“Which one describes you, my lord?” Graylem asked, then shook his head. “Sorry. That was rude.”
Roddick studied him, then answered, “Truth be told, I’m no longer certain which describes me best. Ask me again in a few months and I might be able to answer.”
“What happens in a few months?”
“I hope the end of the war. If it doesn’t end before that.”
“Do you think it will?” Graylem asked.
“What do you think, Lord—?” Roddick smiled. “I fear I never got your name.”
“Call me Graylem.”
“Graylem, is that right?” Roddick’s grin dissolved as the older guardsman slowly walked around Graylem, making him aware of the rich gold stitching on the cuffs of his blue pants resting above the scuffed, almost worn-through boots he’d had resoled twice since he bought them.
He straightened his shoulders. “Yes, my lord.”
“Well, Graylem, normally Lord Bolton handles signing up new guardsmen and does some basic training with them before Captain Monteros evaluates their worth. Both Captain Monteros and Lord Bolton are traveling back from the war right now.”
“Do I have to wait for their return before I can learn if I’m allowed to serve?” he asked.
Roddick reached across his torso and pulled his blade with a metallic hiss out of its sheath. “Funny you should ask.”
5
Graylem drew his own sword. “It would be my honor, my lord Roddick.”
“There are no lords on the training grounds,” Roddick said. “Fighting makes all men equal, and there is your proof.”
He pointed to where a smooth-faced man with dark hair wearing a deep blue cloak stepped out of a doorway and strode toward the practice grounds. Men bowed as he passed. Several girls appeared in the doorway and followed behind, but it wasn’t until he saw the woman with long, almost white hair striding purposefully through the others toward the tall, wooden fence, that he realized the identity of the man in the blue cloak.
Prince Andreus removed his cloak and draped it on a post. Then in a smooth move, he vaulted over the fence and drew his sword. He was dressed in a mail shirt like all the others, but his gleamed brighter—as did his weapon. A man with gray-streaked blond hair saluted with his own weapon before he charged. The swords clanged, separated, and then flew toward each other again. The Prince was good. His grip . . . his balance. The blades came together again.
The white blond woman could only be Princess Carys.
“Well?” Roddick yelled. He was standing in a different section of the field not far from where the Princess leaned against a fence, watching her brother fight with great intensity.
Graylem glanced back at Andreus, who shoved the older man back and was stalking him in a circle waiting for another attack. Then he hurried across the brown grass to where Roddick waited. “I assumed you would want to wait until Prince Andreus was finished.”
“Like I said before, Graylem, there are no lords once you step onto this field. Let Prince Andreus worry about his fight. I suggest you worry about your own.”
Roddick’s blade lashed out, and Graylem stumbled back as it whistled through the air where his torso had just been.
“I wasn’t ready!” Graylem yelled as he fumbled for the clasp on his cloak.
The other swordsman swung his sword in a lazy circle with a smile. “Do you think the enemy on the battlefield is going to wait until you are ready?”
Graylem let his cloak drop to the ground and kicked it to the side, then began to circle the guard.
“Lords like to fight with honor,” Roddick said over the shouts and clangs coming from the other parts of the field. “Anyone in Eden’s Guard does whatever it takes to win.”
Roddick charged forward, and his blade cut the air.
Did the King’s Guardsman want him to win or lose? Graylem wondered as he swung his own weapon and held tight to the hilt as the two swords clashed and his arms vibrated with the force of the strike. Had the blade struck him, it would have cut him in two. But the power Roddick had used for such a blow made it harder for the guard to recover his balance.
His heart slammed hard as he stepped back, pivoted, and slashed. It wasn’t a full swing. It wasn’t meant to be a striking blow, but one to force a reaction from Roddick. Which it did. The older guard turned to block the attack. Graylem pulled back his own weapon just before the guard’s struck it. He could swear he saw Roddick grin as he stumbled forward and that he laughed when Graylem hooked his foot onto the man’s ankle and sent him flying to the ground.
Roddick glared up at him, and Graylem lowered his sword. “I didn’t mean . . . I didn’t think . . .”
“You didn’t try to finish me off while I was on the ground.” Roddick planted his sword in the ground and used it to climb to his feet.
“Well, no,” Graylem said. “I mean, this isn’t . . .”
He heard the footsteps—the swish of the weapon—and dropped to the ground. He rolled to the side and jumped up as a battle-ax hit the patch of dirt he had just stood upon.
Graylem rolled again, flipped up to his feet, and swung his blade as the ax whistled toward him. The two weapons crashed together. A hulking, dark-haired guard with a missing tooth put all his weight behind his weapon and pushed Graylem’s sword so it inched toward his face.
Graylem clenched his teeth. His arms shook as he pushed back, stopping the forward motion of the ax, but he couldn’t keep it up for long. His heart thundered. He held his breath and yanked his sword away as he dove to the side. The guard flew forward. With Roddick’s words about finishing the fight in his ears, Graylem advanced. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a movement and swung his steel barely in time to connect with Roddick’s blade. Roddick pulled his weapon back and struck again. Graylem moved backward as he matched the King’s Guardsman strike for strike.
Sweat poured down his neck. His breathing came in fast, short bursts—when he could breathe.
He swung again and felt the blow resonate through his body. Roddick’s dark eyes met his and held them. Victory was clear in the man’s eyes. The blade headed for him again. He slashed his own to meet it, only Roddick changed the angle of his swing at the last minute. It was just a few inches, and Graylem altered his own swing to match it. Roddick smiled, then pulled his blade back, and Graylem registered the sound of footsteps too late.
Something kicked against his back. He lost his footing, and his chest hit the ground. Breath burst from his body. A boot pressed down, pushing away any chance of gasping for air. He turned his head in time to see the point of the sword bury into the ground an inch from his nose.
A calloused hand appeared in front of his face. “That could have been worse for you,” Roddick said. “You move faster than most lords who step onto this field, Graylem, and you don’t seem to end up with as much grass in your mouth when you hit the ground. Nevertheless, you lost.”
Graylem pushed up from the ground with his sword still clutched in his fist and clasped Roddick’s hand. “I thought I was going to be fighting you.”
“You did fight me,” Roddick said.
“Yes, but . . .”
“But having other men fight you as well wasn’t fair?” Roddick mocked. “If you want fair, stick to tournaments and duels where there are rules that everyone agrees to follow. Here, we do whatever it takes to gain our objective. We create a plan when we fight, but we know that it is often necessary to break the rules in order to win. If you can’t do that, you don’t belong here.”
As if to articulate the point, across the field Prince Andreus elbowed the man he’d been fighting in the side and then jammed his knee into the other man’s crotch. His fighting partner sank to the ground and dropped his weapon. Prince Andreus had won.
“You didn’t lie about knowing how to use that sword. With some work, you might learn enough to become a member of the King’s Guard. Or you might come to your senses before you decide to take an oath to walk the battlements and fight the King
’s wars.” Roddick looked over at where several young guardsmen struggled to hit the center of the targets with their arrows. Then he glanced to where the man who had been fighting Andreus rose to his feet.
“I can learn, my lord,” Graylem said, picking up his cloak where he had dropped it on the ground. “If I can come back tomorrow, I can prove it to you.”
Roddick shook his head. “Proving yourself will have to wait. I am leading a hunting party outside the city in the morn.”
“When will you return?” Graylem asked.
“We are scheduled to be out a few days. The men at the Palace gate will know when I’ve returned.” The King’s Guardsman sheathed his sword. “I’d recommend that you take that time to practice. And if you’re smart, you’ll think about whether you truly wish to take an oath, and what you are willing to sacrifice in order to fulfill that oath.”
Roddick strode toward the other side of the training grounds and yelled, “Prince Andreus, Crown Prince Micah requested that I put my sword at your service for today’s training session.”
Prince Andreus pushed away from the fence he had been leaning on and turned toward Guardsman Roddick.
“Training Master.” The Prince nodded. “I didn’t see you on the field.”
“I was giving instruction to someone who is interested in petitioning to join the guard.”
“I am fascinated that whoever this new guard might be rated your attention before that of your prince,” Princess Carys called as she swept over to stand on the other side of the fence, just behind her brother’s shoulder. Her head was high. Her pale hair was pulled back at the sides to keep off her face, but the rest hung free of the twists and curls his sister had worn. And her voice . . . There was something familiar about the edge to her words and the set of her jaw.
Everything on the practice field stopped as the guards turned toward Carys, who was staring at Roddick as if she wanted to be the one to fight him instead of her brother. She paced several feet away from her brother and all eyes followed her.
“Perhaps,” she called, “your neglect is something I should mention to Captain Monteros when he returns. Or maybe I should mention it to my father.”
“Your father believes Prince Andreus should take more of an interest in working with the guard than with the windmills, Your Highness. We all know King Ulron would not mind Prince Andreus putting in extra work.”
Her eyes flashed. “But my father would mind one of his guardsmen and trainers putting a commoner’s training above that of royal blood.”
Several men flinched, but Graylem stepped closer, compelled by the familiar set of the Princess’s jaw and the belligerent tone. His sister—the Princess reminded him of Deevana at her most defensive, when she was doing her best to hide that something was wrong. But what could be wrong?
“You are correct, Your Highness,” Roddick said with a bow, then started to turn. “I apologize and—”
“As well you should.” Princess Carys cut off Roddick’s words, and the guard turned back toward her. But Graylem didn’t because he finally understood.
The Princess said something about having the man sent to the battles to the south and stalked farther down the fence. Keeping all eyes on her, which meant they weren’t on Prince Andreus, who had rested his heavy broadsword against the post he himself was now leaning on as he fumbled for something in his pocket. Even from this distance, Graylem could see the sheen of sweat on the side of the Prince’s face.
It was cool out. The fighting had been over for a while. Yet the prince was sweating, and, unless Graylem was mistaken, Prince Andreus was pulling whatever he had taken from inside his cloak to his lips.
Something was wrong with the prince, but no one noticed because they were all watching Princess Carys as she berated Roddick.
But Graylem was watching Prince Andreus as he took several deep breaths before wiping his forehead and turning toward the others. “I don’t see any reason we should tell the King about this.”
Carys spun toward her brother, and while her expression was one of irritation, Graylem saw the uncurling of her fists and the easing of the tension in her shoulders as she walked back toward her brother.
Roddick bowed. “Very well, my prince. And the training your brother requested?”
“The next time I train, I will seek you out,” the Prince said with a small smile. “I guess I should be glad that you are training men now instead of Lord Garret. Otherwise, I might have something to worry about.”
With that, Prince Andreus walked toward the path that led away from the practice fields, his sister trailing behind him. No one else seemed to find it strange that the Prince had left his heavy broadsword behind.
Crossing to where Roddick stood with his fist clenched, Graylem asked, “Does that happen often?”
Roddick glanced at him then back to the path the Princess and her brother had taken. “Noblewomen don’t throw tantrums in Orgo?”
“Not like that,” Graylem admitted.
“If you truly decide to join the guard you will learn to get used to it. Most of us have.”
“Most?”
Roddick shook his head and unclenched his fist. “Clear out, boy. I have training to see to. Rhyden! Julien! Get those men shooting straight or I’ll send you all to the North Tower to be flogged.”
Graylem went to the other side of the fence. But his mind wasn’t on the dozens of men he watched fighting with swords and pikes and axes. Instead, he thought of the sharp-featured Princess with pale hair who he was certain had fought just as bravely as the men on this field. He was still thinking of her when he went to the gates to wait for his sister. She might not want him to be there, but he would do what he must to keep her from harm.
“Did you spend much time with Lady Imogen?” Graylem asked after his sister finished gushing over the grandness of the Palace, the beautiful dresses the women of the court wore, and the delicious food that was served after the musical performance she had been invited to attend.
“Not much at all,” Deevana admitted with a frown. “She came to the solar, greeted me, and stood on the side of the room as I introduced myself to some of the ladies. It wasn’t long after that she excused herself from the festivities to go to the battlements and study the winds. The rumors seem to be correct. Lady Imogen doesn’t appear to have many friends.”
Graylem gave his sister a soft smile. “You sound almost as if you feel sorry for her.”
“Lady Imogen is the Seeress of Eden, advisor to King Ulron, and one day, after she marries Prince Micah, she’ll be Queen.” Deevana laughed. “It’s impossible to feel sorry for someone who has everything I could ever dream of and more. But maybe after listening to the other ladies whisper about how much time Lady Imogen spends atop the battlements and away from the members of the court, I feel like I might understand her better than they do.”
“I’m sure the other women understand her. After all, they are all ladies.”
“Lady Imogen lived for years in the Village of Night with people who spend all their time staring at the skies. She might be betrothed to Prince Micah and live in the Palace of Winds, but when you think about it, she is just as new at being a lady as I am.”
Graylem put his hand on his sister’s shoulder and stopped walking. “The difference is the seeress really is a lady, Deevana. Just as you will be when we ride south. You’ve seen the court now. I’ve had a chance to speak and fight with a member of the King’s Guard. He told me I could be good enough to join Eden’s forces, but that I should think about whether I am ready to make that commitment. We have both gotten what we came for. It is time for us to go.”
“No!” Deevana’s eyes flashed with anger. Several nearby women carrying baskets glanced over, and Deevana quickly looked down at the ground and lowered her voice as she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap, but I can’t go just yet, Graylem.”
“You’ve seen the Palace,” he said. “You’ve enjoyed playing lady. It’s time to make that a reality.
Once you have, you can return.”
“I won’t be able to return if I leave now,” she insisted. “Several of the ladies from important houses asked me if I had visited the Shrines of the Seven Virtues. When I said I hadn’t, they made me promise to go with them at the end of the week. They had already planned to go, and now they have invited me along. They said it was unlucky for a lady, especially one who was yet to be married, to visit Garden City and not make sacrifices at the shrines. I know we had planned to leave the city before then, but I didn’t feel like I had a choice. I had to tell them I would go. If I leave now, they will take offense. They won’t forget the slight. I don’t want to become a true lady only to know that I will be shunned if I come back to court.”
As much as Graylem wanted to tell his sister that she was being foolish, he had heard Lady Blackthorn rage more than once at Goodman Bryant over hooks he had made years ago that she had found less than satisfactory. If she invited a local lady to a special event and the lady failed to show up, Lady Blackthorn would remember and be vicious about it if they met again.
“Fine. We will stay until you have visited the shrines. But this will be our last delay.”
His sister’s eyes gleamed, and he felt the knot of anxiety tighten like a hangman’s noose. As they reached the inn, he said, “Deevana, I need you to promise me that after you have finished that obligation we will leave Garden City and go south. And I need you to mean it.”
His sister turned to him and smiled. “Of course we will, Graylem. A few more days and I will finish what I came here for. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
But of course, she would. That’s what worried him.
6
“I thought we would explore the city together today,” he said as his sister pulled from her wardrobe a light blue gown he could swear hadn’t been there yesterday.
“There’s a storyteller coming to the Palace today. Some of the younger ladies my age invited me to attend.”
“And you couldn’t turn them down?”