“Where is Polk?” Prince Gidon asked.
“Lord Nathak dismissed Polk,” Sir Kenton rumbled.
“Then fetch him back.”
“He sent Polk with the emissary to the Duchess of Carm,” Chora mumbled.
“My squire?” Prince Gidon’s posture swelled. “Who is king? Lord Nathak or me?”
Achan raised his eyebrows. So Prince Gidon had already proclaimed himself king.
Chora’s spine drooped.
“Well? Am I king?”
“Not yet,” Achan murmured.
Prince Gidon whipped around to face the grandstands. “Who said that?” His eyes scanned the crowd until his dark gaze fell to Achan. He stepped forward. “Was it you?”
Achan’s cheeks burned, but he maintained eye contact and shrugged one shoulder. Disrespecting the prince in public. Clever. What happened to holding his tongue?
The corner of the prince’s mouth twitched. “Chora, fetch me Ôwr.”
A murmur rose from the stands behind Achan. He shivered. What was Ôwr?
“But…f-forgive me, Your Majesty, they will not…release it to me.”
The prince waved his hand toward the keep. “Take Sir Kenton along.”
The Shield strode away, hair swaying, Chora scurrying alongside.
Achan stood staring at the prince in the sweltering sun. Prince Gidon snapped his fingers and two attendants ran out from behind the stands. One set a crimson pillow on the end of the center bench in the shade. The prince sat. The other attendant waved a large, wicker fan at his face. Achan raised his eyebrows and retreated to lean against the warm brownstone wall.
After a long wait, the valet and Shield returned carrying an ornate jeweled scabbard. Prince Gidon stood and Chora buckled a silver, jeweled belt around the prince’s waist. When it was secure, the prince strode back to the center of the field and drew a blade that sang as it scraped against its scabbard and gleamed in the sunlight like a white star.
“The Kingsword!” someone shouted.
The crowd murmured.
Achan turned his head in blinded surprise. “What sort of metal is that?”
“White steel.” Prince Gidon’s blue eyes glared. “A gift to King Willham from Câan, the son-god warrior, after his rebirth. No other weapon is made from this metal. It cannot be broken.”
The tale of Ôwr was another thing Achan had thought to be myth. Câan had used a special blade, named Ôwr, in a battle to free the kinsman people. But he’d died, having been captured by kinsman traitors and tortured. A few days later, the legend went, Arman had breathed life back into his son.
An impressive story, but few temples were built in Câan’s honor. Most minstrels sang no songs of Câan, or if they did, they were comedies. The god killed by men was considered weak.
The weapon itself held great mystery. It was slightly longer than Eagan’s Elk. A narrow fuller ran down the center, catching the sun on its ridges. The tip was sharp and narrow, unlike Eagan’s Elk’s rounded point. Achan made note that, with this blade, Prince Gidon could cut and thrust.
Achan stepped away from the wall and breathed deeply. A sword was a sword. Myth didn’t make one better than the other. He drew Eagan’s Elk, which now looked very dull and grey in comparison, and waited for the prince to make the first move.
The sun blazed down. A hush fell over the crowd. Prince Gidon attacked. He swung Ôwr with amazing power for his lean frame. Achan parried, staggering back a step from the impact.
He focused on the prince’s every move, memorizing his cuts and thrusts. He circled just out of reach, but the prince came after him like a mosquito, annoyingly persistent. Achan dodged, deflected, and stifled, spending every bit of energy on defense. It was smarter this way. Achan knew precious few offensive moves. Until he got a feel for Prince Gidon as a swordsman, or until Achan could learn more attacks, it was better just to let him tire himself out.
The match went on to the cheers of the crowd, until Achan’s knees wobbled, his arms tingled, and his lungs were void of air.
Prince Gidon changed strategies. Instead of trying to attack him with elaborate moves, now he was simply herding him. He worked Achan back toward the wall of the keep. Every time Achan tried to step around, the prince cut him off, his footwork excellent. Achan drew back to parry, and his elbow struck the stone wall so hard he dropped his sword. He cringed, both in pain and at the realization that Prince Gidon had boxed him in. The crowd cheered. Achan froze as the prince pushed Ôwr’s sharp tip against his left shoulder.
“Do you yield?” Prince Gidon’s oily voice oozed amusement. He didn’t even sound out of breath.
Achan nodded, panting. “Aye.”
Lips pressed into a thin line, Prince Gidon jabbed the tip into Achan’s flesh. “Do you yield?”
Achan sucked in a sharp breath. “Yes! I said yes.”
The prince pushed a bit further until he drew a ragged gasp from Achan. “Do. You. Yield?”
What did he want to hear?
A familiar green shifted in the distance. Achan glanced over Prince Gidon’s shoulder to the captivated audience and caught sight of Gren standing between two grandstands, a pile of green fabric in her arms that was nearly the same color as her dress. She stared at him with wide eyes and mouth. He would not allow himself to be killed in front of her.
He clenched his teeth to work up the courage. Like lightning, he gripped the end of Ôwr’s blade with both gloved palms, kicked Prince Gidon’s stomach enough to startle him, pushed the blade back, and dodged free.
The prince staggered back and regarded Achan with narrowed eyes. He pursed his lips and stepped forward. Then, just as quickly as Achan had broken free, Prince Gidon bashed Ôwr’s pommel against Achan’s temple.
As he fell, Achan heard Gren’s scream and a mixed reaction of cheers and gasps from the crowd. He hit the ground on his hands and knees. His head throbbed. The blades of grass blurred before his eyes.
Prince Gidon’s disdainful voice floated down from above. “Tomorrow. Same time. And for future reference, stray, it’s, ‘I yield, Your Majesty.’”
Achan sat back on his haunches in time to see the prince hold Ôwr out to the side as if to dispose of it. Chora scurried forward to claim the weapon.
“Make my new squire clean the blade,” Prince Gidon said. “It is his job.”
With that, the prince strode away, crimson shirt fluttering in the wind. The Kingsguard hurried to form their protective cordon around him. The crowd began to disperse.
“Never you mind about Ôwr,” Chora said. “I’ll see it cleaned. No stray should touch the Kingsword.” The valet scurried after the prince, cradling the blade like a child.
Achan trembled. His shoulder stung, as did his fingers and head. He lifted his hands to see blood seeping through gashes in the black leather gloves. The crowd drifted away in the prince’s wake, and when all were gone, Achan slouched back against the brownstone wall.
Gren approached and crouched beside him. “Oh, Achan. Noam told me about your new position. I came straight away. Are you all right?”
He looked up into her worried face. “He stabbed me.”
“I saw.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “He stabs all his squires…or cuts them or…knocks them about with the pommel.” She tugged at Achan’s cloak, and he leaned forward so she could pull it over his head. “I’ve never heard of him using the Kingsword before. Not ever. It’s said to be kept under lock and key until his coronation.”
“Well, I humiliated him by owning a sword. Apparently he’s the only one allowed—” Achan gasped as Gren pressed her apron on his shoulder. “Will I die?”