Alinore
‘Very good,’ said Prince Ottone. And she could tell that he meant it.
After a beat, she dropped her stance, rolling her shoulders and shaking out her feet. ‘Are you impressed?’ she asked.
He laughed and nodded.
Last night, she had pulled him aside at the end of dinner and told him to meet her in the far storeroom behind the stables the next morning.
He had looked a little startled when she had grabbed him.
Since his return, the preparations for the Maiden Sacrifice had consumed everyone’s attention, and this was the first time they had spoken.
On reflection, she realized she probably should have greeted him first, and asked how he fared, but the dining room had been busy and there were plenty of court girls queuing up behind her to exchange pleasantries with the Princes so she had needed to be efficient.
‘Do you always practise in here?’ he asked, glancing up at the cobwebbed ceiling. His voice was even deeper than she remembered and where his head was tipped back, she could see more dark stubble sweeping down his chin on to his neck.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Every day.’
As far as Alinore could tell, the storeroom was mostly unused, filled with odd bits of broken tack, discarded crates and general rubbish. It was the perfect place to perform her fighting drills undisturbed.
‘Does Cress know?’
Alinore shrugged and looked away. ‘No one cares what I do.’
The gaze of the Calestran courtiers tended to slide over Alinore as if she were a familiar piece of furniture: an old armchair or a dusty tapestry.
Something constant and unimportant. She had grown accustomed to being overlooked by everyone except Cressyda.
Yet lately, even the Princess had seemed distracted and unreachable, forever flicking through books from the library or staring into the distance.
Alinore told herself that she had kept her daily fighting drills a secret because her friend would not care, but the truth was simpler: she feared what Cressyda might say.
‘That’s not true—’ began Prince Ottone.
‘You should show me what you learnt from the Ferente Sword Master,’ said Alinore. ‘I want to see if you’ve managed to improve this last winter.’
Prince Ottone shifted from one foot to the other. ‘I suppose I could show you a few things. But I’m not sure how useful it would be.’ He scratched at his head, unleashing a lock of curly dark hair that sprang over his eyes.
Alinore laughed. He might be eighteen winters and a man, but he was still the same Prince Ottone.
‘You’re wrong,’ she said, her voice full of a confidence she did not quite feel. ‘In fact, it would be very useful … especially when I come to apply for a squireship, remember?’
Her words hung in the air between them.
Prince Ottone paused, his dark eyes tracking over her face.
The longer he stayed quiet, the more tightly her nerves coiled. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, the practice sword growing heavier in her hand.
Prince Ottone was the only person she had trusted with this ambition. Her one ally in a realm that never seemed to expect much of her. If he dismissed it, if he scoffed or told her it was impossible, she did not think she would be able to recover.
‘That’s really what you want?’ he finally asked.
‘It’s the only thing that feels right!’ she snapped back. ‘I mean, can you really see me marrying some lowly courtier or merchant, and spending the rest of my life trying to capture the Queen’s favour? Because that’s the best I could hope for otherwise.’
She had not meant to sound so bitter, but the truth came out raw and unstoppable.
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I can’t imagine it.’
She turned away before he could see how much his answer mattered. With a flick of her wrist, she swept the practice sword into a perfect figure of eight, then lunged, spearing a pile of empty, mouldering sacks.
‘That was a skilled feint. Very convincing.’
She let the praise settle over her like a shield. Then she dropped her stance and faced him with a smile. ‘Show me something you learnt in Ferente,’ she said, lifting her practice sword and lightly prodding his shoulder. ‘Impress me.’
Prince Ottone laughed. ‘All right then.’
He began describing a different style of attack and defence drills, showing Alinore modified postures and new blade placement.
With careful patience, he demonstrated each movement, showing her how to pivot her weight, how to adjust her stance, how to shift her blade just so to find an opponent’s weakest point.
She followed his every instruction, matching his posture, mimicking the sweep of his arm.
Then, as he corrected her grip, his hand drifted higher, fingertips grazing the side of her neck.
The brush of his fingertips on her bare skin sent a shiver through her body. She twitched away, blushing.
‘This dress is too tight,’ she muttered, tugging at her clothes. ‘It’s the baggiest gown I own, but it still gets in the way.’
‘I doubt it was made with fighting drills in mind.’
He watched her with a strange look on his face that she did not quite understand.
Unsettled, she looked away. ‘What was Ferente like?’ she asked.
Prince Ottone shrugged. ‘It was flat and grassy. Lots of lemon trees. And the capital was similar to Tormale – just bigger and without the mountains.’
‘You didn’t like it?’
Prince Ottone’s voice lowered to a murmur. ‘I guess I just missed home.’
Alinore wanted to say “We missed you too’, but somehow it felt too difficult. Instead, she said, ‘Well, you’re back now.’
‘Yes … until the summer when Samsel and I leave for the Kingdom of Carniva.’
Alinore’s smile slipped from her face. She felt a prickle in her chest: the sting of something unsteady. ‘You’re leaving again?’
‘Another visit to another court to learn from another Sword Master for a moon or so.’ Prince Ottone sighed and folded his arms as if gathering himself together. ‘Then … off to fight the Journian rebels this autumn.’
Alinore stared at him. The words sliced slowly into her understanding. ‘You’re going to go to war?’ she breathed.
War. A brutal word. But to Alinore, it was always edged with both danger and dignity.
Prince Ottone hunched his shoulders. ‘Yes, the Diaspass Kingdom have got themselves into a mess with Journier,’ he mumbled. ‘The High King has agreed to come to Diaspass’s aid and Father says I must go too.’
Alinore looked down at the sword in her hand.
She could feel an impossible mixture rising in her chest: sorrow that Prince Ottone would be leaving again so soon and yet longing, painfully sharp, for the chance to prove herself in the same way.
To stand shoulder to shoulder beside him on a battlefield, not left behind in a silken dress, practising footwork among rotting grain sacks.
‘I didn’t realize you were training for war,’ she said. ‘You’re going to be in the High King’s army like my father.’
‘I don’t have a choice in the matter.’
‘A choice? Why would you choose anything else?’ said Alinore, thinking of her father’s daring tales from past battles. ‘It’s an honour.’
Prince Ottone frowned. ‘I’ll just try to stay alive,’ he muttered.
Outside they heard the clang of the Sanctuary bells, signalling the middle of the day.
‘Let’s go and find Cress,’ said Prince Ottone, already striding towards the door. ‘I’ve barely had a chance to speak to her since I returned.’
Alinore pushed the practice sword into a nearby wooden crate. ‘Don’t tell her about all of this,’ she said.
Behind her, she heard Prince Ottone pause.
‘So Cress doesn’t know that you practise at all?’
Alinore kept her back to him, trying to ignore a prickle of guilt. ‘She doesn’t need to know everything.’