“Yes, Nico.”
So the universe had finally turned against him completely. So long an ally, fate had at last declared itself an enemy.
Nico hoped the other would initiate the action, but a few seconds of waiting was enough. So he lunged forward to give Toby’s shield a good test, and both naturally flowed into their tactics.
With great satisfaction, he noted that Toby opened with Hansa’s Gambit. This was the first routine Nico had taught his young pupil, just as it was the first Renard had shown him.
Of course, the sequence was useless against Nico. He not only had taught his opponent but was more proficient with its strides and strokes. He knew Toby’s motions as well as the prince did himself, and the duel became something closer to a choreographed dance than a disordered combat.
Nico fought not to kill but to delay, to gain time to think, for there was an endless supply of threads to unravel, a blur of action and consequence starting far in the past and stretching into the future.
“You defeated Zenza?” he asked, ignoring one feint before parrying the following slash. He stepped back, less to recover than to give Toby time to respond.
“He called you a murderer. I thought…” Toby blocked a halfhearted thrust with his shield. “Thought it my duty to challenge him.”
“That was foolish. You weren’t ready.”
To punctuate the point, Nico launched a series of attacks from Grimaldi’s Second Measure, driving Toby step after step until the point of fruition. Then Nico backed off just as fast, focusing on his breathing.
“You are much improved, though.”
“All I’ve done since you left is practice.”
That explained much. The young price’s reflexes were quicker, his movements more polished, his muscles more defined. His instincts were improved, as well, for he had detected Nico’s comfort with Hansa’s Gambit and began to improvise more.
All of that added up to a fine swordsman, but not anywhere near the level of a Third. In little immediate danger, Nico found the opportunity to think.
He now recognized Lord Jacinto’s motives for arranging this duel. It was a wonderful opportunity to eliminate his only rival for the throne. In part due to wishful thinking, in part ignorance, Nico had played right into the old schemer’s hands.
Koblenzar should have informed Nico of the new thane, of course. Perhaps he had known, perhaps not. Either way, the blind spot created by the general’s disdain for the Order had finally proven decisive.
“Keep your blade up,” Nico said, castigating his former pupil as the prince clumsily allowed a thrust to get through his defense. Had Nico chosen to press the advantage, he could have ended the fight quickly with a cut to the unarmored neck.
Toby responded with a vigorous attack of his own, a high slash that Nico blocked with the shield, followed by a sudden thrust toward the front leg. Nico defended with his own blade, then rammed his shield against the younger man’s torso, knocking him off-balance. A well-guided swipe to the thigh could have weakened or even crippled the prince, but Nico decided not to risk an attack of his own just yet.
Each took a step back, then they circled in the blazing sun, thousands of eyes watching their every move.
Toby had worn his armor, with the inevitable result. He was tired, and the more tired he became, the more he stopped improvising and fell back on rehearsed sequences. The ability to learn an opponent’s habits and take advantage of them was one key distinction between the great swordsmen and the mediocre masses.
Nico was learning one of Toby’s now. Every time he forced the prince’s shield up then threatened to attack the exposed leg, the response was always the same—a downward swipe of the shield followed by a chestward thrust. Yurian’s Courtship, so named because the heart was the intended target.
Against a fast, prepared opponent like Nico, the Courtship was ineffectual—little more than a desperate attempt to regain distance. The move left Toby’s swordarm exposed for half a second, however. More than enough time to disarm or disable.
For one long moment, Nico had in mind to do exactly that. Perhaps he could leave Toby alive, after all. And perhaps Leti might not hate him as much.
But Toby surely would. No, Nico could not speak of honor while taking another man’s away. And the war between the kingdoms had to take priority. They had to unite, as agreed, for the future of the empire.
The time to end the duel had come. There remained questions aplenty, but no time to answer them. This would be far, far easier the less Nico thought.
He lunged forward, sweeping at Toby’s front leg and forcing a jump backward. Unlike his previous attacks, Nico followed one aggressive move with another. He feinted middle then slashed high, then spun and reversed the sequence, feinting high before slashing middle. Toby blocked, parried, and retreated, using his last reserves in a frantic defense.
Nico broke that defense down with a few repeated blows to the edge of that shield, hammering it back, then left, then right. Toby was down to pure instinct, his mind slow to process what was happening.
By contrast, Nico’s mind was all too focused, more aware than he wished to be. He could see Toby’s muscles tensed in hope of a last-gasp counterattack.
This is a shame. There are things I would have liked to have done.
One more step forward, one more swing of the sword, and Toby’s shield was forced upward at last. Then Nicolas feinted toward the nearest leg, turned his own shield away, and accepted his fate.
Not unlike the battle from the previous autumn, one she had witnessed from this same tower, Leti could not bring herself to watch the duel. A few passes between the two combatants were all she could bear before closing her eyes. And so the noise of the crowd told her the outcome.
That noise—an unambivalent, exuberant cheer—made her want to scream. This waking nightmare would soon end, she knew, but the sound of this cheer would haunt her dreams for the rest of her life.
But she could display no conflict of emotions, no complexity of thought. She must behave as a proper noblewoman, for there was much at stake.
Improbably, her brother survived, and that was cause enough for relief. More importantly to those who stood with her, the kingdom could rejoice in a second victory in as many years.
Aware that eyes were watching her now, as they were always watching her, Leti reopened her own.
Sight only reinforced the moment’s nightmare quality. She stared at the people who filled the tower, watched them sway back and forth, wondered if perhaps she was dreaming after all.
Strangers all, but not strangers. Faces she recognized, belonging to courtiers Leti thought she had known but did no longer. If they had ever been friends, they were now friends with knives.
One stood out among them all. Lord Jacinto, her father’s longest-serving and most trusted adviser. The broad smile on his amiable, white-bearded face exemplified the joy of a city.
Leti despised him. Her brother merely feared him, and with good reason. But she felt hatred of a kind she had never known before.
As their father’s health diminished, Jacinto’s power had grown in equal proportion. Neither of Anton’s children had dared oppose the man openly, for he had a lifetime of connections with which to spin his webs of intrigue. All they had was the blood of the king.
They were safe while their father lived, but possibly not beyond. Toby might easily have survived this duel, only to fall to an assassin’s dagger. Then she would be next.
Not that she cared anymore. She was utterly numb, body and mind.
Leti heard her name, but all sound receded into the distance. If a question had been posed, she had no idea what it was. So she smiled pleasantly, hoping that might suffice for an answer.
The faces were still swaying, as were the battlements themselves.
She panicked as she felt strong hands upon her shoulders. She had lost sight of the lord, and wondered whether that dagger was coming already.
Though she had not meant to do so, sh
e found herself looking up at the concerned face of a guardsman. She knew him, of course, but what was his name?
Rafa, the son of a sutler. He was only a year older than she, and had been sweet on her in their youths. She remembered how proud he had been to be accepted into the castle guard, and in that moment she had thought him handsome.
“I’m sorry, Rafa. I didn’t hear you.” Leti realized he was holding her firmly, and only his grip had stopped her from falling.
“I said are you all right?” He let her go as she straightened herself. “I thought you were fainting.”
“The heat,” she said. “And the excitement.”
“Little Letitia, you should return to your suite.” Lord Jacinto looked down on her, still smiling but very much in control.
Leti shook her head. “I must see Tobias. He will want me.”
She took a step, but Jacinto took her by the arm. His grip was firm, like the guard’s had been, but far less benign. She knew the others were watching now, though no one intervened.
Leti tried to pull her arm back, but the old man was stronger than he looked.
Absolutely nothing was going to stop her this morn. “My brother—your future king—needs me. You would be well served to remove your hand.”
He did not. “You are not well, My Princess. This heat is not good for a young lady. But do not fear. Your brother is well. The traitor is dead.”
She slapped him.
He released her arm then, moving that hand away to cover the mark she had made.
Calmly, Leti raised her voice for others to hear. “This heat is not good for a man of your age, Lord Jacinto. That is why you forget your place, and why you should rest.
“Now, I am going to see my brother. Guardsman Rafa will escort me.”
She turned to the young man, holding his eyes with her own. “Rafa, if he stops me again, you will stop him. Is that clear?”
“Aye…yes, My Princess.”
“Come on. I want to hurry.”
Casting Jacinto aside for the moment, a single thought now dominated her mind. I must see him, painful though it will be. I must see him.
They rode at a gallop, but others had gotten there first. She saw a small crowd forming, obscuring the view of both combatants.
Then she saw her brother, looking as distressed as a winner could. He was looking for someone, and she knew it was her. She dismounted and ran to him.
“Leti, he pulled his shield out of the way. I didn’t mean—” Then he lost the words.
She hugged her brother, as much for herself as for him. His tall body bent down to hers, and she felt his wet face on her shoulder.
She closed her eyes, wishing she could weep, too. But too many people were watching. A struggle was brewing, Tobias would never again be as revered as today, and she herself had embarrassed the enemy. Mourning would have to come later.
“Toby, you cannot—”
She reopened her eyes and stopped talking, for there was the body. Her own went cold in the sweltering heat, and the numbness returned to her mind. She wished it might spread, for her heart began squeezing so hard it was painful.
Leti stared, wanting to hate him, for this pain was his fault.
He made a promise to her, and she had trusted him. Then he made war on her people, and still she believed in him. Even when she found out about the duel—when Toby had come to her, in tears then as now, torn between fear of death, his duty to Asturia, and his bond with the man he most admired in the world—she had assured her brother that all would be well. Even after Toby reminded her of a Swordthane’s code, she had not believed Nico really meant to fight.
Not until the blades were drawn that morn had she been willing to see her own naïveté. That was the moment the world stopped making sense.
“He didn’t know.” Toby had gotten control of his tears, though his eyes remained misty.
“Know what?”
“About Zenza.”
Suddenly it all made sense again, though the pain did not lessen.
She was thankful, then, for this brief moment, when she could look one last time upon Nico’s face with unclouded love.
Leti watched as an Akenberg soldier—the quiet one, whose name eluded her memory—lifted his dead king from the ground and carried him back toward their camp.
11
Bloodspire
“Unless you walk in their boots, no one can know another’s mind, Jak.”
“I knew enough to understand my actions. I just didn’t want to.”
“Nonsense. You speak with the certainty that comes after the event. No one—not even you—has that much foresight—” The sentence gave way to a strained grunt as he heaved himself over a boulder.
Jak and Kluber picked their way along the rocky trail, often needing to climb as much as walk. If the old man had been correct about this being a pilgrimage site, it had clearly long since fallen into disuse, for only the most determined of visitors would have made it this far.
From above, his friend extended a hand and pulled Jak onto a particularly high perch. From there, they could see the top of the depression where their destination was likely to be.
Despite the precariousness of their narrow foundation, Kluber stood up straight and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the blazing sun. Typical for the Asturian desert, not a single hint of cloud marred the perfectly blue sky.
“If there is a spire there, it must not be very tall.” He sounded a bit skeptical that the shrine existed at all.
Jak did not worry about that. The shrine was close. He could feel its proximity from the cruel throbbing in his hand and the burning presence of the stone in his pocket.
He both was and was not in a hurry to get there.
The effort and the heat of midafternoon had covered his skin and clothing with a heavy coat of uncomfortable sweat. He wiped his brow on a forearm, only to make matters worse.
The conversation was not any more pleasant.
He wished Kluber would just come out and say it. Somehow, Jak thought it might make him feel better to hear the truth from someone else.
But since his friend would not, Jak did so himself. “There’s no reason to hide it. It’s my fault.”
For perhaps the hundredth time, he felt the tears welling up inside. But he pushed them back, for there was a task ahead that required no distractions.
Kluber growled indignantly as he led the way down the winding trail into the slot canyon, the trail barely wide enough for one at a time. The long curve of the side they descended blocked sight of much of the bottom, but one quick glance downward revealed that it was surprisingly far below.
“Bah. If you want to place fault, blame the demons that destroyed our home. Or Kevik, whose actions brought this doom on everyone. You did what you had to do, and she did what she had to do. Her life was her own to live or give, and we can only honor her sacrifice. There is nothing more to... Great Theus, Jak, would you look at that.”
The remainder of the canyon opened to their inspection, and though high walls shrouded much of the floor below in shadow, the most prominent feature could not be missed. There, in the midst of miles and miles of pale orange limestone, a giant spire of the blackest rock jutted up from the distant floor.
They continued toward it in silence, their thoughts now consumed by the event that would transpire. Soon Jak’s sight could penetrate farther into the shadow, and he saw the ruined foundation of the ancient shrine, then the large brackish pool of green water and brown algae cut with imperfect lines into the hard ground. How the water even existed here was as great a mystery as any other, but one that Jak would have to ponder another time.
The sun was setting by the time they reached the bottom.
As they stepped from trail to canyon floor, Jak studied the spire from up close. In form, it bore a striking resemblance to the monolith of the Temple of Versatz Tempus, deep below in the ruins of Ra’Cheka. This rock was basalt, however, though no such rock could exist naturally in this p
lace. And near its base sat a tiny crude square altar of the same unnatural substance.
The whole thing radiated a chill that still failed to provide any comfortable relief from the heat.
Kluber looked from companion to pillar. “Last chance,” he said. Without waiting for a reply, he dropped the heavy bundle of materials he had been carrying.
Following the other’s lead, Jak unslung the shovel that was strapped to his back. He aimed a few thrusts into the dense earth. “Here… Here… Here.”
Other than a few words of cooperation, they worked without speaking. That suited Jak fine, for the task demanded all their focus. Nevertheless, after thirty minutes of labor that took them from twilight to darkness, both men had to stop and rest. And with rest came renewed conversation.
“Can’t you use your magick to speed this up?” Kluber asked, with a return to his old testiness.
“Nay. I don’t want to give them any warning.” He did not bother to say who they were. Kluber understood his meaning well enough.
Jak started a small fire while Kluber dug out a portion of rations. Neither was hungry, but they knew the effort ahead of them would tax their strength.
They consumed their modest meal, let the fire die, and continued in the starlight.
Quietly, for the most part. Jak sneaked a few sidelong glances at his friend, admiring the determination with which the young man worked. How different he was from the arrogant magistrate’s son of long ago.
Jak had punched him in the gut once, when the older boy’s fear and panic was threatening to spread to Kleo and beyond. And ever since that moment, Kluber had followed Jak with greater loyalty than he could have asked for, or wanted. All the way to this moment.
In the dim light, the lean figure was little more than a silhouette. Now that figure stood up and looked down at its handiwork. “All right. The stakes are in deep enough, I think. Show me again how to place the fulcrum.”
Jak did, then set about covering the ropes and netting with loose dirt. The pulley and anchor had been his greatest concern, but the ruined shrine provided both the remnants of a frame over which to toss the rope and plenty of heavy blocks suitable enough for his purpose, once he and Kluber could maneuver them into place.
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