by Anna Steffl
Lerouge joined him. After taking Assaea from his page, the prince thrust it into the air three times. The crowd cheered even more wildly. He lowered the blade and approached Degarius. “Will you use it? I want no unfair advantage.”
Did the man know what he volunteered? With this sword, Degarius had killed more men than he could count. And perhaps a draeden. It was at home in his hand the way no other blade ever would be. Lerouge was as good as giving him the match. Degarius grasped Assaea. It felt so good. His arm was complete again. Never again would he part with it. Never. He’d become a swordsman to earn the blade. As a swordsman, he’d never lose it.
Lerouge took his own blade from a page. A Te-a Raha. Not Artell, Lukis’s sword.
“Acknowledge your opponent,” the referee ordered.
They touched knuckles.
The look on Lerouge’s face was neither taunting nor smug. All of the cockiness was gone. “Sarapostan,” he said privately, “we share no love and whatever happens on this field won’t change that. But some day soon, we must stand as brothers. I swear that if you win, I won’t hold it against you or Sarapost. I trust you’ll extend me the same honor.”
What a bastard Lerouge was to question his honor. Of course he was professional, would fight with Lerouge just as he did with any other comrade in arms against a foe. “Without a doubt,” Degarius replied with a civil nod before stooping so his page could buckle on his helmet.
A thunder of feet stamping the wooden bleachers began.
The page strapped the shield on Degarius’s arm.
The referee bawled, “Engage your opponent.”
They began by taking slow, deliberate sideways steps. Degarius knew a good swordsman like Lerouge couldn’t be tempted into making a rash, lunging move that opened one to a fall.
Lerouge edged in and delivered the first swing, a short, powerful chop that Degarius deflected with a resounding clang. A half-dozen more of these hammering blows followed. Damned, Lerouge was a windmill. Well, Degarius could return it in kind. The moment Lerouge let his rhythm slow, Degarius got his sword up and delivered a punishing swing, then another and another until Lerouge backed away to disengage.
The prince thrust his shield. “Show me what else you have.”
Degarius cocked his sword at waist-height and released a potent upward slice. Lerouge met it, but Degarius came away poised for a wicked hit. On its downward path, his sword made uncontested contact with Lerouge’s armored side.
The crowd hushed as Lerouge lurched away to shake off the strike. It only took a second. In challenge, he beat his sword against his shield, filling the air with the din of metal against metal. A manic cheer erupted from the stands.
Degarius lunged at him and swung a beautiful, hard, heavy, expertly aimed downward cut. He’d put his whole body, whole concentration, into the one perfect movement.
Lerouge’s shield met it solidly.
They went back to pacing the circle, planning the next attack, appraising each other. Lerouge was excellent but beatable. Everyone was beatable. Everyone had a weakness. What was Lerouge’s? It would show sooner or later. Sooner would be better. The bastard had thick, strong arms.
For half an hour, they alternated exchanging blows and stepping away for a breath. It was an endurance contest. Fine. Degarius had commanded a regiment. He knew how to persevere when fatigued on a long trek. Still, Lerouge made no mistake and betrayed no telltale flaw in either technique or strength. Degarius would have to wear him down.
They circled close, shield to shield, staring into each other’s eyes. If the crowd cheered or booed, Degarius made no note. It was as if his ears stopped working because his aching limbs sucked every bit of energy. A man couldn’t carry the weight of armor on his frame for forty-five minutes without feeling it. His left arm was going numb, and the shield was getting heavy. His feet burned, but one more good swing and it would be over. One more.
He stepped back, raised his sword, and sliced it around with all the strength and precision left in him. It hit square on Lerouge’s torso. It was a brilliant hit. The man should be down. He should drop. Why in hell’s name didn’t he fall?
Lerouge roared.
The Te-a Raha, came in an upward arc. Degarius brought his shield around. The blade hit, but he hadn’t tilted the shield forward enough to deflect it properly. It flashed toward his face. He turned his head. A sound a hundred times louder than the Saviors’ Gate bell echoed through his skull. He took a step, then another. The din in his head was unbearable.
Then everything was blue. Why did this all-encompassing blue lay so heavily upon him that it forced the breath from his body? Noise still rang in his head. Lerouge’s helmet came into the blue, and then was gone. Where? Behind him? He must turn to fight, be ready for the next blow.
Degarius tried to move his left arm. It was awkwardly pinned by the shield. With his right, he clawed for his sword, but couldn’t find it. Grass. Finally, it made sense. He was on his back. He’d fallen on the field. Someone was loosing the chinstrap, raising his head. The helmet was off. Someone was taking the shield from his arm. “Stop!” he roared. He had to fight. But the men grasped him under the arms and pulled him to his feet. He sloughed them off. He’d stand on his own, like a man, but his head spun and he wavered. They clutched his arms.
“It’s over Sarapostan,” one of the men said. “The prince took you down fair. Look.” They turned him around. Lerouge was parading a sword aloft for the crowd. Though Degarius couldn’t see it clearly, he knew it was Assaea.
The crowd’s roar cut through the ringing in his ears. Lerouge, in the heavy gait of a man encumbered by armor, strode back to the circle. He took Degarius’s limp hand, put the sword in it, closed Degarius’s fingers around the hilt, and said, “That was the hardest match I’ve ever fought, Sarapostan. You’ll need your sword.”
A deafening cheer cascaded upon Lerouge and covered Degarius in shame. The sword put in his hand was Assaea. He didn’t deserve it.
Degarius’s pages swarmed him. One took Assaea. Another knelt to remove his gloves. The third bore the silver platter. The letter. He ground his palm against his forehead and grimaced. She was watching in the stands. He squinted. Everything, even his forearm before his face, was a blur. A confusion of thoughts, more feelings than thoughts, pounded through his head along with the pain. He couldn’t bring himself to touch the letter, to give it to Lerouge.
“Sarapostan. Our agreement.”
Degarius’s fingers were numb as he picked up the letter and held it out.
Lerouge turned it over. His finger slipped under the packet’s seal.
Damn everything to hell.
The prince paused. “Sarapostan, soon we must fight a real battle for those we love.” He stepped in close and pressed the letter to Degarius’s breastplate. “Next time, don’t lose.”
Degarius’s chest sunk beneath the breastplate and letter. Though the mere thought of saying the words to Lerouge made his throat catch, he had to acknowledge that act of mercy. He held the letter in place as the prince removed his hand. “Thank you.”
DUTY FULFILLED
That evening, Lady Martise’s
Arvana stood with her arms reluctantly out as the dressmaker finished tying the long sash around her waist. Was the new dress and sash for the princess’s Coming of Age celebration proper enough? The sash, though gray, was cast through with silver threads. “It’s far too fine,” she murmured.
Musette, who’d been watching the fitting from the couch, said, “It’s what our lady ordered. Humility and dignity aren’t exclusive. You can’t go to the princess’s Coming of Age celebration in a patched dress.”
Arvana raised a brow. Musette was usually the dourest of Solacians.
“It is a shame such a sash will only be worn once,” Musette continued. “You’ll have no occasion in Solace.”
That was more like the Musette Arvana knew. “Hera, I wish you to have it when I’m gone. You must go to the princess’s wedding.”
“Any changes?” the dressmaker asked. “You’ve lost weight since I measured you.”
Before Arvana could answer, Musette said, “No, the sash hides it well enough.”
The front bell rang. Perhaps it was the shoemaker with Arvana’s slippers. With the princess’s ceremony only five days away, the tradesmen were keeping odd hours to fill their orders. Through the open door between the parlor and entry hall, Arvana saw the doorman creep backward in a deep bow. Such an act of submission could only mean the king or...
Chane.
Wearing a dark suit and short cape, he loomed in the parlor’s doorway. Arvana grimaced as she saw again in her mind the arc of the sword, the way Nan’s head snapped backward, how he crumpled to the ground. All over again, she went frozen with the terror she had felt when he didn’t rise for so many minutes.
Musette’s jumping up and curtsying brought Arvana back to the parlor. The dressmaker was scurrying to collect the dress box and her sewing basket. At Chane’s saying, “I’ve come for a word with my sister’s tutor,” both women backed from the room, Musette closing the door behind her.
Chane could only be here for one reason. Arvana went to the door and turned the key in the lock. “I saw the match.”
“I know.”
“Your skill and generosity—”
He paced before the couch. “My generosity? I have a confession. You’ll think it low of me, but I had to know, know without doubt that my will is stronger than his. At Summercrest, I was intentionally ill-mannered to him to make him dislike me. And, the packet that was part of his wager was a love letter. I wanted to know he was fighting for everything.”
Dear Maker, did Chane know the letter was from her? She tightened her arms across her chest. “A love letter?”
“I couldn’t take it. Defeat is enough of a humiliation. I just wanted to know—”
“That you won over a man fighting for everything.” And he wanted me to know, too, she thought. Chane was gloating, but he had a right.
He nodded. “Just so, though I never would’ve wagered such a thing.”
“Even when so much was at stake? What would you have done?”
“What would I have done?” Chane stopped pacing, thoughtfully turned, and set a piercing gaze on her. His eyes were full black and narrowed at the corners with remembered pain. “Do you think I’ve not learned the terrible price of not honoring what one loves?”
“Perhaps the letter meant little to him.”
Chane took to pacing again. “Then my triumph would be sorely diminished. But I was there when he received it and when he lost it. I assure you that wasn’t the case.”
Not the case. Oh, Maker. She flattened her palm against her heart, and then slid the heel of her hand down, down to where the relic lay. “The sword. You gave him back his sword. Why?”
“Once upon a time I would never have considered it. Assaea belonged to my ancestor and it would be a fine thing to have two swords to pass to my sons. But I have learned our own notions and wishes alone don’t unfold fate—a hard lesson for a prince. I have Artell. Most would say it’s the luckier of the two blades. Fate gave the Sarapostan Assaea, and he’s used it well. We’ll work together or each take a battlefront to defend against the draeden until I can find The Scyon.”
“You mean to be like Lukis and Paulus,” Arvana said quietly.
“He’s a brilliant swordsman and, I hear, even a better commander. In Orlandia, when I discovered what the sword was, I dispatched Keithan to find out about him. Petty politics keep him from higher command. I can’t have us going to war with him being constrained by another’s orders. If my wish has any sway in Sarapost, he’ll soon be a general. I don’t want him knowing he’s beholden to me, though.”
The generalship for Nan. She crossed the room and eased onto the couch.
“I feared he wouldn’t accept Assaea after losing. For that, I respect him. I never had to earn Artell. It was my birthright. Yet...I hope I proved my worthiness to carry it.” Chane stopped before her. His eyes searched the shadows flickering across the ceiling. I’ve spoken my piece. Everything else is yours to decide.”
She folded her hands in her lap. Dear Maker, there was no other choice. He’d done everything she could have asked, and more, to prove himself. Still, the past was unalterably there. He couldn’t change the past; he could only regret it. The depth of his regret had shown honestly in his eyes when he said he knew the pain of not honoring what he loved. It seemed he had spoken of more than his love for her. Not honoring his ancestors. She looked on him. He wasn’t broken-spirited or humble, but was newly respectful that not every decision was his to make. Most were. But not this one.
“Prince, I can’t give it to you.”
Chane, voice steady, without anger or resentment, said, “I understand.” He turned and headed to the door.
He was a changed man. His hand on the door, Arvana said. “Chane, wait.”
He paused, his back to her.
“You’ve passed my test. There is but one other. Snuff the candles.”
As he went from candle to candle, she removed her headband, veil, and ring. By the moonlight coming in through the tall parlor windows, he threaded back to her, and she made room for him beside her on the couch. “My testing you is a formality. I know you’ll be able to use it. But, the first time is difficult, and it helps to have someone close by to remind you of the living world. As you know, once you are in Hell, you can look back into the Blue Eye and see the draeden and The Scyon. Do nothing to betray who or where we are. Open your hand.” She looped the chain over her head and placed the relic in his palm. How strange, almost feminine, the large locket looked in his broad, fleshy hand.
He pressed the latch and gazed into the stone. His broad shoulders slumped.
Arvana leaped up, threw her arms around him, and leaned him back on the couch so he wouldn’t pitch upon the floor. His eyes rolled into his head, and drops of sweat glistened in his sideburns. Guttural sounds gurgled in his throat. His hand holding the Blue Eye fell to the couch.
He’d been in Hell long enough. “Look at me,” Arvana said.
He didn’t respond.
“Look.”
She planted one knee on the couch beside his thigh and leaned over him. Cradling his face in her hands, she pressed her thumbs to the bones at the edge of his eye sockets. His eyes rolled disconcertingly.
“Chane, look at me.”
His focused on her for a moment, and then his eyes drifted up under the lids. She held his jaw in her hands.
“Look at me.”
Finally, his gaze steadied. She took the Blue Eye and held it for him to see The Scyon and the fire draeden.
His eyes narrowed, searched the stone, and opened wide. His jaw worked.
He saw.
She snapped the cover shut.
Chane nodded forward as if he was falling asleep. Arvana let his head come to rest against her chest. “It’s over,” she said.
“No, it’s only just begun,” he whispered. “What I saw...”
“What?”
“No.” He raised his head from her chest. “You’ll never have to witness what these things have become. This I swear.”
Arvana drew the relic’s chain wide and placed it over his head. “Solace names you our champion. May the Maker’s mercy be upon you. May you be the new savior.”
After the front door closed on Chane, Arvana took a lantern and went to the stairs. Her hand trembled on the railing as she thought of Chane’s words, of what he and Nan would soon be facing. Even when she’d seen Nan’s feet, the danger always had seemed a distant possibility, as remote as the images in the Blue Eye. Now it was imminent and inevitable.
As she turned the landing, there was Musette, sitting on the top step. Her stern, questioning expression halted Arvana. Dear Maker, did Musette suspect her and Chane of something untoward? Arvana couldn’t bear a lecture now.
; “Is it over? Musette asked.
“I—”
“You’ve decided. You think him worthy?”
Arvana rushed up the stairs to pass her.
“All along I’ve known why you’re here,” said Musette.
Arvana stopped beside her. The lantern cast deep shadows down the sides of Musette’s drawn mouth.
“I knew as a precaution, if something should happen to you. Not because the superior didn’t trust you, though I confess, I’ve wondered at her wisdom. Now, though, I rejoice this wasn’t my choice. Forgive me.” She took the bottom of Arvana’s sash in her hands and pressed them together. “I’ve prayed that your decision would bring you and the world peace. What a trial being here has been to you. What a relief it will be to go home.”
Home. “Yes, a relief.”
Musette smiled. “Go. I’ll bring you some tea.”
Arvana shut herself in her room, put the lamp on the dressing table, and sat. For so long, she’d expected this moment to bring her joy, bring her closer to being a shacra. But how could she feel joy in the terrible battles that awaited the two men she’d grown to know so well? It had been selfish expectation that this duty would make her a shacra. She removed her headband and veil and then leaned forward to untie her new sash. She smoothed it flat across the table to fold it. There was no medal to unpin. She hadn’t worn it for weeks. She opened the drawer where she kept it hidden and took it out. At touching the medal’s mother-of-pearl moon, her body tingled with the remembered sensation of his arms pulling her ever closer. Oh, Ari. She must either return it to him soon or give it to the superior.
As she had for every evening since the dinner at Sarapost House, she pulled her dress up and fell to her bare knees. They burned from the hours spent kneeling long into the night. She bowed her head.
Dear Maker, have mercy. I am the weakest of your servants. I could ask you to blot his memory from me, but I couldn’t bear it. I’d rather live with my shame than lose the joy of these moons, though there is no hope of happiness in it. That must be my penance.
