by Cayla Kluver
London straightened to his full height and planted his feet, no longer relaxed in his stance, for prophecies and legends were not taken lightly in Hytanica, especially since the founding of our kingdom rested upon one.
“The account held that the Kingdom of Hytanica was built on sacred ground, and that because of this, she would forever be protected from her enemies. We all know Cokyri should have been able to conquer Hytanica during the war, and the legend confirms our own lore of why they could not do so. But the legend further held that Hytanica can be defeated by one of her sons who bears the mark of the bleeding moon.”
His eyes flicked between Destari and me, assessing our reactions.
“Sixteen years ago, Narian was born a son of Hytanica under a nighttime sky that was ruled by what our own scrolls describe as a bleeding moon, and I’m sure you know of the strange birthmark upon his neck.”
My heart lurched in my chest. “But what does this mean?” I asked, almost terrified to hear the answer, suspecting that my face looked as grim as Destari’s.
“It means that nothing Narian says can be ignored. It means that whatever Narian’s intentions are in Hytanica, he has a destiny to fulfill in Cokyri. It means he is the weapon that can bring Hytanica to ruin.”
I reeled as though I had been physically battered by London’s words. Nothing made sense, and yet everything made sense. As I tried to steady myself, one clear thought emerged.
“But even if everything you have said about Narian’s past is true, he must have a choice!”
I glanced frantically between London and Destari, hearing Narian’s own voice echoing in my head. “You always have a choice,” he had said on the night of Semari’s party.
“He can turn from that destiny, can’t he?” I repeated, feeling as though I were suffocating in the stale atmosphere of the tent.
“Perhaps.” London took a deep breath before continuing. “The Cokyrians are desperate to ensure Narian’s return. They are determined to reclaim him, no matter the cost. At the time the High Priestess was captured in the palace garden, Narian had already been missing for ten days.”
“But why would the High Priestess look for him herself?”
“She was not looking for Narian in the garden.” London hesitated, as though he did not think it wise to reveal more. Apparently concluding he had no option but to tell us, he offered an explanation that was just as obscure as his preceding revelation.
“She came to the palace to find me. She wanted my assistance in locating Narian. I am indebted to her for my life, though it is in a way you would not understand.”
Destari cleared his throat, which did little to rid his voice of tension. “Shouldn’t this information be brought to the captain and the King?”
“The information comes from me, so they cannot trust it,” London said bitterly. “The time for them to know will present itself, but meanwhile, we must keep a watchful eye on Narian.”
“And of what do you think he is capable?” Destari pressed.
“His current capability is not what keeps me up at night. No matter what plans the Cokyrians have for him, he is only sixteen, not fully grown or trained. He has also been treated most kindly here in Hytanica, so I do not believe he poses an immediate threat to anyone. My concern lies in what he may become should he return to Cokyri, whether he goes voluntarily or is taken by force. If he returns, Hytanica’s fate may be sealed. We must do all we can to ensure he does not end up back among the enemy.” London fixed his gaze upon me. “You would do well to stay away from him, Alera.”
I nodded, swaying on my feet. Taking note of my condition, Destari stepped forward to grip my upper arm, steadying me, as London addressed him.
“It’s time you return Alera to the royal box. Her continued absence may draw questions.”
I made no attempt to move, my mind now as numb as my body, and Destari finally nudged me toward the tapestries with his hand. As I began to pass through them, I stopped and turned halfway around to face London.
“When will I see you again?” I asked, saddened by the knowledge that he could not accompany us.
“I don’t know. I’m not exactly welcome at the palace,” he replied, but something in the depths of his eyes told me he felt as I did.
CHAPTER 24
THE EXHIBITION
DESTARI AND I MADE OUR WAY BACK TO THE royal box, sorrow at my separation from London now mixed in with the rest of my jumbled emotions. Destari’s hand on my upper arm guided me until we came within sight of the guards posted around the entrance; then I moved in front of him to climb the steps. I tried to act normally as I returned to my seat next to Miranna, picking up the fur throw I had left on the chair and draping it over my lap.
My sister’s eyes opened wide as she turned to me.
“Are you all right, Alera? You’re as pale as a ghost!”
“I’m fine,” I assured her, but she reached out to tuck the throw around my legs, concerned that I was ill. When I said nothing further, she went back to talking with Temerson, and I took several deep breaths to calm my nerves.
I wanted to embrace the excuses and rationales I had created in my head for every unknown that surrounded Narian, but none of them could withstand scrutiny. London’s information had completed the puzzle that Narian represented, but not in a way I wanted to believe.
Realizing that I had been staring at a crack in the wooden floor, I lifted my head to find Cannan observing me. I managed an artificial smile and forced myself to look out across the tournament field. Just as I did, a young man dressed in crimson-and-white tumbled off the stage, having been dealt a nasty blow by his opponent, and the King and Queen of Gourhan moaned in defeat. The crowd on the hillside erupted into cheers and applause, apparently favoring the victor, who wore the colors of Emotana.
“Who won?” Miranna asked, breaking from her conversation with Temerson to survey the goings-on. “Oh, I was supporting him!”
I was certain Miranna hadn’t the faintest familiarity with either of the competitors and had selected this one to cheer for because he was more handsome than the other. Whatever her reasons, she was now applauding enthusiastically. As Emotana’s royalty was not in attendance, she soon realized she was applauding alone, and her enthusiasm waned.
Lanek announced the victor’s name for all to hear, and the fighter on the stage gave a deep bow. When the crowd had quieted, the man hobbled off the stage, having been wounded during this battle or a previous one, while his opponent was carried away to the physician’s tent some distance down the field.
The trumpets blared again, drawing attention to Lanek, who had climbed onto the stage in order to be more visible to the crowd. Steldor and Narian mounted the steps on either side of the platform. Both men wore dark trousers, white shirts and tall leather boots, and each had slipped his arms into a leather breastplate that provided minimal protection for the chest. Heavier armor would have inhibited their movements, and the exhibition, as a feigned fight, posed little risk of injury. Each fighter held a long sword in his right hand—Steldor’s was his custom-made blade that had a grip wrapped in wire and a ruby set into its pommel; Narian’s sword had a grip that was likewise wrapped with wire, but was otherwise plain, with a narrower and less unwieldy blade—and daggers hung at their sides.
I scrutinized Narian, but could detect no unease in his carriage, and I wished he would be warier of his opponent. Though I doubted Steldor would intentionally harm the younger man under these circumstances, I could not quell the warning sounding in my head. Narian was noticeably smaller than Steldor and I still did not trust Steldor’s motivations.
“And now, for the climax of this year’s tournament, the much-heralded fighting exhibition between Lord Steldor, son of Cannan, the Captain of the Guard, and Lord Narian, son of the Baron Koranis,” Lanek bellowed.
Koranis stiffened at the manner of Narian’s introduction, although he said nothing. Did he object to the use of the name Narian rather than Kyenn? Or did he simply no longer d
esire to claim him as a son?
“Lord Steldor will be using his Hytanican weaponry,” Lanek continued, “and Lord Narian will be using the weapons of Cokyri.”
Excited muttering rippled through the crowd at the mention of the empire where Narian had been raised, to be quickly replaced by the usual banter on the hillside and in the stands. His role fulfilled, Lanek marched down the steps to make way for the fighters.
Steldor and Narian nodded to each other from their respective sides of the stage, then advanced, readying their swords. They crossed blades as they met in the center, then began some simple combat maneuvers, increasing their speed as they fell into a rhythm.
My tension eased as I viewed the routine fighting upon the stage, content for it to remain as it was, though the crowd shifted restlessly, craving something more. After a time, Steldor pulled back from Narian and tossed aside his sword in response to the crowd’s discontent. Narian also took a step back but made no move to change his weapon.
Steldor drew his double daggers from the sheaths at his hips and flipped them, catching the handles so that the blades extended from the backs of his fists. Lowering his hands, he advanced on his opponent. Without stopping or breaking eye contact, he raised the weapons, crossing them in front of him and thrusting them toward Narian’s chest. Narian reacted faster than I would have thought possible, dropping his sword to catch Steldor’s wrists so the blades came to rest threateningly above his shoulders. Steldor leaned in to Narian to mutter something, then pushed him backward off his feet, and my apprehension spiraled upward.
Steldor retreated two steps and waited with his hands at his sides, shifting his weight from foot to foot. I glanced around the royal box to gauge the feelings of the others, but saw only that everyone was focused intently upon the stage.
Gathering his feet beneath him, Narian rose, eyes boring into Steldor. He drew his own double daggers, which fit around his knuckles so that the blades arched over his hands, then moved forward. Positioning himself so that he could strike with his left leg, he planted a solid kick against Steldor’s chest. Steldor stumbled back a few paces and gave Narian a nod as though satisfied with his response.
The crowd’s attention was now riveted on the stage where the fighters had begun circling each other, Steldor exhibiting a cocky and menacing swagger, while Narian crouched lower, catlike in his movement. I gnawed on my lower lip, though it was conceivable that this change in style had also been planned in order to play well to the crowd.
As the young men completed their circle, Narian’s inside shoulder dipped slightly, and Steldor seized the opportunity. He flipped the dagger in his right hand over again and closed the distance between them to strike Narian in the temple with the butt of the knife. As he did, Narian dropped low and turned his head with the blow to avoid its full impact, then spun to his right, slashing Steldor above the knee with his blade. Bleeding from the gash in his leg, Steldor backed off and Narian rose to his feet, blood trickling from his temple.
The crowd had fallen silent, no longer sure if what they were seeing was a demonstration.
“I daresay these two are getting a little carried away,” my father said with an unconcerned chuckle.
I could not understand his cheerfulness. Steldor’s first blow had not been restrained, and Narian had meant to draw blood. I glanced over at Cannan, who was standing and glaring at the stage, jaw clenched, his arms crossed upon his chest. Faramay, expression anxious, was also eyeing Cannan, aware that something was wrong.
I returned my attention to the fight, now sitting on the edge of my seat, gripping the arms of my chair as I began to pray soundlessly for Narian’s safety. Steldor had been the victor in every fighting competition he had entered since coming of age at eighteen and was renowned as the best fighter in the Recorah River Valley. It was not a matter of who would emerge triumphant at the end of this battle—the only uncertainty was how badly Narian would be beaten.
Tiring of their game of cat and mouse, the young men ran at each other. As they came together, Steldor stabbed at Narian with his right blade, but Narian deflected it, then likewise redirected Steldor’s left-handed follow-up thrust. After pushing both of Steldor’s daggers away, Narian circled his right arm down and in, slashing vertically up the center of his opponent’s breastplate and nearly cleaving it in two. Steldor drew his arms into his chest, and Narian immediately brought his left arm across Steldor’s body, hooking him by the shoulder with the barbed edge of his blade and jerking him around. As he spun, Steldor extended his right hand, slicing Narian across the shoulder.
Faramay gasped as the two came apart and spatters of blood flew from their weapons. Both of the fighters now had dark stains forming on their white shirts.
Looking down the row of people, I saw Koranis and Alantonya sitting side by side, Alantonya looking mortified, Koranis vindicated. My father was frowning at the stage, twisting his ring, finally disturbed by what he was seeing, while the faces of the visiting royals registered equal parts confusion and concern. Beside me, Miranna’s fingers were pressed against her cheeks, ready to creep up and hide her eyes, and Temerson had tentatively put a hand on her back to reassure her. My mother, Faramay, and Temerson’s parents wore appalled expressions. Only Cannan’s stance and demeanor had not changed in the least.
As Steldor regained his balance, he turned his left blade over, so that both of his knives extended from the tops of his hands, and thrust toward Narian, driving the daggers underneath the younger man’s arms. Pressuring the base of his fists into the center of Narian’s back between his shoulder blades, Steldor forced him downward until his arms flared out, then brought his right knee up to connect violently with Narian’s chin.
Steldor shoved Narian one final time toward the ground before he pulled away. Narian caught himself with his blades, managing to stay on his feet, but his head hung forward, heavy bangs hiding his pain. Smugly, Steldor took a step back and glowered down at him.
“Stay down, Narian,” I heard Cannan mutter. “Don’t get up.”
The disoriented young man took a few deep breaths, then abruptly slid his legs forward between Steldor’s and kicked outward, forcing his adversary to splay his legs shoulder-width apart. He then sprang to his feet, and with Steldor now at his eye level, slashed both of Steldor’s shoulder straps. With a thud, the already damaged breastplate fell to the stage floor. Thundering footsteps on the stairs of the royal box told me that Cannan had decided it was time to put an end to this fight.
Steldor drew his leg in and shifted his weight onto his left foot, then spun around to plant a solid side kick against Narian’s chest with his right leg, once again knocking the younger man off his feet. Absorbing the fall, Narian rolled onto his upper back and sprang forward to land in a crouched position. Steldor faced Narian, settling his weight, right dagger held up, left held low, awaiting his opponent’s next move. His smugness had died away to be replaced by intense concentration on the battle at hand.
I could see Cannan pushing his way through the masses, his progress slowed by the excited spectators. Narian caught the disruption in the crowd as well and thrust his daggers to the side. At first, I thought he was going to concede the fight to Steldor before the captain could intervene, but he instead ran at his opponent. He pulled Steldor’s arms away from his body, and with surprising agility, used Steldor’s thigh as a step, pushing himself off the ground to plant his right heel forcefully against his adversary’s chin. Steldor’s head whipped back and he fell hard, the stage shuddering with the impact, his blades flying away from him, as Narian flipped over to land on his feet.
Faramay’s hands had gone to her mouth in horror, and mutters filled the box at this strange new development. The air felt thick, making it difficult to breathe, and I prayed that Cannan would soon intercede.
For a moment, Steldor did not move, stunned to be the one flat on his back, then his muscles tensed as a fierce rage ignited within him. Raising his arms, he slammed his clenched fists against the flo
or of the stage and rose to his feet.
Striding toward Narian, Steldor brought his right arm down and back and launched a deadly uppercut at Narian’s jaw. Narian grasped Steldor’s arm and pushed upward to avoid the blow. Wrapping his right leg around Steldor’s, he knocked his opponent’s feet out from under him, using the momentum of the punch to send his adversary slamming against the ground for the second time. Pinning Steldor’s right arm, Narian pressed his knee into Steldor’s chest, rendering his foe helpless against his final move. As Cannan broke through the last line of people and rushed toward the stage, Narian drew back his fist and threw a punch toward Steldor’s windpipe that would have taken Steldor’s life had he not pulled it at the last second.
Narian slowly retracted his hand and came to his feet. His eyes met the captain’s, and his expression was so unfeeling it gave me chills. Glancing around, he seemed to recall that he had been involved in an exhibition, and he gazed at his defeated opponent, who was struggling onto his elbows, before extending a hand to help him to his feet. Steldor glared at Narian before grudgingly accepting his assistance. As he struggled to stand, the first applause reached my ears. The sound grew louder until the entire crowd was cheering.
Steldor and Narian gave subdued bows before exiting the stage in opposite directions, doing their best to mask the extent of their injuries. Steldor, limping slightly, walked away with nothing but a fleeting glance at his father, who directed his gaze at the royal box as if making a decision, then followed after him. For the first time in memory, the Captain of the Guard looked pale and shaken.
A moan captured my attention, and I looked to Faramay, who was on her feet, hanging on to the edge of the viewing window with pallid hands. As my mother turned to offer assistance, Faramay swooned, her legs crumpling beneath her. Tanda and Alantonya went to her aid, fanning her face, and my mother dispatched a guard to fetch some water.
