Once a King

by Erin Summerill

  Three.

  I grip her arm, needing the help up to my knees.

  Two.

  Standing is a precarious affair. My foot slides forward. Leaning most of my weight against the woman as I rise, shakier than a newborn colt. Why is she helping me?

  Silence descends, blanketing the raging animal that is the crowd. The final number doesn’t come. Even Otto, with his crazed eyes, remains motionless other than his twitching fingers on the sword and his heaving armored torso. He stands over Hemmet’s fallen body.

  The warrior slides out from under my arm, leaving me to struggle for balance. Her sword lifts to a ready position. But I’m not sure what is happening. Have I been eliminated?

  “The king of Malam is still in the fight,” the announcer’s voice blares from the tower. It opens the beast’s gate, drawing out its roar. The spectators’ riotous shouts and stomps quake the ground beneath my feet. The melee is not over.

  To my left, the warrior lunges, sword crashing against Otto’s. He growls, and his eyes flare, showing too much white, like a rabid dog’s. He’s enraged. I’ve not seen this version of Otto before. He’s nothing like the man I dueled the first night of melee.

  Understanding splits through the painful haze of my head. He’s taken Sanguine.

  The oil’s boost of strength and rage combined with its ability to decrease sensitivity to pain gives Otto the advantage. The Akarian will not last and she knows it. Pain flares in her dark eyes each time their weapons connect.

  My right arm hangs useless at my side. I pluck my sword off the ground with my left hand, suddenly grateful for all the left-handed dueling practice I’ve had with Leif.

  I swing around Otto’s side, distracting him so the Akarian can land two hits. I am paying her back for the mercy she showed me. The Shaerdanian scuttles back to put us both at his front. He tries to take us both on, but, regardless of the oil’s added effects, Otto proves no match for our combined sword skill.

  An arc of my blade divests him of his weapon. The warrior woman’s sword slices against Otto’s helmet, and the man drops, another tree felled.

  From every side, noise in the arena rises to a fever pitch. Cheers, shouts, wails, shrieks. It’s impossible to take in everything. All I know is my fight is done. Had it not been for the Akarian’s help, any chance Malam had to win a banner would’ve been lost before now. It’s honor enough to be standing here with her—two final champions.

  I lift my sword, though I’m too weak to put up much fight. But I want to give her as many chances as possible to earn points for her kingdom. My continued fight honors her.

  She swings, and I can barely keep up. She lands three hits, and then we hear the horn.

  The trumpet’s bright, resonant sound ends the melee.

  I lower my sword, touch my hand to my chest, and bow.

  My attention sweeps from the crowd to the fallen champions. A few have risen to their feet and lean heavily against their poles and swords. Others have been carted off the field. A couple remain prone on the muddy, matted grass.

  While the points are tallied, the ragged, dazed fighters return to the field, moving toward their comrades. Baltroit trudges to stand beside me.

  The announcer calls all to attention. A hush descends. The sound of my own breathing seems too loud for the sheer noiseless anticipation.

  “For the first time in twenty-five years,” the announcer’s voice booms, “by total number of points earned from hits—” He pauses.

  “Malam wins the melee!”

  I blink. Pain ripples through my body. Baltroit is gripping my left arm, leaping around and shouting and whooping along with hundreds of other voices. Malamians flood the field to celebrate the victory, their disdain for me forgotten if only for this moment.

  The Akarian appears before me. She sheathes her sword and repeats my bow. “Well deserved.”

  People swarm us from all sides, maroon and gray flags flap in the breeze, and songs of Malam echo into the night.

  Stars. We won.

  * * *

  Baltroit and I ride on top of shoulders with a banner hanging between us. A wave of people carry us to the row of traders’ tents where a makeshift tavern is packed with Malamians dressed in the colors of our flag. Our escorts lower us to the ground, and mugs of ale are pressed into our hands. Around the tavern tent, mugs are lifted and cheers follow. I shake a dozen hands and happily endure two dozen back slaps. Excitement has muted the pain. Leif, Lord Segrande, and a couple of royal guards who have come to Shaerdan for the All Kingdoms’ Festivities gather nearby, keeping watch. But I don’t feel the suffocating press of the crowd that I experienced after the first night of melee. Being around the Malamians’ gleeful faces and boisterous chatter is exhilarating.

  I pull off my helmet and thrust it in the air. “Hearts, blood, lives for Malam!”

  A chorus repeats Malam’s credo thrice more; each time the volume rises until it’s near deafening. The emotion coursing through me is as proud and resounding as their voices. It vanquishes any doubts I may have had about fighting in the tournament.

  When more drinks start flowing, I move through the group, shaking hands and mirroring cheers as if this is who I’ve always been. It takes more time than I would’ve ever imagined to make my way to where Leif sits on a stool, half-slumped over the table.

  “Feller’s had one too many,” says the barkeep.

  I study Leif’s lined face and squinty eyes. He looks pained, not drunk.

  “A good fight you put up, sir,” he says.

  “Thank you. Are you ready to return to the castle?”

  His brows rise, looking like brownish-red checkmarks. “The night is young, sir.”

  “Yes, but I’ve had a beating, and you look like you’ve had one recently as well.”

  “That is true.” He chuckles. “But don’t you want to enjoy your moment? Celebrate until dawn.”

  The celebration is wonderful indeed, but while friends gather together, recounting stories of the melee, the one man in this tent I consider a friend is in desperate need of returning to bed. He’ll be competing in another few days. He needs all the rest he can muster. I point to the empty rows of shops beyond the tavern tent. “Other than Malamians, the crowd has cleared out. I’ve reveled in the moment. But should I need more celebration, a victory can be appreciated from any location as long as friends are nearby. Let’s return to the castle.”

  “Good plan,” he says on a groan.

  I inform Segrande that we’re leaving and help Leif to the champions’ tent. As soon as we part from the crowd, it’s obvious Leif isn’t inebriated. He’s in pain. He folds forward and winces as he walks. For the first time, I think that Gorenza might have done us a favor by insisting that I fight tonight. There is no way Leif would have been ready to compete.

  Once we are inside the tent, Leif takes a seat.

  Some of the competitors are still around. As they exit, the Plovians mutter lackluster congratulations while the Kolontians sneer. The person I want to find is Otto. He might be resistant to sharing his oil source, but I will do what it takes to pull a name out of him. But he’s already left, and soon the only people who remain are the healers. They give me Beannach water, which I throw back; I request the same for Leif. Then while he sits in the care of the healers, I wash up and change as quickly as my injuries will allow.

  Leif and I exit the tent, and I scan for the simple carriage that brought me to the tournament. I’m not surprised when I cannot find it anywhere in the vicinity. A lot of time has passed since the melee ended. It would be ridiculous to expect Lirra to wait, since I had planned to ride to the castle with my fellow Malamians. I shove my disappointment down and help Leif into the royal carriage.

  A gentle breeze sweeps through the summer night. I glance back and see that we’re alone now. Near the setup for the Kingdoms’ Market, the tavern tent is alive and bustling. But everyone else is gone.

  A snore rumbles from inside the carriage. Leif is already asleep.


  I tell the driver to take Leif back, and I inform him I’ll make my way to the castle alone. He starts to argue, but I shut the carriage door, give the side a solid smack, and send the driver on his way.

  I walk fifty paces toward the cathedral and realize I’m acting like a fool. I’d hoped to catch up and thank her for helping me. Now that the summit meetings will be consuming my time, I may not have a chance to tell her later.

  And yet even as I think this, I know it’s ridiculous. The truth is, I’d hoped to see her once more for no other reason than to be near her.

  I’ve made a poor choice. Fatigue sets in as I continue walking. My shoulder burns with each step. I should’ve had two cups of Beannach water. After coming off the first rise, the shadows shift ahead.

  I pause.

  Lirra steps out from behind one of the lone trees that’s strayed from the forest. Her fingers clutch a swatch of silk, the piece used earlier to obscure her face. The sight of her cuts something loose in me.

  I walk down the slope to meet her. “You’re here.”

  She glances over her shoulder in the direction of the cathedral. “I saw you were celebrating, so I went to check on Orli. I thought I’d make it back before you needed to return to the castle. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

  “You were walking back?”

  She nods.

  This girl. The distance Lirra has trekked to the cathedral and back for Orli . . . for me . . . Her selflessness squeezes a place under my ribs. Since the first night she brought the letter to my chambers, she’s been resilient and unbreakable in all the tasks I’ve needed her to do. She should be tired of me by now. But she looks up at me with hope and kindness, tightening the spot in my chest until I feel breathless from it.

  “You were brilliant tonight,” she continues, unaware of where my thoughts have gone. “But then you gave me such a fright. Are you well enough? How is your arm?” She lets out a little entrancing laugh, full of unabashed sincerity. “You were quite impressive.”

  “Did you think so?” I close the remaining distance.

  A shy smile is punctuated by an eye roll. “Of course, then you had to go and sweep all the ladies off their feet with your chivalry. Had you intended on winning hearts along with the flag?”

  My aches forgotten, I’m suddenly mindful of one heart in particular, one I have no claim to but want desperately to win.

  “And that fight you put up,” she goes on. “It was . . . well, it was magnificent and vexing.” Her hand flicks, sweeping the scrap of material through the air. “Then Otto struck you . . . I—I was worried.”

  The catch in her voice. The candid, guileless words.

  How did I ever think Lirra was merely pretty?

  She is stunning, and at the same time, clever, fearless, and bold. Nothing about her makes sense in my world. But despite my attempts to stifle any interest in her, she’s bewitched me nonetheless. Lirra’s refreshing candidness seizes my attention. I see the beauty in her wit, her compassion, the risks she takes for friends, the risks she’s taken for me.

  “Aodren?” Her soft, dusky lips wrap around my name.

  This is not wise, a warning blares in my head. But I step closer, no doubt looking like a starved bear with sights on wounded prey.

  My hand lifts to cup her bronzed cheek, all logic fading under the furor in my veins as I tilt my head down. With my last shred of sanity, I pause, nose near her temple, breathing in the fresh scent on her skin, sea breeze and sunshine. Every nerve in my body stands at attention.

  “Lirra,” I say in return. I should be embarrassed about how hoarse and needy it sounds.

  She tips her face up. “Were you going to kiss me?”

  Gods, that question on those lips. My mouth presses against them, and the hiss of her breath slides into mine. I wrap an arm around her waist to drag her closer. Pain rips through my shoulder and forces a gasp out of me.

  “Oh,” she pulls back, “I didn’t mean to—”

  For all I care, my arm could fall off right now. Nothing will stop me from kissing Lirra. I silence her worry with my mouth. Thank the gods she allows me to coax her honeyed lips open and drag my tongue against hers as her body molds to mine, fitting perfectly in my arms. Her hands climb up my neck and twine into my hair, her touch better than anything I’ve ever felt. Lirra’s kiss steals my mind, my heart, my desire to be anywhere but here.

  Chapter

  22

  Lirra

  AODREN’S HANDS SLIDE FROM MY WAIST UP my back, leaving a trail of heat as the press of his lips switches from soft and inviting to hard and demanding. I’ve been kissed before, but the sweep of his mouth belies any experience I might think I’ve had. I have never been kissed. Not if kissing is like this.

  My fingers wind into his hair, needing to muss it up, to mark him. Aodren tugs me closer, and I, too willing, fall into him, the scent of his soap-scrubbed skin washing over me. He tastes of mint leaves, rain, and freedom.

  It sets my mind spinning when he drops a kiss beside my mouth, across my jaw, to the edge of my ear, and down the hollow of my neck. I’m weightless and heavy all at once. I’m one of my gliders, wings spread, soaring high.

  The wind picks up and whips my hair into our faces. Aodren pulls back, and his fingers graze across my cheek, moving the strands away. The wind has always had a way of clearing my head. It must be part of my ability. I can speak to the wind and, in turn, it talks to me. It reasons. It reminds me that perhaps kissing the king of Malam isn’t a good idea. The man I once thought of as my opposite, my enemy, is sinking under my skin and wrapping himself around my heart.

  His hands slide down my back and over my scars. The brush of contact clears my head like someone has slammed two pots together. I jolt back, remembering who I am. Daughter of the Archtraitor, a Channeler, a Shaerdanian. What am I doing? I cannot lose my heart to the king of Malam. If I know anything about him, it’s that his country comes first.

  Aodren blinks hazy dark eyes and presses his kiss-reddened lips together, holding in a smile.

  A voice from the corner of my mind argues I’m not Shaerdanian, that I wasn’t born a commoner. In another life, I may have been considered a good match for Aodren. But I wear the scars of the past, always a reminder that I’m not that Lirra Barrett. That life is not mine.

  “We should go,” I say.

  “Right. It’s late.” His hands fall to his sides, and as if nothing happened, he begins walking beside me and talking about the upcoming jubilee and the remaining tournament events. The almost seamless transition would work if the taste of him weren’t still on my lips. It makes me wonder if this thing between us means anything. Or if it’s a dalliance that is entertaining for the time being. But then what?

  A dark mood settles over me. I try to listen as Aodren explains the plan for Baltroit and Leif to enter the two smaller events, jousting and archery, before one of them will move on to the grand finale, the battle of swords. He updates me on his conversation about Sanguine with Ku Toa, and I explain what I witnessed before the tournament began.

  Aodren rubs his shoulder, his brows dipping between a wince and a scowl. “I figured Otto had taken Sanguine,” he says, recounting the difference in Otto’s fight versus his performance on the first melee night. It reminds me that Aodren could’ve died tonight. This only deepens my desire to find the maker of the oil.

  “There is someone I’m going to contact,” I say.

  “Who?”

  “An informant of Da’s should be in town this week for the Kingdoms’ Market. He or his stepdaughter might be helpful.”

  “Is this someone you can trust?” He pushes a hand into his already skewed hair. I swallow a secret smile because this Aodren, a wee bit messy, is my favorite version of him.

  “Yes, Prudence is a friend.”

  “And you’re certain she isn’t duplicitous? The supplier could be anyone.” His wariness makes sense, considering all the subterfuge in his kingdom. However, I have years of instinct
to rely on, instinct that’s always proven reliable.

  “Actually, the supplier cannot be just anyone,” I say thinking out loud. “The oil contains Channeler energy, which means a Channeler must be involved.”

  “If someone is using dark magic to make the oil, won’t there be obvious physical markings?” Aodren asks, thinking of the dark veins that stain a Channeler’s skin when she dabbles in dark magic.

  “If the oil is being made without the intention to harm, then there would be none of that.”

  “How would the maker not know it’s harmful?”

  I shrug. “It happens with herbal mixes. Earth Channelers make them for all different purposes. But if the tea made from the herb is used for something other than what the mix was intended for, it could hurt someone.”

  “Are we making the search for the supplier harder than it has to be? I will just talk to the Shaerdanian champions.” Exhaustion pulls Aodren’s shoulders low and slows his steps. The man is one gust of wind away from tipping over.

  “You could try,” I say, and then remember the way Baz and his friends reacted in the cells. “But I wouldn’t do so alone.”

  His expression dawns with understanding. His arm hangs at his side. He needs something more to help him recover. Ahead, the carriage is parked just off the road leading to the cathedral. By the time we reach Orli, Aodren’s speech has started to slur with exhaustion and pain. He should’ve taken an entire skin of Beannach water from the champions’ tent.

  “Get in.” I pull the door open.

  “Find a healer?” he asks, a different sort of haze in his eyes.

  Perhaps it would be best to take him to the castle, but I don’t think he would make it through the tunnel alone, and faced with the thought of riding up tonight and possibly encountering Judge Soma and the guards, I make a selfish choice.

  “I’m taking you home.”

  * * *

  After dropping Orli off, I turn the carriage onto a country road, winding through the farmlands that rim the thick woods covering the land south of Celize. We pass by fields broken up by patches of forest until reaching a cluster of trees broken up by an offshoot path that is mostly obscured by overgrown shrubs. I drive along the path to an abandoned, decrepit farmhouse. Almost home.