A Glimmer on the Blade

by Rachel E. Baddorf

  “Well, she’s only a year younger than Arjent. And we have traveled together before. When I decided to come back from Oruno after graduation, Vansainté agreed to come with me and his parents wanted to open a western branch of their horse breeding and trading business. Vansainté, Copelia, five hands, and I brought twenty blood stock Delkerans through the Daro Wastes. On horseback, she handles herself better than almost anyone I know...” She trailed off, lost in a memory. “You should have seen it. Brother and sister on a Delkeran, sister guiding the horse with her knees, weaving in and out of a knot of raiders, shooting smoothly. And Vansainté, sitting backwards behind her, two swords flashing out when any raiders made the mistake of coming close enough.” She sighed, “it was a thing of beauty. They designed a set of tack for that trick. I wonder if she brought it with her...”

  “I don’t...understand.”

  “It’s not complicated. As an unblooded lord’s son, you have more to prove and are more likely to go off, trying to be a hero. And if you get killed, well there’s all that paperwork. The prince will probably shrug in his ephemeral way of his and find a new sycophant.” The last sentence came out more bitterly than she intended. His mouth was a thin line, pursed so hard his lips were almost white. His wide blue eyes almost screamed his question at her. She wondered if he swallowed the words any harder would they actually choke him?

  “You have no idea what has passed between the prince and I,” she said.

  “That is a fair certainty. He does not know you, Mizrahi.”

  She bore down on the reflex to slap him for his unintended slight. “Someday he will.” She folded her arms to keep from doing something she would regret later. “Someday he will know.” She dropped her dish in the dirty pile and closed herself into her tent, realizing that she sounded more than half sun-mad.

  ***

  Sea Road

  Corin

  Prince Corinado lay in the bedroll of Corin Deviida on top of the pile of canvas that was supposed to be his tent, arms under his head, staring at the stars. There were so many, he couldn’t pick out the constellations he knew. No matter where he had been in the palace, the light was bright enough to obscure many of the stars. The campfire had been banked for the night and the only sounds were the waves and the occasional owl in the forest.

  I should be afraid, he thought, I’m sleeping in a forest! In a forest without the safety of even a tent, surrounded by strangers. Something could come out of the trees at any moment and kill me. Why am I not afraid of it? The answer came to him after he paused to brush a moth out of his hair. He had used up his fear. He had finally gotten over the shock of finding himself not looking like himself this morning. His last portions of fear were reserved for the fact that his life, current and future, depended on the young unbalanced Red Dragon. And at the moment, he couldn’t be bothered to fear the darkness, or the trees. If anything, the waves lulled him, and the smell of earth and pine invigorated his aching body.

  His false identity was that of the prince’s observer. The only way Highlord Shaiso would back him in overriding imperial testing and Commander Franco’s decision to make Mizrahi the Red Dragon was if he had proof of Mizrahi’s unsuitability. Highlord Shaiso would discount everything but the most damning information. Idly, Prince Corinado wondered if Mizrahi was a foreign agent. He could have been sent by the countries that the Empire was currently at war with—Bygista or Noei most likely—in a plot to undermine the Empire’s winning position in the war.

  But if Mizrahi was a foreign agent, he was doing a sloppy job. He had come close to killing him during the ceremony, but Corinado was sure that had Mizrahi wanted, the duel would have been very short and fatal. Mizrahi let his anger at the prince show far too much for it to be false. An assassin would simply act like a dedicated Dragon and then kill the prince in his sleep. Corinado shook his head to himself. He was already starting to think of the prince as someone else, a faraway man alone in the palace. For a moment, vertigo overtook him, as if the world spun under his head. He struggled to pull himself back to Prince Corinado Miliarnes, the August Sundown Heir. That idea boiled, stirred in the subterranean places of his being. But the millions of tiny stars didn’t lie. He was not Corinado any longer. Corinado wore velvet and silk, slept in an oak four-poster bed, sparred with his friend Markham Shaiso, danced with the women of the court, and composed songs in his idle time. Corinado would have any commoner to insult him executed. None of it could be said of the man he now was.

  The struggle died in him. Corinado was also the man who had nearly cost Vansainté, a loyal and well-meaning bodyguard, his sword arm. A large part of him felt comfortable blaming Mizrahi for the whole incident. But a smaller part of him stared up into the night sky, breathed the night air without fear, and felt very alone. Corinado could never find out from a bodyguard why he bore him a grudge; he might order interrogation and torture, but he would never know the why. But Corin Deviida might. So that when he was once again August Sundown Heir, he would have the tools to put both Markham and Fadarin Shaiso between himself and the Red Dragon. Perhaps then he would have Vansainté as Red Dragon. The man seemed even tempered as well as forgiving.

  Forgiving? Where had that come from? Why would Vansainté need to be forgiving? And what in the world had he done as Imperial Prince to Ryelis Mizrahi to drive the man to such hatred? Corinado drifted off to sleep still pondering the question.

  CHAPTER 4

  Sea Road

  Anoni

  “Anoni, I know how you feel about the prince, but he’s fifteen now. Markham Shaiso’s just the beginning of the nobility returning to Aquillion. The young lords and ladies of the Highlord houses are suitable for his circle. I’m just a steward. We thought the prince needed a friend after the plague took his mother and brothers, and we lost your mother at the same time, so I thought it would help you to have him as a friend. But the plague’s gone now. This time had to come. You need to make a life of your own with people of your own class,” her father had said, kindness in his face.

  “NO!” She broke away, running down the dusty halls of the palace.

  It was the dream again. The same damn nightmare. Even knowing it was a dream didn’t help. The pain and terror would unfold, a jumble of events but always in the same order.

  She ran, hearing the clash of practice weapons in the courtyard and the admonishments of Franco through the walls. The yellowed stone of the deserted halls flew past. She’d been the prince’s sparring partner, but they took that from her. Her vantage point floated up and she watched her younger self run, charcoal drawings of the prince crumpled in her hand.

  She had been eavesdropping on one of the training sessions she used to attend, while drawing the prince with charcoal filched from her father’s office. She was thirteen, gangly and underdeveloped, with copper hair in a wild mane. She passed into the galleria without noticing and suddenly she slammed into a sweaty chest. It was Markham Shaiso, who was done sparring with the prince and on his way up to the noble apartments. He grabbed her, saying something, and started dragging her up the stairs toward his bed. She pleaded. She apologized. He was going to take her up there. None of the workmen or servants in the galleria would meet her eye on that day. They could not have done anything to help her. Over his shoulder, she saw the prince talking with a lord’s daughter. He hadn’t recognized her. She kicked the golden haired smiling youth in the shin. He growled and pulled her harder up the next two stairs. No one would help. She got a hand free, used what Franco had taught her, and punched Markham Shaiso in the throat. He choked, his grip falling away as he crumpled, fighting for breath. She saw the prince frown, noticing at last that something was wrong. Markham furiously climbed back up the stairs toward her. He dragged her by the hair back down the stairs to one of the rain barrels. Markham held her under, hand tight in her hair. She panicked, struggled, breathed in dark water, and then time went chaotic.

  She hadn’t remembered much until the moment the magistrate ordered her execution for stri
king a noble. She had heard her father crying in the grand audience chamber. She remembered Markham’s snide accusations that she had teased him and only had changed her mind when she saw the prince watching. She felt like she was breathing water again. The prince had sat there; he had never spoken up for her. She was his closest friend, or so she had thought. But, he had been silent. The fragile Emperor Ventirus, voice rasping and quiet, had spoken up as the guards led her from the chamber. Commuted sentence: exile in the Daro instead of death. The Daro was as good as death. She had felt like she couldn’t breathe and the prince had remained silent. Goddess! The dark water filling her nose and mouth as she struggled to get free! Anoni sat up with a gasp as harsh as the one she had made on that day, though this time she was relieved to find there was no water to be coughed out of her lungs, and no serving woman leaning over her. Her chest hurt with remembered pain and she wheezed a little. I died that day and a laundress had performed the breath of life and brought me back. But I never saw the Goddess’s silver fields. I never saw anything but darkness.

  “Mizrahi, wake up,” Vansainté called from outside the tent. “The sun has cursed us with his return. Come on!”

  “I’m coming,” she said. She cursed quietly, realizing she had reverted to her female form in the night. It happened sometimes when she had nightmares. As if my subconscious would waste effort making me sweaty and panicked in male form. She found the disguise stone hanging over the stone mail and activated it with a thought. The stone mail adjusted to her new dimensions as the silver sand fell away from her body. She cursed. She had forgotten to get out of the bedroll and now the sand was gritty in her blankets. The magical sand was impossible to get out of crevices and folds.

  ***

  Sea Road

  Corin

  Corin groaned and tried to roll over. Why am I sleeping on a rock?

  “Wake up! Breakfast is ready!”

  Whoever that idiot is, is going to be beheaded when I finally get up, he thought and tried to grab his pillow to pull over his head. His hand met leather saddlebags and stopped. His eyes popped open as the events of the previous day invaded his pain-plagued mind.

  “Oh man,” he cursed. He had hoped it was a bad dream. But the aches taking over his whole body seemed to suggest it was real. Hours in the saddle made his legs and butt feel as if the nerves had just decided to solidify in the pain. The onion smell of unwashed men and the stink of horse almost overpowered his nose. We didn't wash last night, he thought. And there won't be a bath this morning unless Mizrahi packed a copper tub in that wagon. I doubt it. He's too much of an army beetle to do that, though he’s a bit small for the job. Leave me in a ditch for the vultures, will you. “Oh,” he grunted, slowly sitting up as his back muscles protested. A ditch wouldn’t hurt as much...

  Kneading his muscles, he noticed his surroundings. The fractured light of dawn filtered through the trees and smell of oat porridge came from the direction of the kettle on the fire. Giovicci was dressed and going through a training pattern with his short swords. Nekobashi and Yupendra were practicing glaive against staff. Tevix and Wix were doing two-man stretches. The men were dressed in the plain uniform of merchant guards. A little farther off was their leader, whipcord thin, dark brown hair swinging as he slowly went through a training pattern with a sword in his right hand, dagger in his left. The pattern sped up, so to Corin’s sleep-bleary brain, it seemed the light was bending around the flashing blades. It was a dance, blades circling through the four defensive positions.

  Corin hastily put on a shirt and pants from the saddlebags under his blanket. He stuffed his feet in his boots and went to get a bowl of porridge, sweetened with a little honey. Used to coffee and pastries made by the palace chefs in the morning, a niggling negative thought passed through his brain until he tasted it. Instantly, he felt that nothing had ever tasted as good as the warm porridge after a day in the saddle followed by a night on the cold ground.

  The camp got moving faster than he would have thought; they started riding out as the sun began to shine through the trees. Over the course of the afternoon Corin nearly bit a hole in the inside of his cheek in an effort not to groan with pain. Between the riding yesterday and sleeping on the ground like a vagabond, his thighs and back ached worse than on days when Franco decided he needed a special lesson. He could tell the men were laughing at him, and at length he decided it was funny. He was moving around hunched over like a grandfather. It took him most of the morning just to be able to notice the changes around him. Just as the guards had changed their clothes so had Copelia. Corin had never seen anything like it, but Copelia wore wide legged brown pants instead of a skirt, a roomy blue jacket, and archer’s wrist and arm guards. She was on her best behavior, displaying little of the drama of the night before. Even Dog stayed inconspicuous, trotting by her side.

  Something was missing for him, and by two hours past lunch, he had figured it out. He had no notebook. Since he was a child, he had had a notebook with charcoal on hand for music notation. His current notebook was conspicuously absent from the pack High Priestess Stellys had given him.

  “Those women should have known I would want one,” he grumbled. His fingers itched to put down some lines. He didn’t even know what he would write. He’d always had the urge to compose when things happened of note in his life. He would have to buy a notebook if the opportunity presented itself. Corin saw Mizrahi and Vansainté speaking in hushed tones, both of them obviously looking at him.

  Vansainté said, “Well, we’re getting older, not wiser,” with exasperation. Mizrahi grunted something. Corin was surprised to see Mizrahi dropping back in the column, only to be followed a few moments later by Copelia. Mizrahi drew even with Corin.

  “How goes it?”

  “It’s a fine afternoon,” Corin said, confused. The weather was clear, the air cool, and the high-canopied trees on either side of the road kept the worst of the sun off their backs. What did the Red Dragon want from him?

  “You ride well.”

  “Thank you,” Corin said. He couldn’t exactly return the compliment. He wasn’t that good at lying.

  The Red Dragon looked momentarily out of his depth, a look that flickered into panic as Copelia came to ride by his side.

  Turning grim, the Dragon tried again, ignoring the girl. “I have heard you are new to Aquillion. Do you know the prince well?”

  Corin choked on a laugh. “I should think so. Better than anyone.”

  “How does his highness spend his time, nowadays?” Mizrahi snapped.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Our reports on his movements are not complete. The regular guards only keep loose track of him. If we are to guard the man, we must know what he does...how he thinks.”

  “It would be interesting to know an emperor’s mind,” Copelia said, yawning into her hand.

  Corin nodded to the girl, but latched onto the opening. “My report is a bit sparse as well.”

  “Your report?” Mizrahi asked.

  “My observations of the Dragons. The prince eagerly awaits any intelligence I can give him,” he said, elaborating on this easy lie.

  “When it comes down to it, we are Dragons. What else is there to know?” Mizrahi fingered the ruby on the hilt of his sword. “Your names, for instance. Where are you from?”

  “I answer to Sir, Red Dragon, Captain, Ryelis to strangers, and Mizrahi to my friends. You’ve spoken to my first lieutenant, Vansainté. Youngest son of the horse breeding clan Caruda out of Oruno.” Mizrahi pointed over to a black man with long braids. “Second lieutenant is Wix. He and his cousin Tevix”—he pointed to the other black man—“are Jaika masters. For all the Empire thinks, hand to hand is undisciplined and crass, they’re the last line of defense for the emperor. Deadly unarmed or with the maitha...Those are knuckle and foot blades.” Mizrahi pointed to the small punching blades currently on Wix’s hands.

  Corin surprised himself by asking, “If the lords and military think so badly of unarmed combat
, why have them so close to the emperor?”

  Mizrahi gave a hearty laugh. “Because keeping the nobility happy isn’t our job. Protecting the emperor is. Put them in a council room with the emperor and diplomats, where most men will be wearing their ceremonial blades, and they become invisible as servants or secretaries. Deadly is an understatement...” There was an unpleasant smile on his lips. “Anyway, Tevix usually cooks. That is Yupendra,” he said, pointing out the big, bald Dragon with the golden skin. “He’s the healer. If you catch a blade or arrow out here, you go to him first. Or, come to think of it, if there’s any trouble, you stay near him. He’s our best archer and can usually keep attackers from getting close enough to do damage.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” He didn’t really care about these men; he wanted to know about their homicidal leader.

  “Then there’s Nekobashi.” Mizrahi pointed at the other gold-skinned man, this time with black hair. “You know about him. Next is Giovicci, a master with a blade.” He indicated the man tuning the guitar for another song. “But don’t let him corner you, or he’ll talk your ear off. He’s a bit of a scholar.”

  “And the last one is a squire or something. Arjent, right?” Corin asked.

  Mizrahi smiled. “Let’s just say you don’t want to meet Arjent in a dark alley at night. Throwing knives are his favorite weapon, and he loves to practice. If he comes at you, just hold very still. He only misses when you panic.”

  Corin waited for Mizrahi to laugh and say he was joking. He didn’t. Disgruntled, Corin muttered, “It’s a good rule in general when facing Dragons.”

  “What?” questioned Mizrahi.

  “I mean, I heard about the Introduction Ceremony. Court gossips were laying bets at the prince’s birthday party whether you were sun-mad, holding a grudge, or just looking to be famous. They say you were really angry with the prince.”