Displaced (The Birthright Series Book 1)

by Bridget E. Baker

  “Oww,” I complain.

  Mom swings around, her sword halting an inch before my throat. She laughs. “And you’re dead.”

  “Okay,” I say, my arm healed. “Let’s try again.”

  She does, lunging at me from a basic andante and waiting for me to block. I do better the second time, and much better the third and fourth.

  Then she stops and drops the tip of her sword. “But you don’t win by blocking.”

  “Okay.” I have no intention of even trying to win, but she can’t know that.

  As if she can read my mind, Mom’s sword arm goes slack. “Do you even want to beat Lark?” Her eyes fill with compassion. “Be honest.”

  I shrug. “I’ve never been a warrior. It’s not part of who I am like it is with you or with Judica.”

  “You’re stronger than you know, Chancy. Truly.”

  I wish strength didn’t mean hurting people, but for us it does. “Well, lay it on me then. How do I win?”

  “It’s not the same for everyone, but your hurdle will be overcoming your disdain for causing pain. You can really only win a fight on the offensive. Defense just prolongs your defeat. It may help you to know that a quick win is much less painful than a protracted one. So a few calculated injuries may be the most merciful course.”

  “I need to strike you quickly and with purpose. That’s what you’re saying.”

  Mom’s lips compress grimly.

  Before I have time to think it through, I swing at her, and she’s close enough that my borrowed blade will connect. She doesn’t block or make any move to stop me.

  Horrified, I pull back. “Mom!”

  “And that’s the crux of your problem.”

  I frown. “What is?”

  “You can’t bring yourself to hurt people, Chancy. Until you can, it doesn’t matter whether melodics clicks for you or not. You can’t survive among our people without hurting anyone, and you certainly can’t leave me and go to New York City until I believe you’re capable of defending yourself.”

  Great. Now Mom will use my loss to Lark as ammunition to keep me here, under Judica’s thumb. Or fork, as the case may be.

  I glance at my watch. “Five minutes. I better go wash off this blood and get ready to be destroyed.”

  At least Mom won’t think it’s weird when Lark beats me, which is my real goal. I wish it didn’t bother me that everyone will think I’m as pathetic as Mom does.

  I jog through the doorway to my adjoining room and change clothes, tossing the shirt and pants I borrowed from Mom into the corner. I pull on a fitted white shirt and tight white pants for the challenge, and then tug my hair into a high ponytail. I consider removing my purple stone necklace. It’s large and ornate, and I’m worried it may get in the way during the challenge. On the other hand, Mom made me promise never to remove it. So in the end, I leave it alone.

  My heart races as I lace up my shoes, and I focus on calming it. I can’t have every evian in attendance knowing I’m agitated. Why did I agree to this again? Oh, right. Lark needs me.

  I can do this for her. I can. Maybe if I repeat that over and over in my head, it’ll be true. Poor Lark deserves a better friend than me.

  Ironically, if I were better, I couldn’t do her this favor. It’s only because I’m pathetic that people will believe my defeat. Take that, fate. I listen for my Mom next door, but don’t hear anything. She’s either still in our private courtyard, or she’s already left her room. She doesn’t typically attend private challenges, but I have a feeling she’s coming to this one.

  My room is simpler than Mom’s, but features the same colors. Hardly surprising, since she designed it for me, remodeling my father’s old room to be a nursery and then updating it again when I turned ten. At least Mom’s consistent in what she likes. I pad across my thick, contoured carpet to the exterior door and yank it open. My heart’s beating at a normal rate, and I’m holding the sword Mom loaned me. I’m as prepared as I can be, and there’s no point in being late for something I’ve agreed to do.

  I walk briskly down the long breezeway to the combat hall. I really, really hope it’s Mom’s War Lord Balthasar officiating, not his second-in-command. Edam’s already seen me look pathetic. Twice. I’d rather not add a third instance in the same day. So of course, when I walk through the enormous doorway into the room, Edam’s standing up on the raised dais. His eyes meet mine and my heart picks up speed. Dang it.

  And then I glance around and notice the entire hall is packed. Why have this many people turned out for a simple challenge? Probably because we’ve both been trained by our mothers in secret for seventeen years.

  Sometimes evian life can really suck.

  Lark’s already standing on the platform behind Edam. Her face would look blank to anyone else, but I notice the tension between her eyebrows and the tight set of her mouth. I glance around at the people I’ve known my entire life as I walk up the stairs, waiting to watch and pass judgment.

  Once I’m close enough that she can hear me, I whisper. “I didn’t realize how boring things had gotten around here.”

  I may not be the scary twin, the powerful twin, the warrior twin. But at least I’m funny.

  “With my birthday celebration tomorrow and dozens of humans in attendance today,” my mother says quite loudly behind me, “I’m surprised more of them aren’t attending to what I assume are pressing duties.” Her words scatter at least a third of the audience, which I appreciate.

  Mom changed out of her simple white pants and shirt, and is now wearing a rich, chocolate taffeta evening gown, with a stiff, high collar. She rustles as she approaches the ring. “Good luck, little dove,” she whispers.

  I’d rather everyone on the island stay, if only Mom wouldn’t watch herself. I should just be grateful Judica’s not here. I wonder why Edam didn’t mention it to her. She’d hold off on hearing petitions to watch me be humiliated every day of the week and twice on Monday.

  “Where’s Balthasar?” I whisper to Lark.

  “He’s reviewing last minute party plans for your mother’s gala tomorrow,” Edam says. “I figured that was more important than a friendly challenge. Lark indicated it’s to first major injury. Do you concur?”

  Spine, head, heart, severed limb. I nod mutely. Those all sound plenty bad to me.

  Edam raises his voice so everyone can hear. “Lark ne’Lyssa Alamecha has challenged Chancery Alamecha, second heir to the throne of Family Alamecha, seventh removed from Eve, to first major. The results will be determined by Empress Enora Alamecha. We are honored by her presence.” He bows.

  “We are honored by her presence,” the audience repeats.

  My mother nods my direction. “They’ve selected blades?”

  First major injury by hand-to-hand combat could take hours. Gross.

  “Yes,” I say at the same time as Lark. I lift my longsword-on-loan and Lark lifts her weapon, a curved sword that looks much lighter than mine. I wish I had a weapon of my own.

  “I’ll count them off.” Edam walks to the edge of the platform and claps four times, followed by chanting, “Three, two, one.” He flips over the edge of the platform and lands on the balls of his feet outside the arena.

  I should have been paying less attention to Edam and more to Lark, clearly. Her sword arcs down toward my right side, about to strike my right shoulder.

  When I step aside from her cut easily, I realize we may be in trouble. I thought she’d destroy me since I haven’t done any actual fights, but she’s slow. Really slow. And if I don’t figure out how to make this quick, everyone else is bound to notice.

  “Afraid to hurt your friend?” I ask, trying to play off her speed limitations as reticence. That’s believable, right?

  Lark narrows her eyes at me, and slams her sword toward me directly, much faster this time. I block it, but the force slams me back several steps and I bump into the ropes. I press back, and she parries several blows by me before twisting her curved sword around, hooking it under mine, an
d shoving it wide.

  When she yanks backward with hers, it clips my ribs and the sharp edge of her blade splits the side of my body open. I nearly drop my sword. Blood pours out of the slice and I focus on healing it. Unfortunately, that distracts me from Lark’s next attack, and I don’t block it. Her blade slams into my right arm, and this time I do drop Mom’s sword when I spin away from her.

  No sword, two wounds, no time. I agreed to throw this match, but at this rate, I’ll be a laughingstock. And no one even knows she’s half human. Good grief. I drop into andante and slowly edge away from Lark, even though I know she’s driving me to the opposite side of the dais from my blade.

  That’s fine. I don’t need my blade when I can take hers. She jabs, but this time, instead of blocking, I let her stab me in the stomach. I grab her blade and yank, toppling her into me. I know pain. Judica hurts me all the time, but even so, I didn’t expect the lancing agony when Lark’s scimitar pierces both my liver and my kidney.

  Spots dance in front of my eyes.

  I am evian. I can do this. I stomp on her foot and pull harder on her blade, wrestling for control. I toss it in the air and catch it in my blood-slicked hands, ready to do some damage. And then it hits me that Lark may not be able to heal a major wound. I can’t chance it. I have no idea what she can heal, or how long it takes.

  We should have taken at least a day to prepare.

  So when Lark springs away from me and inches backward toward my sword, I act like I don’t even realize she’s doing it. I advance on her directly, backing her right into her last chance. I feint left and then cut her right arm. Not deep, but I better do some damage or we’ll never sell this. Then I cut at her from the right, hard, and she drops into a crouch to snag my sword. When she stands back up, I don’t pull back. She pivots and brings her new blade straight up into my belly.

  It slides through my stomach and shoves onward, severing my spine. I collapse on the floor of the ring like a marionette with cut strings, blood bubbling up into my mouth. When I cough, I spray blood all over Lark’s pants. I’ve healed the slice on my side and my arm, and my hands are nearly healed, but it feels like a fire poker is incinerating my insides. At least I can’t feel anything from the waist down. I’ve always heard that’s the best thing about spinal cord injuries.

  Edam leaps onto the platform, his feet on either side of my face. He shifts me slightly, gauging the damage. “Her spine’s been severed.”

  The audience doesn’t shout or hoot or murmur. They’re utterly silent. I take my nearly healed hands and grasp the blade and tug. It doesn’t budge. I’m supposed to remove the blade myself, but I’m not sure I can. I close my eyes to try and steel my resolve.

  Everyone’s watching. I grit my teeth and turn so that I have a better grip on the blade, and I yank again. It shifts two inches and blood gushes from my stomach onto the mat. It also bubbles up into my throat. I cough again to clear my airway and spit it out next to me.

  Lark pales and her eyes widen in concern. I hope she gets it together soon, or attract undue attention. I shove up on one elbow and use the angle to force the blade out the rest of the way. Then I focus immediately on healing my spinal column. It only takes ten seconds or so, but they drag on and on.

  Once I’ve fixed that, I close my eyes and sink back to the mat to focus on the rest. Stomach, abdominal muscles. “I’m fine,” I say. “Lark beat me, well and truly.”

  Mom stands up and brushes off her immaculate skirt. “I have work to do.” She spins on her heel and marches out of the room. The rest of the audience begins to whisper after she leaves, but I don’t listen to a single word. As I heal up all the minor wounds and seals things off, I can’t quite suppress a small smile of relief. Mom may be annoyed or embarrassed, and I will surely catch crap from Judica, but Lark is a lock for an intelligence placement where she’ll be safe. We did it.

  When I open my eyes, Edam’s watching me, and I don’t like his pensive expression.

  “What?” I ask softly.

  “Most people don’t look happy when they lose.”

  “I’m not happy.” I force myself to sit up as the skin of my abdomen closes up. “I’m relieved I’m not hurting anymore. That’s all.”

  “Your sister becomes downright hostile.” He offers me a hand, which I accept.

  “I heard she never loses.”

  “Everyone loses sometimes,” he says.

  “Speaking of Judica, why aren’t you guarding her? Aren’t you head of her personal guard?”

  Edam shrugs. “I run the guard roster, and I take my turns, but I’m not watching her all the time. Besides, my duties as Balthasar’s second take precedence, and he asked me to moderate this.” He reaches for my blade.

  I snap it up off the floor before he can.

  “I can clean it for you,” he offers.

  “No,” I say childishly. “I always clean it myself.” As if it’s not completely obvious to everyone in the room it was my first time ever using a sword. It’s like my IQ drops fifty points around Edam.

  “As you like,” he says. “But for the record, I didn’t think you did badly at all.” His voice drops to the barest whisper. “In fact, I really thought you had her.”

  If Mom hadn’t drilled it into my head that swearing is a sign of low intelligence, I’d say a horrible word under my breath. Because I just healed my severed spine, and I thought we were in the clear. My only play is to act like I have no idea what he means.

  “I thought so, too. Overconfidence, maybe. I’ve clearly got some hard training ahead of me. Mom looked... displeased.”

  Edam studies my face for a moment, his eyes travelling from my mouth up to my eyes. “I’d be happy to help, if you ever want to try any other training methods.”

  Studying with my twin’s super hot, uber intense boyfriend? Umm, I really want to say yes, and I also want to run away screaming. Lark notices I’m drowning and jumps in to drag me to shore. “We both better get cleaned up. Thanks for moderating.”

  Edam straightens and assumes the expression I’m used to seeing. Total absence of any emotion. “Of course. It’s my job.” When he straightens, I notice my blood on his pants and sleeve.

  “Uh, you might need to change clothes,” I say. “Sorry.”

  He shakes his head. “Part of the job. I’m glad you healed up so well.” He salutes and heads for the office, presumably to record Lark’s win.

  When I make for the exit, no one tries stopping me. Once I’ve showered and cleaned up, I tap on Mom’s door. No response, but I push through. She’s not there, so I leave. No guards outside her door means she’s already en route to the petition hall. I groan and hang a right.

  There’s no part of me that wishes I was Mom’s Heir. If I’ve learned anything in the past seventeen years, it’s that being an empress sucks. But the worst task of all, in my opinion, is making decisions about how to punish whiny people who can’t get along. And evians have got to be the world’s most entitled group of complainers. Luckily, I reach the petition hall at the perfect time.

  “That’s everyone on the docket,” Mom says. “Unless there are any petitioners who didn’t file formally?”

  In seventeen years, I’ve never seen anyone register an informal complaint. These petitions are prepared, researched, and evidence is assembled in advance.

  “Your Majesty.” Balthasar steps toward Mom. “There has been an anonymous complaint filed.” He hands her an envelope.

  “What is this?” Mom looks around the room expectantly, waiting for a petitioner to step forward.

  “Did you read this?” she asks him. “Anonymous complaints aren’t allowed.”

  He shakes his head.

  “Who brought it to you?” Mom’s eyes flash and her fingers tap on the armrest of her throne. “I have half a mind to toss it in the trash. If someone can’t be bothered to speak their complaint, why should I take the time to hear it?”

  No one responds.

  Mom sighs and slides a finger under the s
eal of the envelope. Fear spikes through me. What are the odds that something like this happens on the very day I let Lark defeat me?

  “Wait,” I shout. “Think about the precedent this will set. Toss it, and let them bring a formal complaint in the future or nothing at all.”

  Judica raises one eyebrow, scenting blood obviously. “I’d like to know what it says.”

  Mother’s already reading, and her face drains of color. The only time I recall seeing her react this obviously was to communications from my older sister, Melina. Surely it’s not a birthday card from Melina disguised as a petition? Or worse, a threat from her?

  “Lyssa ex’Alamecha,” Mom says, her voice sepulchral.

  I close my eyes, as if this might all disappear. I snap them open, in case anyone is watching me. But all eyes are on Lark’s mother.

  Lyssa stands up from the second row of the audience and turns back toward me briefly, her eyes questioning. Even if no one saw me close my eyes, people noticed that look. I glance surreptitiously around, looking for Lark, but I don’t see her. What are the odds that Lyssa’s summoning is unconnected to today’s challenge? My stomach turns and I want to expel whatever is left of my breakfast onto the swirly white and gray marble floor. That kind of reaction would draw far too much attention my direction.

  Lyssa kneels at the foot of Mom’s throne. Judica shifts uneasily in her smaller throne next to Mom. I should be sitting on Mom’s other side, but I’m frozen in place at the back of the room.

  “It has been alleged, and a DNA test has been provided as evidence, that your daughter, Lark ne’Lyssa Alamecha, is half human.”

  My hands shake and I force myself to still them. Was it Edam? Did he figure us out? Did he notice where the blood spatter from the one injury I caused to Lark landed? Did he commission the test? How could it have been completed this quickly?

  Is this my fault?

  “That’s ridiculous.” I stride quickly toward the thrones. I step up into my place at Mom’s side, forcing myself to look impartially at Lyssa. As if I don’t care. As if I’m not crumbling to pieces inside.