by Ken Brosky
“So sayeth the great science fiction author Isaac Asimov,” Briar said. “I see you’ve been reading the books I suggested. Good on you, young man. I knew the moment I saw you wearing a stylish vest that you would be a keeper.”
Chase glanced at me. I blushed furiously. “The rabbit has good taste,” I told him.
“Well, there are other things to discuss,” Briar said. “Like, for instance, why this castle is so danged cold and also …”
There was a knock at the door. Briar hopped to the other side of the massive dresser, ducking behind it. I gave him a curious look as I walked over to the door, wondering why he hadn’t simply turned invisible.
I opened the door and stepped back, gasping. One of the prince’s drivers stood outside, wearing a black suit and a black cap, his jaw clenched. He was still wearing the dark sunglasses, despite being indoors. Beneath his jaw was a dark beard. Just like a lion’s mane.
He dropped Chase’s suitcase on the hardwood floor, staring down at me through his black sunglasses. “Do you require anything else?” he asked in a low growl.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “We’re fine. Thank you.”
“I shall put the other suitcases in the other rooms,” he said.
“Good.” I glanced at Briar. His ears had drooped and he was still hiding behind the end of the dresser. I turned back to the driver, but he was already gone.
Leaving behind a golden trail.
Chapter 3
“All right!” Mr. Whitmann called out over the clang of steel blades echoing in the massive gym. “I want Jasmine and Rachel, and I want Scott and Miguel. Let’s go!”
The girls and boys took their places on the red practice mats, putting on their masks and touching blades before beginning. It was hard to stay focused—the city of Agnosara’s gym was huge, big enough for teams from ten countries to practice at once, each team getting two mats each. The clang of foils echoed in the rafters above us. Unlike the place in Hungary, this gym was dedicated solely to fencing. No basketball scoreboards hanging above. Only a fencing scoreboard, turned off for the time being. The bleacher seats weren’t quite empty—a few locals were sitting near the Romanian team, cheering them on as they traded blows.
The gym was cool, as in cold. Perfect for fencing in full gear. We were in the far corner, near the Italian team; between Mr. Whitmann’s encouraging shouts, the fierce-looking Italian coach bellowed foreign orders with all the intensity of a soldier in an action movie. He swayed his hips. He stomped on the floor. He tugged on his shiny black hair as if he wanted to tear it out.
“He’s intense,” Chase said, wheeling up beside me.
“Intense?” I asked, incredulous. “He’s a walking can of Mountain Dew.”
Chase chuckled. “The Italian girls are good.”
“Grayle said they’re some of the best.”
“He might be right.”
I turned to him. “That’s not what I want to hear right now.”
Chase shrugged. “Everyone has their weakness. We just need to find it.”
“OK!” Mr. Whitmann called out. “Alice and Adam, front and center.”
“We’re fighting each other?” Adam asked, eyeing me warily. “What if she beats me? I can’t have that, Mr. Whitmann.”
“You’re not fencing with each other,” Mr. Whitmann said. “You’re practicing with Japan.”
I grabbed the extra mask from our bench, searching the busy floor for Japan’s telltale flag: white, with a red circle in the center. I found it just past Hungary’s familiar team, which had paused momentarily to shoot the breeze while their coach hurried to the bathrooms on the other side of the gym. In Japan’s section, a boy and girl were already suited up, waiting patiently on their mats.
“What do I do?” I hissed at Chase. I felt my palms get sweaty. “I don’t know anything about them!”
He grabbed my hand. “Just breathe. Then breathe again.”
I took two deep breaths, ignoring the dull ache in my ribs and letting a cool blue hue settle over my surroundings. Feeling his skin touch mine had a calming effect, although I would have preferred if he not felt the sweat on my palms.
“Feel it out,” he ordered. “Adjust on each point. I’ll be there with you.”
“OK.” Adam and I walked over to Japan’s mats. As we passed the Hungarians, one of the boys made a comment in his language and the entire team laughed. I ignored it, but I could see by Adam’s stiffness that he’d taken offense.
“Let it go,” I whispered. “They’re jerks.”
“Right, right. Whatev.” Adam held up his foil. “I’d challenge them to a duel, but I’d probably lose.”
“Confidence,” Chase said, wheeling beside us. “Don’t go in thinking like that, Adam. Your body adjusts to your mind. If you’re not confident, your opponent will see it.”
Adam shook his head, giving his male opponent a brisk nod as they stepped onto the mat. I walked past the rest of the Japanese team, trying to give them the friendliest smile that I could manage. To my surprise, most of them returned the gesture. The girls were smaller than me, and each had cut her dark hair short, pulling it behind her ears. My opponent’s style was no different, although she had dyed red streaks in her hair and was a little taller. Mostly in the legs, too. And her face? Well, her face was positively beautiful. Makeup-free, just a few freckles on her forehead like a constellation of stars poking out from between clouds.
“Gawd, I would kill for your complexion,” I told her. She smiled, tapping my saber blade with hers.
We put on our masks, stepping on the mat. I took a few steps, feeling it out. It was a little squishier than the U.S. team’s mats. My feet would need to adjust with each step. I got into my stance, tucking my left arm behind my back.
The Japanese coach shouted “Go!” so loud that it seemed to temporarily quiet the entire gym.
My opponent leapt forward, catching me off-guard. I swung my saber upward, deflecting the first blow and feeling it resonate in my fingers. She came on again and again, not giving me time to reset my feet. I fell back. Her saber sliced up, then back down, then stabbed at my stomach. Each time, my sword felt clumsier and clumsier in my hand. Her grace was awe-inspiring. She moved so swiftly, advancing like a ballet dancer, her feet barely touching the mat.
The green light on the side of my opponent’s helmet began blinking.
“Point for Kai!” the Japanese coach announced.
I lowered my blade, stunned. I hadn’t even felt it.
“Blade up!” Chase called out.
“Duh,” I hissed, resetting my stance. I waited for the coach to call out again, and this time I jumped forward. Balestra. My opponent had the same idea; our blades crossed and our bodies crashed into one another. Kai fell back just a bit, but it was all I needed to take the right of way. I attacked, slicing up and then down, and then down again as I saw her blade flip back. She parried each blow, albeit clumsily, and with each deflected attack I grew angrier and angrier. Just concede the point! I stabbed with my saber again and again, daring to bring my feet so close that I was nearly tripping Kai as she stepped back. I brought my blade up toward her mask and she deflected it, but not without risk: her midsection was exposed now. I brought my blade down, slicing across and feeling the blade bounce off her protective chest plate.
“Point for Alice!”
We danced back and forth on the mat. I lost three points in a row, then won two. I lost three more. My ribs began to ache. The muscles in my right arm burned. My hand felt cramped. At one point, my left hand slipped out from behind my back, trying to deflect Kai’s blade. The metal bounced off my soft palm and I cried out in pain. I got angrier. Why was she so good at defending? How could she be so patient while she was stuck inside this hot suit with the sounds of her own labored breathing echoing inside her mask?!
When she finally finished the last point and took off her mask, I learned a terrible truth: she had barely even broken a sweat. She bowed, eyes lowered, and handed off
her blade.
Chase gave me a nod. “You did well.”
“I lost!”
He spun in his chair, wheeling alongside me as we returned to the U.S. section. I made sure to give the Hungarians a wide berth, not interested in overhearing any real or imaginary insults lobbed my way. “You did well. She’s a really good defender. Creepy good. She was waiting for openings.”
“Chase!” I turned to him, taking in a sharp breath. “Just … I don’t want to hear that I did well right now, OK? I lost. I freaking lost and I was scared and ticked off and my hand hurts because I tried to grab her freaking sword.”
Chase’s lips pursed. My eyes dared him to say something more, but he didn’t. Good decision, baby.
Mr. Whitmann took Margaret and Miguel over to the Romanian team. Then he took Rachel and Scott over to France. All of the countries were switching off now, getting practice with each other. No one besides us was losing in quite such a lopsided way, though.
We reconvened three hours later, tired and leaning heavily on each other’s shoulders, slumped over on the uncomfortable aluminum bleacher seat.
“OK,” Mr. Whitmann said with a drawn-out sigh. He rubbed his mustache. There are no answers there, Mr. Whitmann, I thought. “One more and we’ll call it a day. How’s about it? Any volunteers?”
“Alice,” Chase said. I glared at him.
“I’ll volunteer,” Miguel said, raising his hand half-heartedly. “Anything to get back to our comfortable beds at the castle.”
“Gee, what a wonderful attitude,” Chase muttered. He looked at me. “Think you can muster a little more energy than that?”
I nodded, not wanting to talk. To be entirely honest, laying on the bed alone in my room sounded like an awesome idea. I could turn out the expensive lamp and stare up at the ceiling and maybe swear a little bit under my breath. Or I could throw pillows—yeah, that sounded like a good idea, too.
So does throwing all of our fencing gear in the trash. No, Alice, don’t be stupid. There’s no way all of it would fit in a trashcan. Better just burn it all.
“Hey. You good?” Chase asked.
“Yeah. Just fantasizing about burning all our stuff …”
“These girls are intense,” he said, tossing me the mask. “They’re going to come hard. Don’t just parry … beat parry.” He pretended to hold a saber, then swung down quickly, cutting through the air. “Parry with a hard strike. Aim for the middle of your opponent’s saber so it bounces away from her body. You’ll create some openings.”
“Beat parry,” I repeated, flexing my sore left hand. “And don’t try to block an attack with your free hand,” I whispered to myself.
To say our Italian opponents were excited was an understatement. They were downright pumped, bouncing up and down, watching us walk around their teammates as if we were juicy gazelles waiting to be pounced on. My opponent was pretty, with a tanned face and brown curly hair that ran down her shoulders. Her fencing outfit was tight on her body, like it had been specially ordered just for her.
Mine, meanwhile, had some substantial slack in the butt area.
“Sofia,” the girl said.
“Alice,” I responded, giving her a quick nod. I took a deep breath, holding the saber in front of me. Sofia responded in turn, only she held her saber a bit higher, her other hand held high above the back of her head as if she was carrying an invisible tray of food.
“Allez!” the Italian coach shouted.
I gave Sofia the right of way, parrying her furious blows. She was less graceful than my Japanese opponent, but stronger. I had to take a step back, then another, my blade held diagonally so that it was easier to parry the diversified attacks: up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right. Each time, our blades clanged together. She took the first point, then the second. After each point, she tightened her free hand into a fist and let out a primal scream.
“Beat parry!” Chase shouted from the sideline.
“I’ll beat parry you,” I muttered, getting into position again. My opponent followed suit. She stood like a statue, in perfect form. Her chest rose and fell slowly, much slower than mine. I was already gathering fast breaths, trying to ignore the wet heat gathering inside my stifling mask. Did they turn up the furnace or what?!
“Allez!” the Italian coach shouted.
She came at me again, this time alternating between slicing and stabbing. Slice up, then stab … slice down, then stab … back up again, then stab again …
Now! I saw her next move coming and anticipated, putting extra oomph into my parry when Sofia sliced downward. Her blade bounced back and that was all I needed. I took the offensive, alternating my blows and aiming for the left side of her chest. I stabbed, then moved in closer for a sideswipe left, then right. Her feet faltered. I saw another opening and took it, stabbing again.
“Point Alice!” the Italian coach shouted with somewhat comical dismay.
“That’s right!” Chase yelled. I could hear the voices of my teammates, too, but there was no time to survey the audience—Sofia was already lined up and in position again.
“Time,” Chase called. He wheeled to the edge of the mat. I met him and took off my mask, thankful for the fresh air. “I want you to execute a horizontal fleche,” he said.
“That’s against the rules!”
Chase nodded. “You’re just going to get in her head a little bit. Test her mental agility. We need to know her limits for when we play her in the tournament.”
I put my mask on, returning to the mat. I got into place, tensing the muscles in my legs. The moment the coach shouted “Allez!” I jumped forward, my body straightening horizontally like Superman flying through the air. I stabbed with my saber, connecting with a very surprised Sofia’s chest plate before landing hard on the mat, protecting my ribs by landing on my elbows.
“No point!” the coach announced. “Warning!”
Sofia cocked her head. I stood and gave a shrug. The coach set us up again and shouted “Allez!” This time, I sensed a moment of hesitation on Sofia’s part. I took the initiative, advancing quickly and slicing at the bottom half of her torso. She slipped back, frustrated, unable to defend my next cut to her left side.
“Point for Alice,” the coach announced in an icy tone. “En garde.”
We returned to our starting position.
“Allez!” the couch shouted.
I advanced, taking the initiative and swinging my blade down, aiming for Sofia’s shoulder. She parried with precision, surprising me with the force of her blow. I kept up my attack, stabbing at her stomach and then turning my attention on her right shoulder again with short, quick cuts. She parried each one, matching my tempo and intensity.
Then it was her turn.
It was as if she’d just woken up and downed a cup of coffee. As if she hadn’t been practicing all morning. As if she had an extra freaking gallon of gas in her tank. I parried the blows as best I could, trying to block out my teammates’ cheers. Each blow seemed to sap my strength. Sofia brought her blade down with a frightening ferocity, and I felt my saber handle slip in my grasp. I tried to recover, panting for extra oxygen, ignoring the bead of sweat slipping around my eyebrow. I had to attack. I had to do it now while I still had some strength left.
Her blade swept toward my head. I parried, feeling the attack reverberate down the blade to the handle, numbing the tips of my fingers. She stabbed and I side-stepped, pushing the blade aside and trying to bring my own across her stomach. But her blade was already there, parrying with such intensity that the burning muscles in my arm couldn’t prevent the saber from slipping out of my grasp.
She stabbed me in the chest plate, then celebrated with an epic scream.
Showering never felt so good. It would have been even better if I’d gotten the entire locker room to myself, but no dice: our team shared shower time with Hungary, South Korea and France. Rachel and Jasmine finished first, neither of them particularly interested in hanging out in the locker room. Margaret�
��in true Margaret fashion—tried her best to strike up a conversation with some of the others, but only one of the French girls was interested in talking about the fencing boys.
I blocked everyone out as best I could, opting for a not-quite-cold shower to wash away my frustration. With my eyes closed, I played out the practice matches, scrutinizing my every move. My advances were clumsy. I parried high when I should have pushed the opponent’s blade to the right of my body, leaving her midsection open for an attack. My free hand—still sore—flopped around like a fish when I started getting pushed back.
“Ugh,” I muttered, wiping steam away from one of the five mirrors on the far end of the girls’ locker room. I’d been last to leave the showers.
“Ugh is right,” Margaret said, rolling a tube of lipstick my way. I caught it, applied a thin layer and puckered. “And could we not eat dinner with that creepy prince guy tonight? Please?”
“The prince,” spat one of the tall girls from Hungary standing beside me. Like, literally: she spat into her sink. “He is a dark one. His family is full of murderers and despots. Do you know this word?”
“Despots,” I repeated, putting two fingers to my temple as if my machine-like brain was recalling the information. “Tyrants. Harsh rulers. Authoritarians.”
“Good, good.” She spat again. “Generations of violence and war. He is no different.”
“I think he’s too preoccupied with his tourist trap to take over the world,” Margaret muttered, leaning in close to her mirror to apply eye shadow. “One of the dresser drawers in my room is full of Castle Vontescue t-shirts.”
The Hungarian girl laughed disdainfully. To her left, one of her teammates slid over a brown pill bottle. It stopped beside her little blue makeup bag. She opened it, grabbed a big yellow pill and popped it in her mouth. She ran the faucet, filling her cupped palm and sipping from it.
“What was that?” Margaret asked. “Oh, please tell me it’s the secret for your healthy-looking hair. Please, please, please.”