by A. C. Cobble
Ben’s heart pounded in his chest as his feet fell softly on the stone floor. He regretted not asking Amelie which hallways had rugs and choosing one of those to sneak down, but it was too late now.
In his hand, he held his longsword, and his eyes constantly roved, peering into every corner and through every open doorway, but there was nothing. The palace was silent except for his own footfalls.
He made the staircase and crept into the dark well, feeling his way up. He was blind, without even the pale light of the moon illuminating the windowless stairs, but after one turn, he found an exit into the second-floor hallway. This one was lined with thick rugs and tapestries. Mirrors and flashing metallic sconces hung along the walls. It was the family’s private quarters.
Ben padded down the hall, counting off the doors as he went until he found the one he was looking for. Hoping it was unlocked, he pressed the latch and pushed it open to reveal a sitting room filled with delicate furniture, frilly lace, and dominated on one side by a huge dollhouse that rose to Ben’s height and spanned half a dozen paces. In the pre-dawn gloom, it looked to be painted a bright shade of pink.
Ben covered his mouth and fought back a chortle.
Looking around, he saw the rest of the room was decorated just as flightily as the dollhouse. Lace fell to form a tent in one corner, barely obscuring a tiny couch overflowing with small, stuffed animals. Larger ones covered the floor around it. A mirror and table stood on the other side of the room, set with countless jars, vials, combs, and other implements of beauty he could only guess at.
Shaking his head, he weaved through the room, wondering how Amelie had grown to be such a grounded woman after being raised in such a… pink room.
He moved from the sitting room to her old bedchamber and breathed a sigh of relief. There were frills lining a thick blanket on her bed, and the bed itself was topped with an extravagant, heavily embroidered curtain, but the rest of the room felt like it was designed for a more mature resident than the sitting room. He could recognize this bedroom and the girl who had grown up in it.
A blush of light was spilling in from a large, glass double door. Ben moved to it and peered out, looking onto a veranda and then down into the quiet garden below. He couldn’t see anything.
It wasn’t yet dawn, and the courtyard was lost in shadow. There was no movement that he could detect, but someone could be down there. He settled in to wait, watching the sky above the roofline on the opposite side of the courtyard.
The sun would rise behind it, and as soon as there was sufficient light to see the courtyard, he would sneak out onto Amelie’s old balcony. It overlooked the gardens from end to end, and she’d claimed it was a perfect spot to observe what happened below while still allowing himself a chance to escape if there was a trap.
He sat on her bed and marveled at the cloud soft bedding.
Ben’s gaze dropped to his longsword. It was resting point down on the carpet, the length of the blade between his legs, the hilt in his lap. The dark Venmoor steel blended into the dim light around him. Barely visible, partially obscured by the dried blood of the guards he killed in the city, a relief of mountains was etched into the blade.
He let his fingers drift across the design, and he felt the shallow grooves that some long-forgotten artisan had made. For the hundredth time, he wondered what it meant. Was it supposed to symbolize something, or had it merely been done to beautify a weapon of war? Years after the death of the artisan, the etching remained, but it’s purpose was a mystery.
Ben shook himself and turned to look over Amelie’s room. There was little personality that would tell him about her. Countless maids had filtered in since the last time Amelie slept there. Dusting, straightening up, removing any trace of the girl she had been. Amelie had gone to the Sanctuary as an initiate, and they wouldn’t have expected her to return for years.
Against the wall, there was a tall wardrobe. Dark wood was inset with pale gemstones. It was beautiful, and he guessed it cost a fortune. He wanted to cross and open it, to see if any of her old clothing was inside, but as he watched, the color of the stones became apparent, and he knew the sun was rising. He would have spent the entire day in Amelie’s rooms if he could, poking around, trying to understand her better. Her life as a highborn was a mystery to him, and he wanted to know her, but he could not. Not yet.
It was time to go to battle. To live or to die.
He stood and stretched, allowing his tense muscles to pull against his frame. He rolled his head from side to side, stepped into the middle of the room, and spun his longsword in a series of swooping loops. His bruises from the fall outside of Issen’s gates and the tumble dodging the crossbow twinged in pain, but it was minor, and when the battle fever fell upon him, he knew he’d be able to ignore it. He was healthy enough.
The smooth leather on the hilt of his sword caressed his palms as it spun turn after turn. The heavy blade felt weightless in his hands, like it was an extension of him. The exhaustion of the previous days and nights, the bumps from dashing through Issen, the scrambling beneath the hedges, they all fell away. He felt energized. Excitement coursed through his veins. He didn’t know if he’d be successful, but he knew what he was doing was right. He knew this was the best plan they had.
Ben unlocked the door to Amelie’s balcony, wincing at the sound of the bolt sliding through the iron hasp. He pulled the door open and was greeted by a wave of cool air. It raised bumps on his arms and down his spine. It brought the pleasant scent of flowers. Roses, he thought.
He stepped onto the veranda and spared a quick glance at the sky. It glowed faintly, orange and pink. Yellow and gold wouldn’t be far off. Soon, the clouds above would be shining, beautiful and ephemeral. He wished he could sit and watch.
His eyes fell to the gardens below. Short, flowering trees, some bearing fruit, stood watch over low bushes and beds of flowers. In the early autumn, most of it was not in bloom, but enough was that it filled the space with a thick perfume. The foliage surrounded an open, grass lawn. Amelie said they had parties there, sometimes, and that she had played on the lawn as a young girl.
The grass was low, even, and Ben realized someone on the staff must have trimmed it just weeks before. Even with Lord Gregor dead and Lady Selene gone, when they knew the armies of the Alliance and the Coalition were bearing down, they’d continued their maintenance. The wheels continued to roll.
In the center of the lawn was a fountain fashioned to look like a branching tree. Water tinkled a soft symphony as it fell off the delicately carved stone leaves and splashed into the pool below.
Ben walked to the edge of the veranda and peered over the balustrade. There was nothing below except a quiet, fall garden. His gaze scanned the windows and doors around the courtyard, but he saw no movement. It wasn’t quite dawn yet, when Saala and Jason were told to arrive, but it wasn’t far off, either. The world seemed absolutely still, with only his own pounding heart, the blood rushing through his veins, the air filling his lungs, and the tinkling fountain giving any break to the serene scene below him.
Below him. He frowned.
Amelie had told them that directly below the balcony was a long gallery of glass doors. Behind them was a banquet hall her family used for entertaining when the weather wasn’t nice enough outside. The banquet hall had a large public entrance that was easily accessible for carriages and anyone traveling to the estate for a party. It was one of the easiest entry points, she’d said, and one way she thought Saala or Jason could come in.
If they were in there, they’d be directly below Ben. He couldn’t see a thing from the balcony he was standing on. In the corner of the veranda, he saw a thick iron post topped with an unlit lantern. He sheathed his sword and put one foot on the railing, one hand on the post, and boosted himself up. He gripped the post and leaned forward, looking straight down, trying to detect any sign of light or movement in the hall below.
“Ben,” said a calm voice behind him.
He lost his g
rip and pitched forward, falling one story to the grassy lawn. In years past, he would have panicked. His arms would have flailed wildly, and he would have landed flat on his face. He’d fallen a lot in the last year, though, and his body acted on instinct.
His feet hit first, and he allowed his knees to flex with the impact, falling forward and dropping into a roll, letting the momentum of the fall expend itself as his body followed his shoulder down and he tumbled across the dew-damp grass. He kept the motion going and rolled to his feet, spinning and drawing his longsword. He backed away from the building, toward the fountain.
On the roof, clearly illuminated by the rising sun, squatted a bald-headed man with a longsword at his hip.
“Saala?” asked Ben.
He heard a snicker as the shape dropped to the balcony Ben had just been leaning from. The man hopped onto the stone balustrade, balancing easily on the balls of his feet, towering above Ben.
“Who else would it be?” asked Saala, his smooth voice sending a shiver of familiarity and fear down Ben’s spine. “Did you invite someone else to this little reunion?”
“I-I… You just surprised me,” stammered Ben. “What were you doing up there?”
“Waiting for you, of course,” said Saala, still standing on the railing and looking down, one hand resting comfortably on the hilt of his longsword, the other hanging relaxed at his side. “I knew Amelie would send you to this balcony. I spent years in her family’s service, and I can’t tell you how many nights I spied her up here looking over this courtyard. I figured lying in wait on the roof above it was the easiest place to spot if you’d planned an ambush. You didn’t, though, did you? I watched you squirm through that hedge maze, and you were alone. No one came behind you.”
Ben stared up at Saala speechlessly.
“I spent years in this palace with Amelie, Ben,” reminded Saala. “Did you really think you’d surprise me? What would you do if you did? Attack me?”
“No,” mumbled Ben. “I want to talk.”
“Good,” remarked Saala. “If you wanted to attack, you should have brought some more men. I suspect you’ve been training hard since we parted, and perhaps you’ve become quite skilled with that sword. I’ve been practicing, too, and you’re still not as good as me.”
The blademaster leapt off the balcony and Ben stumbled further away, putting two-dozen paces between him and his former mentor.
Saala landed lightly on the manicured turf and stood slowly. His longsword lay in its sheath at his belt, but Ben knew from experience the man could draw it in the blink of an eye.
Ben, eyeing the blademaster’s longsword, kept his own weapon in his hand. “How do you know I’m not as good as you?”
Saala smirked and let his eyes fall to Ben’s exposed blade. “I know it the same way you do, Ben. If you don’t think I’m better, why do you look so nervous?”
Frowning, Ben stole a glance behind Saala where pink and yellow light was falling across the marble of the wall. It was dawn, and if all went well, Lord Jason would be arriving soon. Arriving alone, Ben amended, if all went well.
“You gambled Rhys to get me here,” said Saala, his voice even and calm, the opposite of the way Ben felt. “He’s got to be the best blade you have, your best asset outside of any mages lurking in the shadows. I thought at first Rhys aimed to assassinate me, but he allowed himself to be captured. Without his weapons, clapped in irons, even that rogue is no threat to me. I couldn’t believe it until I saw it. I knew there had to be a trick, but you are alone. You don’t have one of your pet mages nearby, do you? Why the gamble? What’s your play?”
“I’ve learned a lot about you,” said Ben, stalling for time. “We went to the South Continent and found out about your past.”
Saala’s arrogant smirk curled into a frown, but he mastered his face a moment later, and he stared at Ben with condescension. “Surely you don’t mean to shock me with my past and convince me this is all an error?”
Ben shrugged. “You failed to overthrow the emperor. What makes you think you will succeed here? What makes you think your failure in the past can be assuaged by victory today?”
“Ben,” said Saala, his stance wide and ready. “I’ve been crowned King of Whitehall and the leader of the Alliance. My realm covers almost half of Alcott. I’ve already achieved more than what I set out to do. I’ve already won at contests I didn’t even realize I was playing. I’m a king!”
“Then why are you pursuing this war!” shouted Ben, losing himself.
Saala grew a genuine smile. “I’m enjoying the challenge of it.”
“This isn’t some simple duel between blademasters,” growled Ben. “Lives are at stake, Saala! This is about more than your ego.”
“It’s always been about ego, Ben,” chided Saala. “Whether it was me or Argren, it was never any more than that. I control Whitehall, one of the most powerful cities on this continent. I’m certain that once the war is over, it will only be a headache. Between us, I have very little interest in actually administering the place. Once I win, I suspect I will grow even less interested, and I’d be willing to gamble that Lord Jason feels the same. Like me, he would probably have his ministers take over as soon as he’s able.”
Ben was hit with the sudden realization that Lord Jason had told him exactly the same thing so many months before.
“It’s not about acquiring more wealth or land for either of us,” continued Saala. “It’s ego, plain and simple. I may not be a wise man, but I’m wise enough to understand my own motivations. Not some simple duel between blademasters, you said? You are wrong, Ben. That’s what this war is. That’s all it is. I rule Whitehall. Jason rules Irrefort. Which one of us can rule it all?”
Behind him, over the tinkling sound of water falling in the fountain, Ben sensed a presence and glanced over his shoulder. In the shadows of the palace, he saw a flicker of light and smiled.
“My gamble, Saala,” responded Ben, “was to give you an opportunity to find out who is best. You and Lord Jason can settle this without armies, without costing hundreds of thousands of lives. Here and now, man to man.”
The sound of splintering wood and shattering glass broke the spell in the courtyard. Lord Jason calmly sauntered through the door he’d just kicked open, smiling at the surprise on Saala’s face.
Ben backed across the lawn, his eyes darting between the two men, trying to make himself the third point on a triangle instead of a piece of meat standing between two wolves.
“Well played,” admitted Jason, sliding a slim, rune-carved mirror behind his waist. “I assumed this was an ambush and that you’d callously sacrificed my brother to make it happen. I couldn’t believe it when I far-saw this courtyard and saw just the two of you.”
“Did you come alone?” asked Saala, his hand nervously resting on his longsword.
Jason mimicked the gesture and admitted, “In a sense. I have several hundred of my best men outside, but they’ll let us play.”
“Why?” asked Saala, clearly surprised.
Jason winked at him. “You were right about me, blademaster. I want to see who is better. If my men had rushed in here, they could have easily taken you both. I wouldn’t need to dirty my hands or clean your blood off my blade, but where is the fun in that? Like you, I crave a challenge.”
“Let’s settle it here, then, between us,” said Ben.
The Black Knife turned toward him. “You won’t survive this, Benjamin Ashwood, but you’ll get your wish. I’m content to handle you and the blademaster myself. I don’t need an army for either of you, just like I didn’t need one for King Argren. If it’s any consolation, your death will help buy peace for Alcott.”
“Peace under your rule,” accused Saala.
Jason merely shrugged. “Of course.”
Saala’s fist closed around the hilt of his sword, and in response, Lord Jason smoothly drew his blade. A burning path of yellow light crept down the length of steel, bright geometric patterns forming like fire scorchin
g across a prairie. The shadows in the courtyard made it look like there was no steel, only light. Ben knew different, but it still sent a shiver down his spine. He wondered if he should have sent Adrick Morgan in his place, but then, the two kings of Alcott would not have walked into the trap if someone other than Ben had appeared.
“Nice blade,” acknowledged Saala before drawing his own sword.
Ben gasped as he saw silver light flowing along the razor-sharp weapon. Sparkling smoke boiled off of it as Saala swept it in a lazy circle.
“That sword belongs to Rhys!”
“It used to.” Saala chuckled.
The three men watched each other, and then Jason asked, “Ben, didn’t you have a mage-wrought blade the last time we met?”
Cursing under his breath, Ben admitted, “I lost it.”
“How did you lose a mage-wrought sword?” wondered Saala.
“Well, it’s complicated…” Ben stammered before trailing off. He felt foolish explaining himself.
Jason, taking slow steps out onto the lawn, admonished, “That was rather stupid of you, Ben. You’re at a serious disadvantage with just plain steel in your hand.”
“Do you think to stand back while we battle it out and hope we injure each other enough that you can defeat the winner?” Saala asked Ben.
“Something like that,” muttered Ben.
“You are a brilliant idiot,” said Jason, shaking his head and grinning.
“If neither of you wants to talk about peace, then let’s stop talking,” said Ben, raising his Venmoor steel blade.
“Very well,” agreed Jason.
“I’m sorry, Ben,” said Saala, “you’re a good man, but the good guys never win.”
The two blademasters stepped closer to each other, feet falling on the dew-damp grass. A cool breeze stirred the leaves in the trees and bushes around them. The fountain tinkled like rain on a lake. Jason and Saala eyed each other, watching footsteps, sword grips, and the set of each other’s shoulders. Their carefully placed steps started to circle, two apex predators understanding they were meeting their match. Ben was forced to circle with them, the three men forming a slowly spinning triangle.
