"She did well," he commented, nodding towards Constance as she exited the battle floor. "Considering."
"Considering she spent more time studying her reflection in her shield than practising with it?" Rhyss said, raising one eyebrow. "I'm sure you're right."
"I wish we could just skip over this part," Gabriella moaned. "I thought I'd be excited about it, but now I feel like I'm going to be sick."
Darrick nudged her gently. "You'll do fine, Bree. There's nothing to worry about."
"Nothing except the fact that Goethe's father is in the castle dungeon for murder," Rhyss nodded. "And that he weighs twice as much as you and practises throwing battle-axes for fun."
"That's very encouraging," Gabriella said, sinking low in her armour. "Thanks, Rhyss."
"I cannot help being truthful," Rhyss replied brightly. "I already told you: if I were in your boots, I'd sneak out through the servants' entrance and hang my armour over the castle hearth once and for all."
Gabriella sighed harshly as the next duel began on the floor below. "Darrick, you've fought Goethe before. What should I do? Does he have any weaknesses?"
Darrick shrugged and sheathed his sword. "He's big."
Gabriella rolled her eyes. "I know that much," she muttered. "I have eyes."
"Which means he's slow," Darrick added, glancing aside at her. "It takes a lot of energy to get all that muscle moving around. Watch his shoulders. That's where everything begins. You're small, Bree, so you're quick. He'll squash you if he gets a chance, but you can make sure that chance never comes if you're wary."
Gabriella met his eyes and saw that he was serious. She glanced away, shaking her head. "I don't know…"
Darrick leant closer to her, and she looked back at him. This time, the look in his eyes caught her, and she maintained his gaze.
"You can do this," he said quietly. "If you want to."
She drew a deep breath and let it out shakily. She nodded. "I do want to."
He smiled at her thoughtfully. "I believe you do."
She felt heartened by his confidence, but in some ways, that made it worse. What if she let him down? "I wish I had drawn your name instead."
"It's a dueling practical," Rhyss declared with a roll of her eyes. "I've seen the way you two wrangle. A lot less blade, a lot more lips. Although it might be instructive for some of the people around here."
Soon enough, Gabriella's name was called from the floor. She stood up so quickly that a wave of dizziness rolled over her. Darrick grabbed her hand, supporting her, and she recovered quickly.
"Good luck, Princess," he said, smiling faintly.
Goethe was already on the floor as Gabriella made her way down the worn stone steps. The son of a disgraced army commander, Goethe had hair so short that it was barely a discolouration on his sweaty scalp. His eyes were cold and grey as he surveyed her, fingering his weapon. Gabriella's heart sunk as she saw the battle-axe in his hand. Its haft was easily as tall as she was. The iron head bore a hammer on one side and a curved blade on the other. It looked as if it could hack clean through Gabriella's gleaming gold and steel armour. She drew her own sword as she crossed the floor to meet him. The metallic ring of the blade leaving its scabbard sounded pathetically small on the battle floor.
There was no preamble from Barth this time. He examined both weapons briefly, nodded to himself, and returned to his bench.
"Begin!" he commanded.
Goethe tucked his chin and crouched slightly, flexing his knuckles on the haft of his axe. Gabriella raised her shield and sword, crossing them before her as she had been taught.
Goethe struck first, lunging forwards with the haft of his axe, aiming for Gabriella's exposed left side. She feinted right and angled her shield to deflect the blow. The clank of wood on metal rang out over the theatre. The gathered students cheered and booed variously.
"Your father had my father tortured," Goethe said in a hoarse whisper. His face was completely impassive, almost bored.
"My father has good reason for whatever he does," Gabriella replied under her breath. "Your father is protecting villains worse than himself." She was already panting heavily, more out of nervousness than effort. She darted forwards and raised her shield, meaning to deflect Goethe's axe and strike his thigh with the flat of her sword. The blow that fell upon her shield felt more like a millstone however, and her sword swung short, striking the floor and spitting sparks.
"Point and fault," Barth called.
"Your whole family will pay the price when Merodach comes to power," Goethe growled.
Gabriella was so shocked that she nearly lowered her sword. "Your father never admitted…!"
Goethe spun to strike, drawing his axe around in a sweeping arc, hammer first. Gabriella saw it coming and reacted instinctively, dropping to a crouch and angling her shield over her. The blunt nose of the axe rang off her shield and nearly drove her to the floor. Angrily, she jabbed with her sword, but Goethe parried her blow easily with the haft of his axe.
"Point and fault," Barth barked again.
Gabriella's face felt hot with mingled embarrassment and rage. She leapt to her feet and angled her sword before her.
"Once my father hears that you've mentioned that name…"
"I will deny it, and you will look a fool," Goethe rasped, his eyes boring into hers as he circled. "After all, Merodach is just a bogeyman for frightening children, is he not?"
Gabriella realised that no one else could hear her opponent's whispered words over the sound of their scuffling feet and the occasional cheers and jeers of the observers. She tried to attack again, but Goethe sidestepped and pummeled her with his shield.
"Soon, all of Camelot will know the truth about Merodach and his army," the bigger boy breathed. He grinned, showing filthy, yellow teeth. "You and your father will learn it first."
Gabriella had heard enough. She narrowed her eyes over her shield and spun around. Goethe saw what she was doing and leant to meet her sword as it came around, but Gabriella's shield came up first, catching the boy beneath the arm and slamming into his ribcage. Deftly, she ducked under her shield and came up behind Goethe. Her sword finished its long arc against the middle of his back, thumping smartly on his leather armour. A surprised cheer arose from the gathered students.
"Two points," Barth called with an appreciative nod.
Goethe barely paused. His elbow shot out behind him, knocking Gabriella's sword away. A moment later, he pivoted to meet her, raising the haft of his axe in a blur. Gabriella caught it against her wrist gauntlet, but the force pushed her backwards. Goethe pivoted again, reversing the axe's direction and bringing the blunt end down over her shield, aiming for her helmet. Gabriella ducked to the side and brought her sword down on the lowering axe, driving it to the floor. The heavy axe head clanged to the stone. An instant later, Gabriella's shield rammed upwards into Goethe's chest. The bigger boy grunted with rage and lashed out, using all of his weight. Gabriella stumbled but transformed the momentum into a backwards roll. Deftly, she kicked up with both feet, connected with Goethe's midsection just below his breastplate, and flipped him over her. He crashed to the floor behind her, and his axe clattered away.
Gabriella was back on her feet in seconds. She planted a foot on Goethe's shield, pinning it to the floor with his arm beneath it, and leveled her sword at his heart. Panting and triumphant, she turned to glance back at the Battle Master.
Barth's fingers were steepled beneath his chin, his eyebrows raised patiently. What was he waiting for?
Suddenly, Gabriella was thrown aside. Amazingly, Goethe had lifted his shield despite the weight she exerted on it and used it to fling her to the ground. He scrambled upright, threw himself upon her, and unsheathed a dagger from his wrist gauntlet. In an instant, it was pressed firmly under the shelf of her jaw. She felt the cold metal against her skin. Goethe panted down at her, grinning and sweating, his face only inches from hers. He was going to kill her, right there in the centre of the dueling theatre
floor. Gabriella saw it in his eyes.
And then, amazingly, he was gone, pulled away so swiftly that the dagger fell from his hand. Gabriella blinked, gasped, and scrambled backwards, dropping her sword and shield, her armour scraping and clattering on the stone floor.
"Did you not hear the Battle Master?" a voice seethed furiously. "NO daggers! NO blood! I will KILL you if you touch her again."
A heavy figure ran past Gabriella. She looked up and saw Barth struggling to get between Goethe and another boy—Darrick of course. Darrick's fists were buried in the fabric of Goethe's tunic, pulling the bigger boy to his feet. Treynor leapt over the low wall, sword drawn, running to join the fracas on the battle floor.
"Let him go!" Barth commanded, shoving Darrick back. "I am the master here! Do as I say!"
Darrick didn't obey at first. He stared balefully into Goethe's eyes. Finally, with a fierce shove, he released his grip on the boy's tunic. Goethe straightened slowly and brushed himself off, his face set with stony triumph despite Barth’s obvious fury. Treynor eyed the three severely, his sword still raised.
"Fault!" Barth called furiously at Darrick, pushing him backwards with one meaty hand. He turned to Goethe. "And double fault! You know daggers are not permitted in the theatre!"
Goethe shrugged lazily and peered aside towards Gabriella. She had gotten herself to her feet again, but she was shaking. She could still feel the place on her throat where the blade had pressed. She touched it and shuddered.
"I forgot I had the dagger," Goethe said dully, not taking his eyes from hers. He winked, and a beastly smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
"You forgot," Barth scoffed. "Get out of my theatre. But leave the damn dagger."
Darrick stood at the entrance to the dueling floor. He glared at Goethe. Then, as the bigger boy handed his dagger to Treynor and turned to gather his things, Darrick shifted his gaze to Gabriella. He nodded slowly once. Gabriella understood. Goethe had only resorted to the dagger because she had beaten him. It may be that no one else would see it that way, but it was the truth.
No matter what the final score revealed, she had won.
The candle ceremony always took place at sunset. The school cathedral was packed to overflowing, stuffy with the heat of jostling bodies, most wearing their finest and least comfortable clothing. The air was filled with murmuring voices, candle smoke, and wafting threads of incense. Gabriella watched the incense as it streamed lazily from the altar urns, combining and making silent magical shapes in the air. Professor Toph, the Magic Master, tended the urns, teasing the ribbons of smoke with his wand and occasionally sprinkling coloured powders onto the flames, which spurted and flared.
The gathering of students stood on the dais, forming a semicircle around the altar. In their black robes and hoods, it was hard to tell the girls from the boys. Indeed, the throng of students seemed to blend into a seamless, black snake dotted with nervous faces.
"What is that one?" Constance whispered, nudging Rhyss and nodding out over the gathered families.
"Battle of the Wragnaroth," Rhyss replied quietly. "There's King Arthur in the lead, see? His horse is that swirly bit floating in the vault of the apse."
"I don't see it," Darrick breathed, shaking his head.
"That's because you don't have any imagination, dearheart," Rhyss sang under her breath.
Gabriella let her gaze fall from the swirling smoky shapes to the hundreds of people jostling into place on the dim floor below. She saw Darrick's family near the back. His father's prodigious, black beard had been combed and oiled so that it glistened in the torch light. Next to him, Darrick's mother smiled, red-cheeked, and occasionally glanced around in an effort to keep track of Darrick's two younger brothers. Gabriella saw their tousled heads bobbing and darting through the crowd, oblivious of the solemn nature of the evening's ceremony.
She lowered her eyes further to the front row of the cathedral. Most of the attendees were standing of course, packed onto the open cathedral floor, but two rows of stone chairs lined the front of the space immediately before the altar. Here, the royal court reclined in their formal attire. Gabriella saw Percival, Destra's father, and the rest of the men in her father's council. In the centre front, two heavy, wooden thrones dominated the floor, much higher and more ornate than the stone seats on either side. Gabriella's father, King Xavier, sat in the throne on the right. The other throne was empty save for a small alabaster vase, carefully sealed with a crystal stopper.
Gabriella felt a twinge of sadness looking at her mother's ashes, but it was old sadness now. It had been many years since the attack and the midnight flight, many years since those frightening weeks when Gabriella had not known if her parents were living or dead or even if she would ever return to them. Now it was all just dusty memories: a small, snowbound cottage, a red-hooded cloak, long nights of lonely fear. Now Gabriella's mother was barely a wistful dream, a whiff of perfume, an echo of a singing voice. Gabriella missed her, but she did so with her buried child's heart. The young woman that had grown around that heart looked on with only a vague sadness, a pang at the lack of something that she could never know.
Rhyss leant close to Gabriella's ear. "I hope this does not bore you overmuch," she whispered. "It may be that you and Darrick will be back here again soon, only then you'll be wearing white instead of black."
Gabriella blushed and poked Rhyss with her elbow. "You are incorrigible!" she rasped. “You know that tradition insists I marry royalty. Darrick is as royal as a scullery mop.”
"Tradition be damned,” Rhyss suggested with a small shrug. “All the eligible foreign princes are in their sixth decades. You father wouldn’t do that to you. Besides,” she smirked, “I'm graduating at the top of my class in Divination, you know. I'm never wrong."
Gabriella shook her head, still feeling the heat burning from her cheeks. She glanced furtively aside. Darrick hadn't heard, or if he had, he wasn't letting on.
There was a rustling of anticipation in the crowd below. Gabriella looked and saw the school chancellor moving down the centre aisle, parting the crowd. The cathedral fell silent so that the only sound was the echoing tap of the Chancellor's staff on the floor. His steely hair was parted neatly, framing a stony face and accenting the stiff grandeur of his formal gowns. When he reached the altar, he stopped and allowed his gaze to move over the students, resting for a moment on each face. His rugged features were stern but somehow affectionate. His pale blue eyes met Gabriella's for a moment, paused, and then moved onwards. Finally, he turned back to the gathered families.
"This night," he said, his clear voice ringing in the stillness, "your children—these faces you see before you—are no more. They entered this cathedral as your charges, but they leave as men and women, responsible only to themselves and their king. Here, you may say farewell to your babies and meet the new faces of your fellow citizens. From this night forwards, they, like you, are become the Kingdom of Camelot. Tonight our duty to them ends. Tonight their duty to God, the King, and themselves… begins."
A rumble arose from the crowd. Heads bowed and nodded. Handkerchiefs were dabbed at eyes. In the front rows, the lords and ladies beamed with stern goodwill. Gabriella's father met her eyes, and he smiled faintly, proudly.
"And now," the Chancellor said, turning back to the line of students, "you may accept your flame. You have been preparing for this event since your first day in these halls. You know what to do. Come forwards as I call your name."
Then, solemnly and methodically, the Chancellor began to recite the names of Gabriella's fellow students. One by one, the graduates broke away from the line and approached the altar. There, the Magic Master, Professor Toph, met them, smiling in his bedraggled peaked hat and flowing burgundy robes. For each student, he lit a stick of incense from the urn and handed it over to them. Flame in hand, each student turned and climbed the dais, passing by their fellows, heading into the glow of the transept candle gallery.
Darrick went first. Gabriel
la watched him with a nearly absurd sense of pride. He bowed his head to Professor Toph and took his flame solemnly. In the rear of the cathedral, a pair of young voices hooted triumphantly, and a ripple of laughter moved over the crowd. Gabriella saw Darrick's mother scolding her sons in hushed tones, trying to hide the grin of happiness on her own face. A minute later, Constance was called forwards, and then Rhyss.
Finally, Gabriella heard her own name. The Chancellor peered at her sternly over his spectacles as she approached the altar.
"Welcome and congratulations, Your Highness," Professor Toph said softly, handing her her stick of burning incense. Gabriella smiled up at him, pleased and slightly giddy, and then glanced aside. Her father sat less than ten feet away. His crown glinted as he nodded towards her, his face beaming with pride. Gabriella smiled back at him. She turned, climbed the stairs to the dais, and passed the remaining students.
The glow of the candle gallery was like a constellation, twinkling and flickering with hundreds of yellow flames. Small, white candles were collected in rows and levels, embraced in complicated iron sconces all along the angled transept walls. Darrick stood in front of his family alcove, his face solemn, the incense stick in his hand extinguished but still trailing a thread of smoke. His hood had been pushed back, revealing his unruly dark hair. Even when he was trying to look sombre, Gabriella noticed, a smile seemed to play on the corners of his mouth. His eyes met hers, and the hidden smile deepened a little.
Rhyss stood further on, next to Constance, her second cousin. Gabriella passed them and approached the very centre of the transept. The royal candle alcove stood above the others, immediately below the enormous stained-glass window. Gabriella stopped there and looked at the rows of candles. Most were lit, but a few were dark, their wicks blackened and cold. In the very front row, one candle was unlit but clean, its wick white and straight. This was her candle. She gazed at it for a long moment, wondering about it, wondering what the candle of her life held for her.
Ruins of Camelot Page 3
