Once a King

by Erin Summerill

  “Less stately.”

  He stares at me blankly.

  I extend my hands. “May I?”

  Aodren edges closer and positions himself as he would for a tailor.

  I walk behind him and touch his shoulders, and the hard planes lower a fraction. Then, I flatten both hands against his broad upper back, ignoring how his muscles leap under my fingertips, and push gently until he reacts, curling into a believable slump. I circle to his front. The tilt of his head is off. His chin sits too high.

  We stand so close that I can faintly detect his skin’s scent of soap and clean linens. I try not to breathe too deeply or think of how good he smells. I focus on cupping his jaw in my hands and gently drawing his face down. But when the warm brush of his exhale touches my cheek, and his green, green eyes land on mine, I realize a beat late he may have personal boundaries. My heart gives a hard kick, and I suck a breath through clenched teeth. I expect him to pull back. But . . . he doesn’t. His eyes drop to my lips, pausing before lifting to meet my gaze.

  The patter of my pulse picks up speed, crashing and crescendoing in my ears. My hands drop, flitting over the folds of my dress, while I feel overheated and lightheaded. I edge back, putting space between us.

  “Any more advice?” Aodren asks.

  I force a smile that is normal and unaffected. “Remember to act the part. You’re impersonating a lesser noble. Until you step on the tournament field, you must be someone else. Forget you were once a king.”

  “Once? I still am king.”

  “Yes, but you don’t want others to notice. You have to pretend your crown-wearing days were in another life. You must act less haughty and privileged.”

  “Haughty?”

  I cringe. “Try to act less royal.”

  “I’m going to need more specific instruction.” His finger taps over lips that twitch like he’s struggling to hold back a smile. “How does one act ‘less royal’?”

  Is he toying with me?

  Those eyes glow greener.

  Seeds, he is. I shove the items back into the satchel and toss it at him. “Start by saying a dozen prayers to the gods.”

  His throaty laugh follows me out of the Elementiary.

  * * *

  I spend the rest of the afternoon working on components of my wings.

  When dusk falls over Celize, I set out toward the summer castle. Dread for what might happen tonight twists me tighter than the line knots I should be tying on the glider rope to give a pilot more control. But I’m eager to see Leif and read Da’s letter to Aodren.

  Entering through the main gate is quicker than sneaking in. And infinitely more stressful. Lanterns are ablaze everywhere, so anyone in the shadows can watch me approach. Each step closer to the main doors kicks my heart rate up a notch, and not in an I have Aodren’s face in my hands way.

  Aodren assured me my entrance would go unquestioned, explaining my visitations are approved, since I am partly responsible for saving Leif’s life.

  The guard at the main door greets me and guides me to Malam’s corridor, where Leif has been brought to recuperate. I’m on edge, unconvinced that Judge Soma won’t materialize and drag me back to the holding chamber hell. Even though Aodren says he has jurisdiction over me and Soma has no power to put me in jail, I have a hard time believing it. But I keep reminding myself that soon I’ll know what’s in Da’s letter. Hopefully it’ll tell me what he’s working on and where he is, so I can jump in and help finish the job. I wonder what Da would think if he knew the lengths I’m willing to go through to prove myself to him.

  A welcoming croak comes from my cousin when I enter his private room. I rush closer, grinning, suddenly weightless with relief to be free of the guard, and even more relieved to see Leif alert. My fingers skate over his matted hair. “You’re all right?”

  “Aye.”

  I’m so pleased by the simplicity of his answer that I settle in the seat beside him, my hand on his arm, needing to feel his pulse, to know he’ll survive. “I—I was so worried . . . You didn’t look good. I thought . . . Well, I’m just glad you made it.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Aodren’s confident, clear tenor echoes behind me. “Are you ready for me?”

  What an absurd question. I twist around to give him a tart response and . . . gape.

  He is so handsome.

  In a tailored coat and close-fitting breeches . . . stars . . . he’s the refined picture of royalty. The outfit accents his strong, muscled frame that narrows at the hips and spreads wide through his shoulders in an imposing way.

  I’m tongue-tied. I realize there’s nothing at all absurd about his question. Not after the varying reactions he’s inspired in me over the last few days.

  Seeds and stars, who could ever be ready for the chaos of the Malamian king?

  Chapter

  12

  Aodren

  SNEAKING OUT OF THE CASTLE IS EASIER THAN sneaking in,” she says after we’ve dodged a chambermaid, kitchen help, and two guards on our descent to reach the tunnels under the castle. Since I am not familiar with these halls, it’s difficult to keep up. I try to guess which way she’s going to turn next, and fail.

  It seems everything she does keeps me guessing. For example, her appearance tonight. It’s more befitting a court gathering than an evening of covert activity. Her arms are full of her dress, hefting it up high enough that her ankles are displayed as we race through the depths of the castle. I cannot fathom why she would’ve worn it.

  “Is that the least conspicuous outfit you own?”

  She rolls her eyes. Did she not chide me at the Elementiary about my appearance drawing attention?

  “Less noise,” she whispers, and hoists the gown so it cannot scuff on the stairs.

  Lirra pulls me into an alcove. The echo of a guard’s footsteps comes closer and then continues on, until it’s out of earshot. She then explains that the guards patrol the castle, walking the same routes each night. How easy it is to sneak in and out when you know the pattern. Lirra would make an excellent security adviser.

  When we reach the lower levels of the castle, she smooths her full skirts down and gestures for me to stop. To my confusion, her hands disappear in the green folds of fabric. An instant later she withdraws a . . . Is that a map?

  Her clever pockets are impressive. She unfolds the aged parchment, presenting a well-worn sketch of the castle’s layout, and consults the map. After a few moments, she refolds it like an accordion and slips it into her hidden dress pocket.

  “That way,” she says.

  We wind through the castle’s belly, where the maze of halls would be impossible to navigate without her leading the way. And then without warning, she stops beside a low wooden door that nearly blends into the surrounding rock.

  Lirra digs through her dress’s pockets, this time producing a hand-size waterskin. After taking a sip, she offers it to me. I decline but watch, enrapt, as it disappears back into the material. Waves of her black hair fall over her shoulder as she starts twisting side to side and slipping her hands into her skirts. The urge comes to tuck the curls behind her ear to see what else she’ll unearth. Her hair is blocking my view.

  Lirra glances up and catches me staring at her.

  A coy smile replaces the look of concentration, her thick, sooty lashes batting twice and then open wide. “Your attention flatters me, Your Highness.”

  I step back. “I wanted to see what else you have in there.”

  All signs of flirtation vanish. “Your gaping makes me itchy. Stop it.”

  “It’s your dress,” I say, not wanting to admit the true course of my thoughts. “It confused me at first, but now I can see its utility.”

  She rolls two small metal sticks in her palms. “Did you think I wore it for you?”

  “No.” I shift my weight. “It appeared too restrictive for the night’s activity. But its functionality is impressive.”

  “Thank you.” She curtsies, a smooth motion worthy of any highbo
rn lady and not something I’d expect of the Archtraitor’s daughter. Until I remember that before he was the Archtraitor, Millner was a member of the Malamian nobility, making Lirra a highborn lady. Though she wasn’t raised that way. “At the tournament, ladies will be dressed in their finest. This gown helps me blend in. Also, dressed like this, no one would ever think I’m hiding six sets of throwing daggers.”

  Godstars.“You are?”

  She laughs and inserts the sticks into the lock. “Only one set. But I could carry six sets if I wanted to.”

  I cannot decide if I find her candidness aggravating or refreshing. But she has me smiling and intrigued to know what she’ll say or do next. It’s a refreshing change from how others treat me.

  A few twists and the door unlocks, swinging open to a wide hole of pitch-black.

  “This path runs in a straight shot from the summer castle’s keep to the cathedral on the cliff,” she says.

  I maintain my neutral expression, ignoring the cloaking darkness ahead.

  “If you reach out with both hands, you could touch either side of the tunnel. If you stand to your full height, you’ll probably bang your head. Remember that. Ready?”

  “Yes.” Though I am not. The space is tight and close, giving too much freedom to my dark imagination.

  After we enter, Lirra closes the door behind us.

  We have gone a few steps when a hic, hic, hic of her jerking breath echoes in the pitch-black. I am not the only one uneasy. Something has spooked her.

  “Lirra?” I ask, forgetting my own discomfort.

  “I’m fine,” she says. I don’t know her well, but I can tell she’s lying.

  Her steps echo, indicating she’s moving forward, so I follow close enough behind that I can feel the hem of her dress connect with the toe of my boot. The musty tunnel is cooler than the castle halls, but the temperature hasn’t dropped enough to be the cause of her shivery breath.

  “Lirra,” I say again, and then nearly knock her down when I run into her back.

  My fingers seek her arm in the darkness and then trail down to her hand. Lirra allows me to sandwich her hand between both of mine. Hers is made of ice. My palm covers hers, sliding up to her wrist and back down. She releases a breath. Neither of us breaks the silence, but the tension in her arm eases and stays that way as we continue forward until eventually entering the cathedral’s catacombs.

  The light is too strong at first. But after blinking a handful of times, my eyes adjust. We’ve emerged in a dusty cavern. Lirra lets go of me and slides her hands over her arms.

  “They always have one lantern lit,” she whispers, not quite meeting my gaze. I want to know what rattled her, or at the very least, know how to help her. But I doubt this headstrong girl will admit anything to me.

  She points to the satchel on my shoulder, and mouths, “Hurry.”

  That single word returns my attention to the night’s purpose. I step into an adjacent burial chamber and switch outfits. All I have to do is travel unnoticed to the tent where the champions wait in preparation for the first event. Once there, I’ll have no more than a few minutes to gather armor and Leif’s sparring swords before the event begins. It’s not too great a challenge. I’ve already passed the hardest part—keeping the plan from the other leaders and sneaking out of the castle.

  When I emerge, Lirra inspects my work, adjusting the cap over my hair. “You’re ready,” she pronounces.

  * * *

  Less than a quarter-league from the cathedral, makeshift merchant shops and small bonfires surround the tournament field. Voices rumble from gathering crowds while more people approach, their wooden carriage wheels crackling on the gravel road. Anticipation is as vivid as the dozens of torchlights made to shine directional light, illuminating the tournament field by Channeler magic.

  I stand outside the champions’ tent, my stomach high in my throat. Lirra disappeared as soon as this part of the bargain was filled. I was disappointed, though not surprised. She is helping me only in order to gain information about her father. And yet, for a moment in the tunnel, with the sound of her fearful breaths and the touch of her small, chilled hand, I felt useful. Needed by another person.

  Despite the servants and nobility who move through the halls of Malam’s Castle Neart, the life of a king is one of solitude. In my twenty-two years, I can hardly remember a time when someone has needed me for me and not just for the power of my crown. Perhaps that is why the moment her fingers left mine, I felt the absence down in my core. I’ll not soon forget the touch of her hand, nor what it felt like for her to lean on me.

  It felt like trust and belief.

  If only my people felt this way about Malam. I’m here tonight for this very reason.

  Everything I’ve prepared runs through my head—the request for Leif’s weapons to be brought to the tent along with my practice armor, which bears the colors of Malam, but no specific royal marks. My nerves are frayed, hoping it will all come together.

  Around the field, the crowd buzzes like a sentient thing. A loud hum of banter comes from the people streaming by. I see clothing in blue and gold for Shaerdan, black and silver for Kolontia, red and yellow for Akaria, and green and brown for the Plovian Isles. They talk about their kingdoms’ competitors, chanting and cheering the fighters’ names. I cannot help but notice few wear Malam’s maroon and gray. And those who do are quieter, more subdued.

  I stand outside the champions’ tent, waiting as the fighters stroll out and gather at the edge of the tournament field.

  “Bloody Malamians, I hope they’re destroyed on the field,” I hear someone say from a crowd of Kolontians and Shaer-danians passing by.

  “On the field? Soon enough that kingdom will fall.”

  I bite my tongue and push through the tent’s flaps. Inside, rows of benches and curtains separate the expansive staging area into six sections. If the respective flags are any indication, the competitors from each kingdom have been allotted private space to prepare. The remaining area, where the curtain is open for all to view, is a healer’s station. No one is there. They’ve all left for the start of the tournament.

  Keeping my head ducked, I hurry forward and push through the curtain leading into Malam’s section of the tent.

  Baltroit Bromier pushes his long sandy hair out of his face and glances up. I halt, pulse kicking through my ears. I thought the space was empty. I’ve sparred with him many times on Castle Neart’s training grounds. He’s sure to recognize me in spite of the borrowed lesser-noble clothes and false beard. I haven’t even confessed my plan to Segrande, but perhaps now is a good time to tell Baltroit. We can use the next few minutes to discuss a joint attack for the melee.

  “You got something to say? Or you mute?” His animosity is unexpected. Shocking. “Figures they’d give me the lame one.”

  He thinks I’m a page.

  Baltroit starts sharpening his blade. Sharpening his blade?

  “Only practice swords are allowed,” I say, remembering to moderate my voice halfway through my comment. I sound like a lad in the throes of puberty. What am I doing?

  “That’s right. This is for later. In case I need it.”

  What would he need it for? Baltroit has always been a little erratic. The bitter violence he’s harboring is new. Or, at least, a side I’ve not seen before. “What would you need it for?”

  His stone zips along the blade. “You a Malamian? You sound like one.”

  I nod.

  “You hear what they’re saying about us. No respect. If yer not given it, you take it.”

  My eyes narrow. “You mean to start a—”

  “I’m starting nothing. But I’ll finish it.” He rubs his beard just like his father does and scowls. “Yer a nosy filly. Get outta here and tell them I’m coming.” He sheathes the sword and stands, grabbing his helmet.

  Outside, the sounds of the tournament grow to a loud drone. It’s soon to start. I step out of the curtained area, stunned by Baltroit’s malice. He’s not
acting like himself. It must be adrenaline for the fight. But I can’t worry about that now. I’m running out of time to get ready.

  * * *

  “Hailing from Kolontia, fighting in the name of their king, are Hemmet Vonk and Zane Marza.”

  I rush out of the tent as I tug on a helmet. After Baltroit left the champions’ tent late, I had mere minutes to pull on chain mail and hardened leather body plates. I reach the field as the roar from spectators rises to a deafening pitch.

  Hemmet and Zane cross the field.

  Another spark of cheers ignites when Hemmet pumps his broadsword in the air.

  I hide behind a healer’s cart where Baltroit stands waiting for his name to be called. Here I can keep an eye on him and watch the tournament field.

  The noise dies down, and the speaker calls on the next two champions, Io and Fehana Caloi, sisters from Akaria. Whispers of awe rush into the night, sounding like a wind in the trees. Feet hammer the ground to welcome the two women warriors. Dressed in black from head to toe and each carrying two thin swords, they’re a fearsome pair. The seams of their clothing show sewn-in armor, pieces of hardened leather to protect all their vital areas.

  “Easy prey,” I hear Baltroit say.

  He’s wrong. If he studied their movement, he’d recognize the tell of agility. They’re alert and light on their feet.

  Baltroit is a fool to think these women are any less lethal than the eight male champions that will be fighting this evening. I shift my grip on Leif’s sword. It’s heavier than my own sparring weapon, a fact I hadn’t accounted for. But I have my short sparring sword fixed at my waist as a secondary blade.

  The announcer yells for Malam’s fighters, and my heart jumps into a gallop. I give Baltroit a half-dozen strides before I move away from the cart and walk onto the field. Baltroit crosses to the center, where the other competitors have lined up. I head to the announcer’s stand. The man finishes his introduction of Baltroit before taking notice of me.