by Gwynn White
Raith
Raith hefted his rapier in one sweaty hand and his parrying dagger in the other. As hard as he tried to keep his expression blank, unbridled fear almost tripped him as he walked to the center of the arena to face his first opponent in the trials. He and Prince Gathroar had drawn the first lots and were the first to fight.
I’m about to die—and there’s nothing I can do about it.
He and Gathroar matched each other in height, but that was where the similarities ended. Thick as a thousand-year-old oak, the brute was decked out in steel plate from head to toe. Not even his eyes peeked out.
And this was the man he had to kill if he was to survive.
Maleficent save me.
His boyhood sword master’s voice rang in his head. Look for weaknesses. And attack first.
Carian had wanted Raith to wear full body armor, but unaccustomed to sparring in plate, Raith had barely been able to move, let alone thrust his rapier with any agility. Even Carian had admitted that a full metal suit would be more of a liability than an asset. They had settled for his usual boiled leather armor.
Now Raith wasn’t so sure. His covering seemed hopelessly inadequate.
Added to that, Gathroar carried a broadsword, heavier, designed for close-up sweeps and cuts, while all Raith wanted was to keep as far away from Gathroar as his rapier would allow.
Farther, if I could. Like back in the brothel in Lorithian.
At least Carian would not be here to see him die. His brother used the cover of the first trial to snoop around the capital to find the higher Magical, the ones whose blood was needed to brew the potion to protect Raith against the Guardians.
A bit pointless when he’d be dead before Carian returned.
Stop it! This is not helping. Focus on the fight at hand.
It also didn’t help that hunger for magic burned in his gut. The injustice of that wasn’t helping his mood. If the Guardians were to rob him of his powers, the least they could do was to take the craving away, too.
Anger at the entire situation hastened his step.
No matter what happened, he would get a few thrusts in before succumbing to the brute.
Gathroar swaggered toward him, confidence and disdain pulsing in every rollicking step. The man believed himself invincible; that much was obvious.
Perhaps Raith could use that arrogance to his advantage.
He would never defeat Gathroar by skill alone, but maybe he could beat him through cunning and stealth. Incubi had practically invented cunning and stealth.
Gathroar took his position in front of the royal box. He tilted his visor up and swept a flamboyant bow. “Behold your groom, Your Highness,” he called to Aurora. “I vow to present my opponent’s head to you on the end of my sword. His will be the first of a string of bodies I lay at your feet in the coming week.”
Aurora sat straight as a board in her chair. “Thank you for your offer, Prince Gathroar.” The ugly little thing had sweat beading on her forehead and staining her armpits. Still, her voice rang strong. “You will be in good company.” A hand wave at the lanky tabby perched on the railing overlooking the arena. “Peckle never fails to charm me with an endless trail of decapitated mice left on my bedchamber floor. For a reward, he gets to sleep with me, too.”
A cheer of laughter from the crowd.
Even Raith managed a smile. The woman had wit, if nothing else.
Face flushed, Gathroar jerked out of his bow. Clearly, Aurora had knocked some of the wind out of his sails.
The man was a mere buffoon, albeit a strong, powerful one. It gave Raith courage.
Finally, Aurora’s eyes settled on Raith. He could have sworn that they implored him to win.
He nodded and smiled at her. He hoped it didn’t look too self-deprecating. And then he faced Gathroar to exchange the customary greeting.
The man charged, his sword swinging.
Raith’s parrying dagger nearly slipped from his hand. He steadied his grip, sashayed to the side, and followed up with a quick thrust with his rapier at the armor joint in the giant’s armpit.
Gathroar’s blade smashed with rock-breaking force against Raith’s. For a second time, he almost lost hold of the hilt. Thankfully, his rapier was made from the finest tempered steel, but the same could not be said for Raith’s arm—pain jarred all the way up into his shoulder.
Gathroar pressed his advantage, slicing his blade at Raith’s abdomen.
Raith dodged, bringing his parrying dagger clumsily up to deflect the blow. The shorter blade crashed against Gathroar’s sword, diverting it moments before Gathroar could plunge it into Raith’s gut.
Teeth gritted, Raith pushed back on Gathroar’s heavier blade. The man’s arm barely moved, rooted to the spot.
Gathroar deflected, breaking free of Raith’s hold. Again he lunged.
Raith skittered back across the sand. He wasn’t quick enough, and the blade struck his leather-clad arm, the one holding his parrying dagger. The leather buckled as the steel plunged into Raith’s bicep. He cried out, dropping the dagger.
Gathroar kicked it away across the sand, out of Raith’s reach.
A cacophony of cheers, claps, and boos reverberated around the arena.
But instead of following through—the brute could easily have severed Raith’s arm—Gathroar pulled back and laughed with the crowd. He even lifted his visor, exposing the callous disdain in his coal-dark eyes.
“I promised my bride a show,” the brute yelled out. “Game’s just starting. Let’s play some more.”
Another roar from the savage crowd.
Bleeding, Raith steadied his grip on his rapier—and then the full import of Gathroar’s words hit him.
The prince wasn’t planning on a quick victory. None of his swings would result in immediate death. He would go for limbs, slicing them enough to disable, but not to immobilize. He’d go for the abdomen, piercing deep enough to cause pain, but not to kill. Gathroar would torture him long enough to show Aurora and the other suitors that he was top dog, that no one could stand against him.
What would the killing blow be? Would Gathroar swipe his head from his shoulders as he’d promised Aurora? Or would he let Raith bleed out on the sand until his heart had nothing left to pump?
The man’s brutality incensed Raith, flooding adrenaline into his bloodstream. Eyes narrowed, he glowered at his tormentor.
If Gathroar wanted to play dirty, then so could Raith.
He glanced behind him for anything he could use as an additional weapon. The stone wall was bare, except for the flaming torches that lined the arena, spreading light and shadow.
He could use those torches. In fact, if Gathroar wanted a show, he’d have one he never could have anticipated. Or could recover from.
Gathroar roared.
Raith swung around, thrusting his rapier at Gathroar. The man sidestepped, and Raith stumbled. Gathroar drove his advantage, slicing at the wound on Raith’s arm.
Raith winced—and then moaned for effect. He even let his rapier droop in his good hand.
More laughter from Gathroar. “Bride, next time, give me a proper opponent. One worthy of my skill,” he called up to Aurora.
Aurora looked faintly ill as she waved at him halfheartedly.
So confident, the fool even flung his helmet off. He tossed his head back, making his long, dark hair dance. But the hand holding his sword remained steady as it edged Raith back against the wall—straight toward the torches.
Raith let himself be led, offering half-hearted attempts to attack Gathroar. Like a spider luring a fly into its web, he even angled his body so Gathroar could drive him into the torch bracket.
His back crashed into it. He let his rapier drop onto the sand at his feet, where he could grab it quickly if needed.
The crowd roared its delight. Gathroar paused to take a bow.
Raith ripped the torch from its holder and drove it into Gathroar’s face. Driven on wings of fury, he twisted the torch so the burning tar coated the man�
�s cheeks.
Gathroar yelled, perhaps more in shock than pain, until the stench of burning hair and skin filled the arena. Bellowing like a wounded walrus, he dropped his sword to pat his face.
But steel gauntlets were not designed for stemming fire. Gathroar collapsed to his knees to bury his face in the sand.
Raith scooped up his rapier. He thrust, putting all his strength behind the blow, into Prince Gathroar’s neck. The brute collapsed against the wall, a fountain of blood spraying from a clean puncture through his jugular.
Breath coming in rasps, Raith rocked back on his heels.
He had won his first trial.
But with no magic to reap, this death—his second—was nowhere near as satisfying as his first.
All it did was make him hungry—hungry for the only blood that would appease his craving. He looked up at Aurora, hoping his eyes didn’t expose his lust. Only once he’d sucked her dry could he get at all the Magical blood tickling his senses here in the arena.
Aurora stood and clapped her hands along with the cheering crowd. Not at all put off by his longing.
Behind Raith, stewards busied themselves removing Prince Gathroar’s body.
With his bloody rapier in hand, Raith strode across the arena to the royal box. He bowed to Aurora. “I trust my lady does not object to a suitor who displays more brains than brawn?”
Aurora started, then smiled through her pallor, tinged with sickly green. It seemed Princess Aurora wasn’t as keen for blood sports as he had been led to believe. Somehow he had to use that knowledge to his advantage.
The crowd stilled.
“I look for a consort who is true to his word. You, Duke Raith, promised that you would be triumphant in your sword fight. You have honored your word.” Her voice carried its familiar steadiness, only this time, without the dollop of sarcasm she had used on Gathroar. She gestured to the steps leading to the box. “Please, join me on the stand while the next pair fight.”
It seemed the princess had indeed taken a fancy to him. His incubus power to beguile had not been completely lost after all. He hid his delight; he could definitely use that to his advantage.
He took the stairs at a leap to be greeted at the top by a steward bearing a bottle of tincture and a bandage for his arm.
Raith was about to croon something sweet and meaningless to Aurora when a scuffle at the portcullis leading into the arena caught his eye.
Jorah stood on the threshold.
EIGHTEEN
Jorah
Jorah stared at the royal box in dismay. The man Princess Aurora welcomed to her side with smiles was unmistakably Trojean’s brother. And, curse the timing, he had already fought and won his opening round. As much as Jorah longed to swoop in with his sword to slit the incubus’s throat, even in this kingdom it would be construed as murder.
Not something he could risk.
He turned away from the portcullis to glare at Niing, who shambled over to meet him. “I see Raith Krall is here. Has Princess Aurora been told what danger she’s in, courting him?”
No taller than Jorah’s hips, Niing stopped next to him and glared straight back. “You are late. The reason for that should be the question up for discussion.”
A couple of musketeers strode past them, but they did no more than eye him with interest. They must have realized he was a late-coming attendee.
Niing grabbed Jorah’s sleeve and drew him into the shadows away from the portcullis. “If you had been here at the start, I may have managed to do something with the pairings.” He tossed his hands up. “Now it’s too late for today’s match. I can try again tomorrow, but Artemis is watching me.”
“Why did you send the parasite an invitation?” Jorah challenged. “And why didn’t you turn him away when he arrived?”
He had the pleasure—sour as it was—of seeing Niing deflate.
“The invitation went awry. I would never have invited him. And even if I had been permitted to attend at the harbor, what would I have said to Raith? To Artemis? The Intelligentsia?” Niing replied. “That the man is a known incubus? That his succubus twin sister murdered the Magical in Warrendyte, a community the majority of the Untalented deny even exists?”
“I see your point.” Jorah’s caravel had arrived under the Warrendyte banner, but no one here, other than Niing, would have recognized the sigil for what it was. It was thanks to Niing’s pipeweed smoke that he had lived so long under the influence of the Guardians. The rest of the Magical who had stayed in Ryferia after the war had long since succumbed to the alchemy and the iron.
Niing puffed up on his tiny boots. “Good. Now you need to get into that arena to claim your spot in the tournament. Make sure you fight with more honor than the bloodsucker did, so that Aurora gives you the winner’s wreath.”
Jorah held up his hand. “All in good time. First, what are we doing to warn Princess Aurora about him? She needs to know who and what he is.”
Niing gawked at him. “What in the creation of cats do you mean? Didn’t you listen to anything I’ve been saying?”
Jorah narrowed his eyes, missing his reptilian slits. “Princess Aurora is not Artemis or the Intelligentsia. By your own admission, she is possibly a dryad with enough power to bend every tree and plant in this kingdom to her will. She needs to know that she’s harboring a creature who would happily suck that power out of her.” He wagged a finger at his old tutor. “Make no mistake, Niing, if Raith gets ahold of her power, he will use it against us all. None of us will be safe.”
Niing blew out a long breath. “Do you think I’m not aware of that? But, as Zandor mentioned at our last meeting, Aurora speaks her mind, often before thinking. And it’s worse when she’s under pressure, as she is at the moment. Even tonight she blathered out something about Peckle killing mice for her.”
Jorah had no patience with this nonsense. “Then she needs to learn discretion. Her life, all our lives, depend on it.”
“Indeed. And I have been pleading with her since she first learned to talk. It’s not done me much good. And now? Do you want to risk telling her something so explosive when she has Artemis breathing out threats at her?”
“What’s he on about?”
“He plans to accuse Aurora of murdering her brother. If he succeeds, she will be tried and hanged for treason. We still have no solution to that particular hiccup. Add to that Aurora’s aversion to blood sports and her desperate need for a consort if she is to claim her throne, and we have a very agitated princess. I’m not willing to risk my life—or yours—by telling her about her magic.”
“Then at least tell her about Raith. What’s the point of having that pony, Zandor, guard her, if she invites her biggest enemy to sit by her side?”
“And admit that we are Magical by that revelation? She may be indiscreet, but she’s not stupid. She will quickly piece it all together. And we are back to our starting point.”
Jorah slapped the stone wall, missing his talons. “So we treat her like a child and tell her nothing?”
“Aurora is no child. But yes, we tell her nothing that she can use to incriminate us all. Artemis and the Intelligentsia are Nethric’s whelps. They will not tolerate Magical amongst them. If they knew the true cause of the Infirmity in this kingdom, we would have genocide.”
Jorah was under no illusions about Nethric’s “whelps,” not when his whole family had died at the hands of such people. Raith would not be the only one amongst them sent to the executioner’s block. That didn’t mean that the situation wasn’t infuriating.
Niing patted his arm. “Jorah, this all rests on your shoulders. That is why I wanted you here. You must solve the problem for us by winning her hand in marriage. Once the Guardians are down, the Magical will recover and they will handle Artemis and the Intelligentsia. At the same time, you avenge Lila by killing her equally vile brother. You rid the world of that scourge, too. This is the only way. Trust me, I have devoted many, many months of sleepless nights to pondering this problem.”
It seemed Niing had the same idea as Hedrus. How could Jorah argue when that was his quest here? Still, not to tell Princess Aurora of the danger she faced taxed his honor in ways that made his skin crawl.
He strode across to the portcullis to think on possible solutions.
Two other men had taken their places next to Princess Aurora on the stand. That left two more parings, his and the two fighters battling with each other across the sand. He didn’t have much more time for this argument with Niing. And he knew Niing well; he would have covered every avenue before approaching Jorah.
With time against him, Jorah would not find an answer to counter Niing. “Fine. I will do it your way for now. But trust me, I will be looking for every opportunity to open the girl’s eyes to who and what she is. She deserves that much, given that I will never be the husband she probably wants.”
A sage headshake from Niing. “Beware, my friend, Aurora has a way of turning things on their head. You might soon be discovering who and what you are. I hope you like what you see.”
Jorah snorted his derision. He pulled his sword from its scabbard and started for the portcullis. He stopped before entering the arena. “I suspect that the parasite’s Untalented brother was snooping up at the giant. It will not help if he learns about that escape.”
Niing’s bushy eyebrows danced. “Again, my hands are tied. If I say anything, people will question how I know about the giant. If the giant is fixed, we lose our advantage, too.”
Again, the annoying man was right. “Just keep watch on him. If he wasn’t here tonight, then he and the incubus are clearly plotting some nonsense. We can’t be taken by surprise.”
“I will set Peckle on the task of monitoring the pair. Even if Raith senses our friend’s power, he won’t be threatened by it because he doesn’t know that we can communicate with the cat.”
“Good.” Jorah sighed his distaste. “Now, I have a man to kill.” He stepped through the portcullis into the enormous, open-air space, encircled with the savages crowding stone benches to watch this spectacle.
