Bring Me Their Hearts(78)
“To fire?” I ask. “You said you walked through that fake witchfire, when we first introduced ourselves.”
“Very good, milady.” He claps sarcastically. “You’ve been paying attention.”
I give him a rude gesture, but he just laughs again. Lucien joins us, red waistcoat standing out among all the coatless boys.
“A duel?” He quirks a midnight brow. “I hope you didn’t start one intending for me to participate, Lady Zera. I’ve fought these idiots before—none of them are very good.”
I glance up at the window Fione pointed to. Gavik’s window. Lucien’s right—the prince fighting a bunch of nobles won’t nearly be enough to drag the archduke from his office. But if Prince Lucien fights a girl, and his Spring Bride, besides—
“I’m entering,” I say suddenly. Lucien and Malachite both gape at me.
“What?” Lucien hisses. “You aren’t serious?”
I pat Father’s sword at my side. “As serious as the grave. I could use the exercise.”
“What about your wrist?” he snaps. “If you reopen the injury—”
“Y’shennria’s polymath said it was fine,” I lie. “She’s more concerned about me submerging it in water than exercising it.”
“You’re certain?” Lucien’s voice gets hard, and I sigh.
“Yes, and nothing you say will change my mind.”
“Dark Below.” Malachite chuckles. “And here I thought I was the one worried about your well-being—” Malachite squawks incredulously as Lucien’s bright red coat is thrown into his arms. The prince stands there in his loose white undershirt, swinging his sister’s sword this way and that in a warm-up motion. White mercury melded into the blade, Fione said. I have to do everything in my power not to be cut by that sword. He looks me up and down, clearly unimpressed.
“Surely you won’t be fighting in a dress like that,” he insists.
“I will be winning in a dress like this,” I correct. Malachite cackles a bit until Lucien throws him a glare. I look to the dueling field—the servants have set up a traditional Cavanos square. I prefer an Endless Bog round arena myself, but monsters can’t be choosers.
“Do you need me to explain how this works, Lady Zera?” Prince Lucien asks. “Or did they teach you with the pig sticks on your farm?”
There it is—the barbed half insults I’m used to from him, even if they are a little icier than normal. I know him well enough by now; he was inquiring if I knew the rules, ready to explain them should I need it. How twistedly helpful.
“Save your breath for your duels, Your Highness.” I smile at him. “You’ll need it.”
Crav taught me all I know about dueling traditions on the Mist Continent, and I silently thank him for it now. Cavanos rules are simple; if you force your opponent to step out of the square, you win. Though, unlike most countries, there are strict bloodrules in a traditional Cavanos duel—no injuries. If you inflict one on your opponent, you’re considered unskilled—unable to control your blade, and you lose. And that rule alone is the reason I agreed to this duel, even knowing Lucien’s sword is white mercury. If he does cut me, he loses, no matter how much pain I’m in, or how long it takes for Nightsinger to heal me.
If the Prince loses, surely Gavik will come running to gloat.
The girls gather the stems of nearby moonflower plants and have us all draw one to determine the seed. The first match begins between Lord Grat and Prince Lucien. Grat looks utterly panicked. If he loses, he’ll be seen as weak. If he wins, perhaps the prince will hate him. An unfair outcome, either way.
Crav used to tell me you could discern everything about a person from the way they fight, but I only half believed it until now. I see exactly why the prince is called the Black Eagle—he fights like a bird of prey, and it takes the breath from me. His blows are sharp and quick, and though he lingers over his next move like a tensed raptor, he spares not a single shred of mercy when striking. It’s terrifying and awe-inducing all at once. This is what I love most about swordplay—watching each person fight differently, their very souls manifesting through every strike and parry. Grat moves powerfully, like a bear in battle armor, but the prince waits patiently for him to make a mistake. And he does—too long a lapse in a swing and Lucien jumps on it, knocking Grat’s sword clean from his hand. Grat has to bend to pick it back up, eyeing the prince warily; will he knock him over while he’s doing it? But Lucien merely holds a hand out for him to go ahead. My chest swells with pride—it’s a small move, but it’s something a dishonorable duelist would delightedly take advantage of. But the prince is nothing if not honorable.
Grat, getting desperate, swings wildly at the prince, locking their blades together. Grat says something to him, and Lucien’s eyes flicker to me briefly. He pushes against Grat with a sudden burst of wild strength so different from his careful blows earlier, the two parting. The ladies cheer for the prince, the boys cheer for Grat—Lucien evidently not very popular among the boys. I wonder what Grat said to elicit such a forward response from a patient duelist like Lucien?
The duel continues, the heat of the day reaching its peak, and I sneak looks at Gavik’s window every so often. He doesn’t show his face yet, though that’s to be expected—he’s probably seen the prince duel with every noble his age. Prince Lucien and Lord Grat back off from each other after a failed riposte, Lucien letting out a frustrated breath and pulling his shirt off in one swift movement. The girls at the sideline shriek madly, and even I have to admit the sight of his sweat-sheened back, ribbed with faint but very real lines of muscle, catches my eye.