent as I would have guessed!” He clapped Phinn on his shoulder. “This is very intriguing, indeed! Do the others know?”
“Only Grant.” There was a story there, but Phinn’s shoulders curled in as if he were ashamed, so Ikar held his tongue. “It’s not funny.”
“On the contrary, it’s hilarious.” Ikar sobered under the angry gaze of his companion. “Alright. What does this have to do with the dressmaker?”
Phinn scrubbed a hand over his hair and leaned back on his stool. “She was one of my customers. We met twice a month.” He paused to stare in misery at his apple wine. “I’ve fallen in love with her.”
“What do you mean?” Ikar asked, flagging down the barkeep. It looked like he would need a drink after all. He had not expected the young lord to start spilling his guts all over the bartop.
“She’s just so...beautiful. Perfect. And she tastes of strawberries.”
Ikar shook his head. “What is so enchanting about this woman? First Grant, then my brother, and now you. Is her cunt made of magic?”
Phinn made another face. “Must you be so crude?”
Ikar just shrugged, signaling for Phinn to continue.
“I told her tonight, after dinner, how I felt about her.” He paused to order another drink. “I told her everything about me, about being the Masked Man.”
“She laughed?” Ikar guessed from the tears that had formed in Phinn’s eyes.
He nodded. “She told me she was in love with someone else, and even if that weren’t the case, I was too young for h
er. I’m only two years her junior!.”
“I don’t think she means in age, Phinn. We have these homeless dogs in Alithane that follow you around the village, waiting for you to show some affection or to drop scraps of food. You remind me of those dogs.”
Phinn opened his mouth, then snapped it closed. His eyes burned like blue fire. “I’m not a dog!”
Ikar just shrugged again.
They sat in silence for a few moments, and then Phinn said, “I’m afraid, Ikar. I’m going to lose tomorrow.”
“You don’t know that, Phinn. You could beat my brother--” he trailed off. Both of them knew that wasn’t true. Phinn’s defeat was as sure as the sun rising in the morning. “You could always forfeit.”
Phinn shook his head rapidly, again reminding Ikar of a dog. “I can’t. My father has already disappointed my mother so much. I can’t be another disappointment to her. She was so proud when I entered. She thought if I could win, we could use the crown to restore our family name.”
He clapped Phinn on his shoulder. “I understand, Phinn.” He drank the rest of his drink and slammed the cup on the counter before he stood. “Come. Let me show you some fighting stances. If you can’t beat my brother, let’s at least make it so that you can hold him off for a while.”
Phinn grinned and stood from the stool. “Everyone says you are as cold as ice because you never smile, but I don’t think that is true. I think you hide behind your flippant comments and scowl.”
“Aren’t you the observant one?” Ikar gave him a wry chuckle, his mouth never turning into a smile. He said nothing more as they made their way out of the tavern and into the night.
Grant flipped his dagger in the air, catching it by the handle.
“What are you doing?” Lonis' voice came from behind him.
He turned to see his friend standing by the stairs, dressed in leather gear with a wooden sparring sword slung over his shoulder. Lonis had been helping everyone in the Manor hone their fighting skills. Grant was proud of how he had became friends with the other noble families.
“Studying physics.” In truth, he was questioning why he had entered the Trials in the first place. He had no desire to be king.
Lonis came forward, moving as silent as a breeze through blades of grass. When he was close, Grant could feel the warmth of him, smell the sweat he had worked up in the combat house, and the scent of the oats and honey soap from the baths.
“I’m so tired of this, Sin.”
And he looked tired. There were giant circles under his eyes, and he had lost a lot of his tawny color since they left the south. Grant felt guilty. It was his fault Lonis was so thin, so worn. His friend spent so many hours worrying about him.
“Tired of what?”
“This silent treatment,” Lonis whispered back. “It’s been weeks since you said more than a handful of words to me. ”
He wanted to go back to the way things were, but how could they? He was a noble, a man. Being with Lonis in the same way he had been with Milden would get both of them arrested. He had bedded men and women and people who didn’t identify as neither man nor woman in the past, but never had he wanted to be in a relationship after Milden shattered his heart. Not until now. And now, it felt impossible. What would people say if they got a cottage together? Grew old together and never took wives? It was Grant’s dream, but it seemed like a dream that wouldn’t come true.
Grant swallowed at the knowing look Lonis gave him as he pushed closer to Grant. Nothing separated them now. He could feel Lonis' chest rising and falling, his gaze intense.
Does he know my fears? Does he know my desires?
Of course he did. Lonis always knew what Grant was feeling.
But the way Lonis' lithe body pressed him against the wall showed that he was everything but afraid. Lonis was ready, so why wasn’t Grant?
“I-I’m sorry I’ve been shutting you out.” Grant felt too hot, too exposed. He pushed against Lonis, and they parted, standing feet from each other. “But that night still haunts me.” It was partially true, he could still see thrusting hips in his mind, but more than that, he was afraid. He was more afraid to commit to Lonis than he was to compete in the Trials. He had no idea what he was meant to do.
Lonis scoffed, and his eyes narrowed again, this time in anger. “Let it go, Sin. I have, Arlen has. If you keep wallowing in it, there will be no beginning for us.”
The breath whooshed out of Grant’s body. He wished he could take Lonis into his room and forget about everything, conquer his fear, but he stood his ground, tightening the grip on his dagger. “Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be, Lonnie.”
Lonis was silent, and his eyes widened at Grant’s rejection. He stumbled back a few steps as if he had been slapped. “That’s bullshit, and you know it.”
Grant was silent, and took a whetstone from his pocket. Lonis held his hand out for the stone and dagger. He hated the technique Grant used to sharpen his blades.
Grant took a step forward, settling the dagger and stone into Lonis' palm, but he didn’t let go immediately. “Maybe it would be easier if you forgot about whatever we could have, and find it with someone else.” His voice was only a notch above a whisper. “Like Arlen perhaps. I can’t deny that he is a good man.”
“I don’t want Arlen.”
Grant felt tears burning his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Instead, he walked away, leaving Lonis and his dagger behind.
Chapter
Seventeen
Grant’s boisterous laughter bounced off the walls of the dining room. His sister was in a fit of giggles by his side, and they were both covered in dirt and grass, having been thrown from their horses earlier that morning.
Arlen sat at the other end of the breakfast table, wedged between Lord Sinero and Grant’s older brother, Mikhial. He picked at his porridge, eating small rabbit bites every few minutes. Andalen frowned at the bags under her twin’s eyes.
“Champions,” Luane came into the dining room with a jingle of the keys at her waist. “It’s time. Please, head to your rooms. Servants are waiting to get you ready for the second battle.”
Andalen and the other Champions stood, saying goodbye to loved ones. She turned, catching sight of Phinn talking to his brother and sister outside in the gardens. She had grown fond of the young lord over the last few months. His innocence reminded her so much of Arlen when he was younger.
She followed Grant and Ikar, who had not joined his mother and father in wishing Yvney good fortune. The three of them were quiet as they made their way up the stairs.
When they parted, Andalen entered her room to find a servant girl laying out her finest dress. She looked up when Andalen entered. There was a red rose pinned to her simple black dress.
“I’m Fresia. I’ve been tasked with getting you ready for the day.”
“You have a rose attached to your lapel. Is that in support of Khett?”
The woman looked away, soothing out non-existent wrinkles on Andalen’s dress. “The Lord and I are...close.” The servant blinked as if she had not meant to say the words aloud.
“Ah.” She felt sorry for the poor girl. Another one of Khett’s conquests that thought what she had with former prince was special. “Well…” She was at a loss for words. “Shall we get me dressed?”
Fresia flashed her a grateful smile and then set to getting Andalen ready for the day. She didn’t protest the dress the servant had laid out for her. In fact, it was one she didn’t hate as much as the others. Milden had created it to mirror the fashions of Lysic. The fabric was loose, comfortable, and easy to move in. The dress was green with beautiful golden lilies threaded throughout, and the hem hit just above her ankles. The belt was braided and gold as well, the ends draping down her slender hips.
“You’re a vision,” Fresia breathed.
Andalen smiled at the servant. “Thank you.”
Fresia styled her hair, curling the springs around a slim modern rod that heat up in the flames from the fi
re, so they were perfectly formed. She fit a golden headband over Andalen’s hair and then lined her eyes in kohl.
Once dressed, Andalen hurried down the stairs to meet the others at the carriage. Grant and Ikar were already standing on the outside steps, both handsome in their coats. Grant’s was blue with silver buttons. His brown-black waves fell over his eyes. Ikar was dressed in a red coat with gold buttons. His inky hair was slicked back from his face, making his cool gray eyes stand out against the morning sun.
The carriage came around the bend of the tree-lined road leading up to the house, oil-slick black against the green foliage.
They climbed into the carriage with the help of a footman. Andalen arranged her dress, so it covered her legs, as Grant settled in beside her. Ikar stretched out on the other side of the carriage with a raised eyebrow.
“Do I smell?” he asked. “No one wants to sit near me?”
“Yes, the north stench clings to you, Dominikov.” Grant laughed.
Ikar rolled his eyes. “And the south clings to you, Sinero.”
Andalen shook her head at their antics, used to the banter between the two Lords. “And what do I smell of?” she asked.
Grant smiled. “Wheat and the sea.”
His answer made Andalen laugh. “At least you’re honest, Grant. Most men would try to flatter me by saying I smelled of some flower or fruit.”
“Yes, well,” he flipped his hair from his eyes. “I’m not trying to bed you.”
That only made her laugh more. She was pleased that they treated her as they would each other. She wasn’t just a lady to them; she was a friend. Or at least she hoped they were friends.
They spent the ride observing the landscape and arguing about which was better: the north, the south or the east.
When they pulled up to the King’s Coliseum, they were ushered through the winding halls by a surly, elderly woman with a hunch in her back. The halls were lit with torches, the smell of dirt and sweat hung heavy in the air, and the crowd could be heard, loud and unbridled. The cheers were a mix of all their names; the Elthare people didn’t know who would be fighting until seconds before the battle began. Andalen smiled as she heard her name in the crowd. Pride welled in her chest.
