First Blood

by K. Gorman

  With a few short, practiced movements, she stabbed five thick spears of ice into the yard in front of her, fissuring the ground.

  Bellfort’s mouth formed a small ‘o’ of surprise.

  They stared at each other across the space. Then, she returned her gaze to the prince.

  His expression had shuttered. Closed. He stared at her, face neutral, though his back was stiff and straight.

  Good.

  Touches of frost sparkled on the ground. The breeze picked up again, and the coolness of the approaching evening, and the ice, pressed into her skin, along with a touch of pain as Kodanh took his payment—the deity preferred blood above most things. She stepped her weight back, lifted her hand in parting, and made to turn again.

  “I’ll see you at Abiermar!” Bellfort called at her retreating back. She gave an extra wave in reply.

  As she strode away, her lanky steps eating up the courtyard, she heard his voice, not as quiet as he likely thought it was, follow her in a low tone.

  “Man, she is going to kick my ass.”

  Chapter 3

  Catrin tipped a small, exquisitely carved crystal goblet to her lips and sipped, a contented gaze wandering around the room as she enjoyed the stark, cutting taste of triskan flower wine over her tongue. For the first time since she’d arrived at Pemberlin a month ago, she felt happy. Relaxed.

  At ease.

  Part of it, she thought, was the dress. Every aspect of rnari ceremonial armor was designed to intimidate. Leather harness, dyed several shades darker than her skin, replaced her normal breastplate, strapping in pieces of actual armor to protect her hips, waist, back, and shoulders and sitting over a double-banded gambeson made of strips of thinly quilted cloth that fit snugly against her body and tapered down in chevron patterns, forming vertical panels of deep silver and forest green and a skirt that parted past her hip armor into three straight, similarly-dyed leather pieces that swayed when she walked.

  Her blades were a comfortable weight at her hips, and a decorative leather waistcloth hung snugly from her abdomen, deeply imprinted with stylized mercari and tooled with silver, gold, and copper highlights. A pair of leather greaves strapped in over a set of strong-soled boots and thinly-quilted leggings, running from the tips of her toes to just above her knees. A strip of curved metal ran straight down their middles, matching the lay of her shin bone and gleaming in the hall’s subdued light.

  To top it off, Geneve, one of Lady Stanek’s ladies-in-waiting, had surprised her an hour before the ceremony, just as she was buckling into her greaves. Together, they’d brushed out, organized, and gotten to work on her hair.

  She’d stridden into the great hall with a full set of warrior braids, looking like some fierce, exotic animal.

  Elrya. She felt like some fierce, exotic animal.

  And every time Lady Stanek’s gaze slipped her way—she looked striking in her bright yellow dress, like a daffodil among lavender—the woman hid a contented, mischievous smile behind her goblet.

  She liked having a warrior around. Especially a female warrior.

  Women weren’t as common among Teilanni military ranks, she’d heard. Which certainly explained Bellfort’s reaction to her earlier.

  And, truth be told, she liked it here.

  It was nice. Peaceful. Untouched by the negative aspects of either Teilanni or Raidt politics. A place that seemed removed from the world at large, happy in its stead. Far enough away that any upheaval and war wasn’t likely to reach much past its borders, but close enough, and welcoming enough, that even a Cizek prince was comfortable visiting with just one guard.

  Tonight, the great hall had been dressed up. Though nearly seven hundred years old, its stone walls were kept clean and scrubbed in the modern century, its old flagstone floor covered over with checkered marble tiles that gleamed under the pale glow of the many Bureni torches, a staple of festival nights. Rich, dark wood arched across the ceiling in struts and trusses, draped with strings of flowers and leafy garlands. In concession to Abier, the hall’s normal display of ceremonial and historical weapons had been removed, replaced instead with landscape works showcasing local valleys, hills, and farms. Bowls and wreaths of flowers, always trimmed by the tiny, star-shaped breaths of triskan—which also adorned the wine-serving trays—sat on small pedestals around the room.

  The front of the great hall was taken by three dark, arching gateways of fir and cedar branches. The two smaller ones sat behind the lord and lady’s throne chairs, while the largest curved over an ancient, decorative copper bowl that jangled at her woodcraft like a particularly bright but distant light.

  Some sort of artifact. Not fey, but perhaps goblin. Maybe even human.

  She was just contemplating a second trip around the feast tables—the roast hog was being slowly decimated, along with the platter of sticky dumplings next to one of the birds—when she spotted Severn Treng watching her from across the room.

  He looked dark and striking, the black dye of his double-breasted jacket Teilanni in tone, along with the full-length dark pants, but the bright red belt sash, like the flare of a poppy petal, was distinctly Sarasi.

  She lifted her goblet in his direction. He returned the greeting, a wry amusement lighting his eyes and turning the corners of his lips.

  Her eyes narrowed.

  He looked a little too amused.

  Not good.

  His eyebrows slid up, and his gaze moved pointedly to the side. She snapped her head around just in time to see one Bellfort Lange, royal guard to Prince Nales Andres Cizek, break through the nearest cluster of tipsy, gossiping nobles and stride her way with a broad, determined grin on his face.

  All former comfort turned to ice in her veins.

  She shot a piercing look back to Treng, who lifted his goblet higher—damn the man, he was having far too much fun at her expense—then Bellfort was grabbing her arm, heedless of her armor, weaponry, or gritting scowl, and directing her toward the wide-open doors leading to the outside veranda, the same one he and Prince Nales had been watching her from before.

  “Catrin, Catrin—are you sure I can’t call you ‘Cat’? I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  She sincerely doubted it. In a room full of upstanding nobles and gentry, she was not hard to find. Everyone gave her a wide berth.

  His voice bubbled in her ear, fingers alive and flexing into her bicep. For a moment, she entertained the notion of stopping dead, letting him either thump straight into her or swing around at his awkward angle—and perhaps he sensed it, because his spine stiffened—but she resigned herself to be led.

  She could use the fresh air, anyway.

  “Do I look like a cat to you?”

  He stopped them and regarded her, brows drawing down in sudden seriousness as he looked her over.

  A slip of panic shot through her skin. She sucked in a short breath, caught herself, and hid it. Held herself still. Resisted the urge to stiffen, instead curling her fingers more tightly around the neck of her goblet. The grip of his hand became a keen awareness in her mind.

  His eyes danced above hers, glittering in the pale glow of the nearest Bureni torch. Light brown, like cedar bark.

  “If I said yes, could I call you ‘Cat’?”

  She let out a breath, her features going flat. “No.”

  “If I said no, could I call you ‘Cat’?”

  “No.”

  His mouth formed a flat, unhappy line, and his brown eyes implored her. “You’re not giving me many options.”

  “You seem to come up with them just fine on your own.” She pulled forward, and they started walking again. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Princeling wants a word. Conversation. Please don’t break his hand.”

  The night opened up through the doors, the humming echo of laughter and conversation shifting to the clear ruckus of revelry from the courtyard below. While the castle’s great hall housed the gentry on Abiermar—and most of the more-wealthy local merchants—the cour
tyard was open to everyone else. Farmers, servants, market vendors, all three cobblers that lived in Tinedin, the nearest town, smiths, fletchers, flower arrangers, lower house staff, everyone. Though it lacked the impropriety of other celebrations, namely the drunken, behind-the-bushes romping that occurred at the town dances, they bribed a fair crowd of people out on food alone. The second hog was down there, along with the other two birds and enough feast food to fill two entire horse stalls.

  Prince Nales stood by the castle wall, close to the door they exited through. Though a torch burned on the wall just behind him, his features were cast in shadow. He wore the same dark coat he’d arrived with. Double-breasted, in a similar style to what Treng wore, albeit with a richer, more elegantly expensive cut. Thick trousers covered his legs, also black—military dress, if she had to guess—with pointed boots that gave a subtle gleam. The only concessions to his rank and title were a small gold pin in his collar and a signet ring on his finger.

  She made a pointed glance from him to the happy laughter, drifting music, and roaring conversation inside, and back. A soft snort puffed through her nose.

  “Bit of a loner, aren’t you?”

  Bellfort patted her shoulder armor, dry sarcasm entering his tone. “Yes, he is. You two should get along swimmingly.”

  She gave his hand a soft shove, and he backed off with a fluidity that surprised her, pivoting like a boat on water. His broad, toothy grin bared her way as he drifted a few paces away. In the torchlight, his sandy blond hair flickered with copper and gold.

  “We were interested in elves,” he continued. “Wanted to ask you.”

  “About the court?” she guessed, gaze sliding back to Prince Nales, who watched her.

  “Yes,” Bellfort said, with more than a hint of exasperation. “Though I, specifically, want to know more about you breaking princes’ hands.” He jerked his head to Prince Nales, eyes flashing white as they rolled toward the night sky. “Feel free to give a demonstration if he doesn’t start talking.”

  Prince Nales shot an irritated glance his way, and his arms came up to cross over his chest.

  “I can speak, Bell.”

  “You don’t usually. Not until you get some wine in you, leastwise.” He eyed her goblet with a sudden seriousness. “Maybe I should go find one of those trays.”

  “You wanted to know about the court?” Catrin prompted. Her own arm had come up, slipping across her chest to grip the one that held the wine. “General, or specific?”

  General was one thing. As a prince, he likely knew a great deal about elven court workings. Specific, however, landed close to revealing secrets.

  He was lucky, though. She wasn’t bladesworn.

  Court secrets were not hers to keep.

  She smiled a slow grin and took a sip of her wine, gaze flicking over him in a new light.

  In fact, with a bit more wine and a friendly attitude, she would be happy to tell him every bit of court gossip she could remember. Especially about a certain asshole prince and the family that protected him.

  Instead, however, his gaze dropped to her shoulder. He unfolded his hand and made a gesture. “Those are mercari, correct?”

  She glanced down. Though he could have been indicating any part of the ancient script that adorned her uniform, it was the dark lines of tattoos on her bicep that caught his attention—the ones that had glowed when she’d summoned the ice earlier. They unfolded like a branch, curling in eddies and spirals to form distinct squares of mercari—like having a page from a prayer book embedded in her skin.

  “Yes,” she said, bringing her arm up closer to the light. “Can you read it?”

  “A little,” he answered, shifting against the wall. “We were taught kimbic.”

  “And rentac?” she guessed.

  Like goblins, human magic skewed toward the earthier planes, but his specific bloodline—the Cizeks—would delve into the demonic. One kept to the local energies, while the other, like some of her fey-born mercari, tapped into another world.

  Considering the demonic plane had been sealed for about two hundred and fifty years, she doubted many studied rentac anymore, but his family would undoubtedly keep up the tradition.

  Elven magic also split between worlds. While some of her runes worked with the natural world like her instinctual woodcraft, others tapped into their fey origins for power.

  He inclined his head.

  A chorus of yells and hoots came up from the party in the courtyard below, interrupting the relative quiet before sliding off into peals of laughter. Across the way, lit in torchlight along one of the battlements of the castle’s outer defensive wall, a guard peered down at the carousing locals, his expression relaxed but neutral.

  “So, I’m guessing you’re hugely scary and strong with those?” Bellfort’s stare focused on her bare runes like a hound with the scent of a wolf. “Able to really mess up someone’s day? With more than just ice?”

  Her eyebrows twitched. She took another sip of wine. “Don’t need them to land your ass in the dirt.”

  He bared his teeth. “I look forward to it, Cat.”

  Cat.

  Her gaze narrowed over the lip of her glass. Despite herself, she could actually feel the irritation twitch up within her—like the tail of the namesake animal.

  She didn’t say anything, only stared.

  “Ah,” he said with a mock wince. “I have a feeling my ass will hit the drive gravel a little harder tomorrow.”

  Soft steps came from the doorway close to them, followed by movement. Geneve appeared, looking like a spring crocus with the pale blue, effervescent flow of her dress. Her seeking gaze found Catrin first, and she started forward, a determined stride in her step—then halted when she noticed who shared the veranda with her. Dark eyes darted first to Prince Nales by the wall, then Bellfort leaning casually against the railing, watching her like a golden eagle.

  She appeared to come to some decision. She rolled her shoulders and strode forward, lifting her arms, the trail of her dress drifting behind her. Belatedly, Catrin realized she was clutching something in her hands.

  “Here,” Geneve said, pressing a warm, wrapped sticky dumpling into Catrin’s surprised hand. “Even warriors need to eat.”

  “Hey,” Bellfort said after a few seconds, his voice quiet and plaintive. “What about me?”

  Geneve’s dark eyes slid to him, and Catrin felt a slight hesitation in her hand—a subtle pulling back—before a sharp look entered her gaze. Her shoulders dropped, and her head tilted. She gave him a more-obvious glance-over, one eyebrow twitching up.

  “What about you?”

  This close, Catrin caught the scent of lavender and rose from Geneve’s perfume. The hair at her crown twisted in a dark, rippling weave, threaded through with tiny darts of triskan flowers, matching the pearls in her ears and necklace. The rest hung in ringlets around her neck that bounced and shook with her movement, accentuating the delicate sharpness of her chin.

  “Don’t I get a dumpling?”

  This time, both brows shot up. A half-smile quirked the corner of Geneve’s mouth, quickly hidden. Her features smoothed.

  “Perhaps you should get one yourself.” The smile came back, ghosting onto her lips. “Or two.”

  And, with a parting touch to Catrin’s pauldron, she strode back into the hall, dress flowing elegantly around her.

  Catrin gave a soft snort, examined her procured dumpling, and made a show of picking apart the wrapping. “Guess you aren’t warrior enough.”

  Silence filled the space between them. She frowned, noticing that both men were still looking toward the door. Bellfort had a serious expression on his face, brows furrowed, contemplating the open doorway as if it were an advanced mathematics problem. The prince had a smile on his face.

  She blew out a breath. “I missed something, didn’t I?”

  “Sticky dumplings are used in Abiermar courtship,” the prince said, humor light in his tone. “She just invited him.”

 
Ah. That explained why she’d seen so many people wandering with dumplings.

  She glanced between them, then back to her dumpling.

  “Her name’s Geneve,” she said. “Comes from a merchant family in the capital, here to receive training on the noble circles.” She paused, inhaling the scent of sauce and sweet-meat from the steaming rice, and reconsidered the gift—though, if Geneve had meant it as courtship, it was clear her sights had moved on. “She currently has a lack of proper suitors.”

  She felt the instant Bellfort’s gaze switched to her—like a beacon, examining her face. She kept her expression neutral and ignored him, taking a small bite of the dumpling.

  “Thank you, Catrin.”

  A smile tugged the corners of her lips when he moved off the railing—back to Catrin, she noted, not Cat. He passed close to her back, his presence like a hawk on wing. After a quick exchange of looks between himself and the prince that she felt more than saw, he strode through the open doors.

  She glanced over, watching the broad gray and black colors of his jacket disappear into the room.

  The prince chuckled darkly. “Getting a man’s hopes up? That’s cruel and unfair.”

  She shrugged.

  “He’s better than the forty-year-old banker she came all the way out here to escape.” A smile danced on her lips as she met the prince’s eyes. “He’s in there, too.”

  A pause. His gaze slid over her expression, studying her—not in a way that tripped her alarm, but reserved. Contained.

  Then, as if he’d come to some sort of decision, he relaxed.

  Like flipping a switch, his body language opened and smoothed, tension dropping from his chest and shoulders. The soles of his boots made a quiet tap over the flagstones as he stepped away from the wall, moving closer to peek over the railing at the crowd below—they’d lulled into a normal, quieter level of conversation, more like a party of neighbors than the drunken pub crawl she’d expected. Someone below plucked at the strings of a lute. The courtyard light angled across the smooth planes of his face, catching in his blue-gray eyes.