by Emily Inskip
Amara took that as an invitation to stroll forward, her hips swaying as she moved. As she made her way through the crowd, her eyes lifted to meet Aedric’s and she could have sworn a faint smile touched his lips.
He didn’t break her gaze as she took up a place on the platform, hands braced on her hips.
A group of royals scoffed from behind her. Their jeers seemed to trigger a chain reaction across the hall. People began calling and laughing.
“Go back to your harp, princess,” someone sniggered.
Another yell sounded from amongst the crowd. “Someone show her back to her rooms.”
“She can gladly accompany me back to my chambers,” one lord replied.
Comments like that erupted from all eight sides of the hall, until Aedric frowned, his face cold, eyes like chips of ice as they scanned the hordes of people.
“The next one of you to speak will quickly regret it,” he warned. Amara almost shuddered at the hardness of his voice, the abrasive tone and barely restrained anger as he glared at his people. They promptly fell silent.
“Good,” he said, flicking his attention back to Amara then grinned, that usual wicked spark in his eye. “Now, somebody get the lady a sword.”
∞∞∞
The world muffled around her as Amara stared at the prince across the podium. She savoured the sword in her hand, it’s lethal glint as she angled it towards him. She weighed it in her palm, assessing the balance, the force she would need to land a decent blow. In honesty, Amara hadn’t ever used such a magnificent blade. It had been forged from Esterian steel, the toughest metal in the continent, with an enamel finish that made it gleam like lightning as it moved.
Aedric was watching her carefully from the other side of the ring. His head cocked to the side as she twirled the sword, spinning it in a neat circle around her body. She briefly caught a glimpse of Lady Myria gaping from the side, along with the entire room of royals as they watched Lady Lynessa Scarlett wield her blade.
Aedric took a step forward. “Are you sure about this?” he said softly so that only she could hear.
“Don’t sound so scared, princeling.”
Amara wanted to see if she could best the Prince of Esteria. And if he proved to be a worthy opponent after all.
He grinned, small dimples appearing on his golden skin. “My mother’s going to kill me for this.”
Amara matched his smirk, her grip tightening around her blade. “Not if I do first.”
And then she lunged.
Their blades clashed as he deflected her attack. For a heartbeat, he hesitated, their swords pressed together, the only thing separating them. He searched her eyes wearily as if looking for any shred of regret. That she no longer wished to take part. But Amara just winked at him. And that clearly was the only sign he needed.
Aedric brushed her blade to the side with his own, forcing her to retreat a few steps. She let out a breathy laugh and then was moving again. Amara feinted right and slipped past him, but Aedric spun with her, just managing to duck beneath her sword as it swooped overhead.
Okay, so maybe he is a good fighter, she mused to herself. But she was only just getting started.
Amara allowed her body to react on instinct as his blade lashed forward. She bobbed backwards, dodging his careful swings as he drove towards her. Amara had never seen someone fight this way. As though his muscles worked together like a kind of intricate machinery. She couldn’t fault his steps, his posture or balance. Each attack was as clever as the next, every part of his body obeying the music in his head.
He continued to force her backwards, both of them nearing the edge of the stone platform. Aedric’s sword didn’t stop its flurry of attacks and she needed to move. Now.
Amara parried before dropping to the floor and rolling across the podium. Through her centuries, she had learnt many lessons. She had taught herself the language of battle until she was fluent in every tongue. But only one of those lessons would be useful today. Hit the mark where it’s not looking.
A chorus of gasps filled the hall as Amara kicked her boot into the centre of his back. Aedric flew forwards, collapsing flat on his chest, his sword skidding to the side.
The crowd was silent in a mixture of fear and disbelief. Desperately, they watched their prince as Amara strode towards him.
“Aedric?” she asked, brow arched.
He still hadn’t moved, and it was beginning to worry her. Was it possible she had been too harsh? Had she not kept her strength in check? Was he all right?
“Aedric?” Amara repeated.
She was crouched beside him now, a hand resting on his shoulder. She was just about to roll him onto his back when suddenly she was on the floor. The next moment, Aedric was above her, grinning. His arms were braced either side of her head.
Amara snarled. He’d played her at her own game.
“It’s nice to see you were worried about me, lady,” he crooned.
But Amara didn’t bother to reply before bringing her knees up beneath him and driving them into his gut. The breath whooshed from his chest as he rolled to the side coughing.
In a blur of movement, Amara had snatched up her sword from the floor and was on him in a second. She held the blade against his neck, the metal brushing against his skin as his throat bobbed. Their eyes locked as she hovered above him, her dark hair draping down, tickling his face. The crowd around them had gone completely still, as though there was no one in the room but her and the prince.
Aedric drew a sharp breath. And then she pulled away.
The prince remained on the floor as Amara discarded her weapon. It clattered against the stone, the sound echoed around the cavernous space of the Octagon. Then slowly, one by one, the crowd began to clap. Amara clamped her lips together to stop from grinning as she performed a dramatic curtsy. The people erupted with cheers, chucking coins onto the platform.
What happened to Aedric . . . Amara didn’t stick around to find out. She slipped silently away from the hall at the first chance she got.
And as she swaggered down the corridor, adrenaline still coursing through her veins, Amara couldn’t help but think about the golden-haired prince below her. His short breaths and flickering pulse beneath her blade.
It’s better to have someone to ride out the silence with. She might just take him up on that offer.
26
When Amara arrived back to her room, the elderly maid who was busy dusting her shelves practically fainted at the sight of her. She gaped at Amara’s tousled hair and dishevelled tunic untucked from her trousers.
“Lady Lynessa,” she gasped, the wrinkles around her mouth intensifying. “Whatever happened to you?”
Amara merely waved her away before dropping down into one of the twin armchairs angled towards the hearth. She sighed, lazily stretching her arms above her head. Although, she paused halfway through the action, turning to face the startled maid.
“What would you say if I told you I just beat your precious little prince at a duel?” She couldn’t keep the smugness from her voice, or the grin curling her lips.
“I would say you’ve been having too much of that liquor from the cabinet,” the maid laughed to herself before turning back to her work.
Amara gasped and clutched at her heart. “I can’t believe you’d think that of me!”
The maid continued to chuckle softly and went about her business changing the sheets of Amara’s bed. Amara prayed the maid didn’t find the makeshift dagger she had tucked beneath her mattress earlier. That may be harder to explain than just messy hair and a crumpled shirt.
“I’ve just finished polishing that harp of yours, lady,” the maid chimed through the open double doors leading to the bedroom. “I know this may sound awfully rude of me, and if it does, please accept my sincere apologies but . . . it would be an honour to hear you play.”
Amara eyed the gilded harp beside the wide floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the rocky foothills and mountain passes below.
She didn’t see the harm in playing a song or two. In fact, Amara hadn’t realised just how much she enjoyed music until that recent performance for the Queen. And if she could handle that kind of audience, a single elderly woman should be easy.
Slowly, Amara rose from her seat and strode towards the harp, it’s golden body glinting in the morning sun. The maid had finished brushing out the creases in the linen sheets before moving to lean on the door frame. Amara perched on the tiny wooden stool beside the instrument. On instinct, her fingers found themselves upon the strings. They plucked each one tentatively, listening to the scale ascend then fall again, the different pitches blending together around the room. Amara let her eyes flutter shut as the final note lingered in the air. Her body experienced every minor vibration of the sound, it echoed, stroking against her senses like nothing she’d ever felt before.
She wasn’t sure that type of beauty still existed. The clarity of each note, purer than anything she knew. Untouched by darkness. And she was its creator.
Amara opened her eyes once more, then launched into a song.
Before Winvaris, she’d only ever played the harp a few times. Years ago, when she was on the run with Fenn, they’d come across a small musician band on the road. The High Cords, they were called. They performed all over Esteria, hopping from village to village, putting on performances during the day then were gone by nightfall. They’d allowed Fenn and Amara to travel with them for a while, and didn’t question when neither of them could be seen in the sun, preferring to remain in the shadows of the carts, amongst the stacks of instruments. Over the months they remained with them, the musicians made an effort to teach them the basics of all the different instruments, sharing their craft and passion. Amara had taken to it quickly, constantly wanting to learn more, to improve what she could already master. She had loved them all, however, she’d always favoured the harp. And Fenn had known that, too.
Amara had guessed that was the reason he’d picked Lady Lynessa for her to pose as. A famous virtuoso, known for her natural skill at playing the harp. And he’d not been wrong. She hadn’t realised just how much she’d missed playing. Missed the feeling of the strings against her fingertips and the beautiful harmonies it left in its wake.
Before Amara knew what was happening, the maid was stood before her, tears clouding her aged eyes.
“That was wonderful,” she said, placing a hand on her chest.
Amara blinked, her thoughts only just catching up with reality. “Thank you.”
The elderly woman’s face broke into a wide smile, marvelling at Amara. “Is it okay if I leave for a moment?” she asked, wiping her eyes on her apron. “I need to quickly tell everyone I know what I just heard. They won’t believe me!”
Amara laughed then nodded slowly. If only she knew.
With that, the maid tottered away, quietly humming Amara’s song to herself as she left.
In the fresh silence that soaked the room, Amara found herself gazing at the magnificent instrument. She traced her finger along the golden engravings, studying the flourish patterns and twining filigree. It had to be the finest harp she’d ever seen.
She hovered her fingers over the stings again, contemplating playing another song when a voice sounded from behind her.
“You know you actually have to touch the strings in order to play it,” Aedric said by way of greeting.
Amara abandoned any thought of beginning a song and eased out of her seat, spinning to face him. “Came to congratulate me?” she smirked, resting a hand on her hip.
But he only ignored her, raising a brow. “You look good in that.”
She narrowed her eyes before looking down at her slightly unconventional attire. Most of the royals had sneered when they’d seen she’d exchanged her gown for a pair of dark slacks. But she didn’t care how unladylike that made her. Hell, she’d just beaten the prince on Competition Day.
“Really? I’m surprised you think so,” Amara said, “I thought you liked your women wrapped up in dresses and tied with a bow.”
Leaning against a pillar, arms folded against his chest, Aedric tilted his head. “What I like, Lady Lynessa, is for women to wear what they want and what they feel most comfortable in. This, I believe, is what you prefer. And I’m not complaining. Like I said, you look good.” His voice was low with a rasp that could have only come from a morning of swordplay.
She grinned. “Not as good as I looked when I beat your ass earlier.”
Aedric let out a gravelly laugh, pushing off the pillar. “True,” he considered. “Perhaps we should train together sometime. It seems you could teach me a thing or two.”
“Oh, I could teach you more than just two things.”
Slowly, he began to make his way towards her, that half grin still tugging his lips. “Is that so?”
He stopped just short of her. Even the idea of being this near to someone was usually enough to make Amara’s skin crawl. But instead, she found herself wondering what would happen if she moved closer.
“Indeed,” she said, finding her eyes lingering on the steady rise and fall of his chest. “First, your footwork was messy.” Liar. “Second, you were too easily distracted. Third—”
“Am I supposed to deny that I find you awfully distracting?” he said softly, taking a step closer.
Amara swallowed as he tilted his chin down to look at her, holding her gaze. The side of his mouth twitched as if trying to suppress a smile. For a second, her mind went utterly blank, caught up within his scent of smoke and pine. By the Gods.
Amara shrugged. “Most people do.”
Aedric chuckled. His eyes flickered with dark amusement before he stepped away, going to marvel at the harp sat beside the window. Amara couldn’t decide whether it was relief or disappointment she felt. But she promptly ignored the latter.
He clasped his hands behind his back as he watched the instrument as though it would begin playing on a phantom wind.
“I’ve always enjoyed music,” he began, not looking up at her as he spoke. “I used to go to the theatre every week when I was younger. I’d watch the same performance of the same songs, but each time I was still blown away. When I went, it was as though I was no longer a prince. My title and crown disappeared. Instead, I was just a boy in love with music.”
Amara blinked. Was it possible he was finally lifting away the mask?
“What made you stop?” she asked quietly, going to join him by the window.
“My responsibilities caught up with me.” A flicker of sadness touched his features as he gazed at the harp. Although something told Amara that he wasn’t looking at the instrument before him, but instead had retreated inwards, focusing on the memories within.
“When my father grew ill, I took over most of his work. I had twice the number of reports to review, twice the amount of men to order and war strategies to plan. I had a country to rule. My mother does a lot, but I no longer had the time to escape to the music. My crown fell back on my head like a heavy load of rocks. My presence around the castle was crucial. The guard’s morale dropped in my father’s absence and it was up to me to keep Winvaris standing strong. It still is up to me.” His brow furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Over the last year, my title weighed me down so much that I found it hard to stand. I wanted to disappear so badly. Feel as free as I did at the theatre. And I hadn’t, until . . .” he trailed off into silence.
“Until what?” she urged gently.
Aedric shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
She didn’t know when it had happened, but her hand now rested on his forearm. His tanned skin was so warm beneath her cool touch. The warmth of life, something she had lost many years ago.
Aedric’s eyes slowly drifted towards her fingers. He wore an expression she couldn’t quite read. But before she could regret anything else, Amara drew her hand away, quickly pressing it against her side.
It was
the strangest sensation. Her palm still sparked like a dozen needles pricking into her skin. She clenched her fist but it didn’t fade. Heat blossomed there, and she wasn’t sure she liked it.
Aedric was watching her now, no evidence of that previous sorrow seen across his face as he grinned. “Do I make you nervous, Lady?”
But Amara merely rolled her eyes, her senses finally returning to her. “Not in the slightest. I just don’t fancy catching fleas.”
His head dropped back as he barked a laugh. “You do know you’re talking to a prince, don’t you?”
“Yes, I am quite aware,” she said sweetly, running a hand through her loose black curls. “Only a prince could be so arrogant.”
“You know, you should be careful what you say,” he warned, although she didn’t miss the quiver of his lips, the only fault in his composure.
She gasped dramatically, fanning herself with her hand. “And what will you do to me, mighty prince? Try to defeat me in a sword fight?”
Aedric shook his head and laughed again, his loose gold hair falling from where it was tied behind his head.
His dark eyes lit up as they met hers, the morning sunlight gilding the strong panes of his face. “How about I take you to the theatre to watch the orchestra play?”
Amara stopped smiling and cocked her head to one side. “Is that an offer, princeling?”
“Yes.”
She could have sworn her dormant heart stuttered. Was she dreaming? Of course not, because if she were, this would be a nightmare and outside it would be raining blood.
Amara mulled the question over in her mind.
The Red Ritual was only a few days away, not to mention the crazed killers patrolling the streets of Valmont like bloodhounds pining for her scent. Fassar would be waiting for her to slip up, to grow bored of her life at the castle and seek freedom amongst the network of city streets and slums. It would be foolish to give away her location for something as frivolous as an evening at the theatre with the prince.