Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
GWENNA
I still don’t know what to think about Latin class, or about Kingston in general, when it’s time for the fencing meet. Campus has fallen to dusk, and the walk to the field house is almost shrouded in shadows. Fortunately, Morgan agreed to go with me.
“Not exactly my first,” she says.
“Really?” I say.
“Oh sure,” she says airily, linking her arm through mine. “I got dragged to plenty of these back when Kingston was still coming up. Guess my hobbies weren’t ever worth wasting his time on,” she grumbles. “At least back then.”
“I see.” I realize I don’t even fully understand their whole setup. “So, wait,” I ask her, “you’ve been in this little blended family since…”
“Feels like forever,” she says.“Toddlerhood at least. My mom was the side piece.”
“Oh,” I say. “Congratulations?”
Morgan cackles with laughter. “She’d love that. But yeah, got her claws into a rich one and brought me along with. That meant spending a lot of my formative years watching boys play with swords. At least until I finally got my way and they packed me off to boarding school.”
“There are worse ways to spend an evening,” I say. Like a…formal hall, for instance. “How long does this thing last?”
“In this case?” Morgan says. “Not very long. These guys make quick work of their enemies.”
We step into the field house, and although it’s ostensibly a gym, it sure doesn’t feel like it.
The floors are polished wood, and the walls are paneled rather than cinderblock.
There are steel beams crisscrossing the ceiling, but they’re all disguised in draped banners, almost like the ones at the formal hall.
The windows are arched in typical Caliburn style, crisscrossed with latticework showing just the bleak expanse of the cold winter lake.
Bleachers are set up around the edges and a single long strip of play area, I suppose, laid out in the middle of the room.
There’s a table of judges, some sort of electronic scoring equipment, and the air smells like adrenaline, steel, and excitement.
On one side of the room hangs the familiar Caliburn banner, its crest and colors vibrant as ever, and on the other an unfamiliar one, green and yellow.
“The Université de Sainte-Odile,” Morgan says. “Quebecois, very snooty, or so I’ve heard.” She looks around, sweeping a gaze over the bleachers. “Don’t look now, but you are public enemy number one out here.”
I believe her. I only flick my gaze sideways to the bleachers, but I can feel the intensity of dozens of pairs of eyes on me. Elena’s made quick work of spreading rumors around the campus.
I hate this. I hate being seen, hate being perceived at all, especially by this many people at once. But Kingston wanted me here. And I don’t think I had a choice in the matter.
At least I could bring a friend.
“Pick a seat, any seat,” Morgan says, in a low tone so only I can hear. “I don’t know that any one is gonna be any better than any other.”
“Fair enough,” I grumble back, thinking idly about quick exit strategies. I nod toward a gap in the second row on the opposite side, near to the stairs up.
“Works for me,” Morgan says.
As we cross the boards of the floor, my boots squeaking along the polish, I hear someone yell out, “Check out Ash Wednesday!” And a ripple of laughter sounds through the crowd.
My cheeks go hot, but I keep my shoulders back and head high, the way Mom always claimed would give me confidence.
It didn’t work in middle school, and it isn’t working now. But the only way out is through.
Morgan and I take our seats, a good three empty spaces between us and the rest of the crowd, but that’s probably for the best. I try to look for a bright side, try to be excited about something, and I realize I never have been to a fencing match—meet?—so that’ll at least be something.
“So what exactly are the stakes here?” I say to Morgan. “Like an NCAA thing, or…”
“I don’t think so,” she says. “Caliburn’s in a pretty small league, only…” She scrunches up her face. “Twelve or so schools, I think? They do this different kind of fighting, hence the small squads. Three swordsmen, three weapons, three bouts, that’s it. Anchor scoring, multi-weapon relay.”
“I see,” I say, even though I’m not really sure what most of those words mean in context.
Just in front of us, the team from Sainte-Odile is warming up, wearing their padded fencing attire with the high necks and broad shoulders, rigging themselves up to the wires that I suppose are the electronic scoring system.
From somewhere in the back of the stands, I hear laughter getting louder and louder until someone calls out boisterously .
To me.
“Hey, I was just wondering,” he says, the smirk on his face tamped down unsuccessfully, “if you, uh, liked Alicia Keys.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess she’s fine. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Oh, you know,” he says, his breath beery, “because this girl is on fiiiiiiire .”
Oh my God. My eyes shimmer with a hint of tears, the back of my throat catching. It isn’t funny, even though he and his friends are cracking up. I tense my jaw and focus on the announcements, trying to drown them out.
A man has taken center stage, or the equivalent, and commanded attention, getting the crowd to murmur into quiet.
“My distinguished guests, Caliburn students, and those of our visiting opponents,” he says, “it is my pleasure to welcome you to the opening match of this year’s fencing season.”
Applause. Cheers, and a few hoots from the small visitor section of Sainte-Odile.
“My name,” he says, “is Luther Pendragon, a trustee of the college and a proud fencing parent”—a smile flickers over his face—“as well as a former swordsman myself.”
“That’s your stepdad?” I whisper to Morgan.
Her face remains impassive. “Unfortunately.” She sighs. “I mean, he’s my mom’s type. Rich. So that helps.” She shrugs. “He and I aren’t exactly close, in case you can’t tell.”
I dart a glance to the corner where Kingston is sitting, with perfect posture. His eyes locked on his father, that unyielding stare. “I suppose he’s more of a father-son type?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Morgan mutters. “Liked having a son so much he took in a bonus one as a foster kid.”
Kai. That’s right.
“As you know,” Luther booms, “we at Caliburn, as well as our colleagues at Sainte-Odile and the rest of the league, fence a unique style. This style is derived from the French school and is, as we would consider it here, the purest form of the sport. It is about excellence, dedication, and singular focus.” He smiles.
“Three bouts, one swordsman per weapon, first to eight points each. Victory goes to the team with the most total points across all bouts combined.”
“In other words, no quitting just because you’re ahead,” Morgan adds, to me. “Even best two out of three won’t cut it if you lose really badly in the third. Third bout’s where you really wipe the floor.”
I guess that makes sense. Otherwise, why bother even having a third bout? “Who goes third?”
Morgan scoffs. “Who do you think?” She mimes putting a crown on her head.
Oh. Duh. I glance at Kingston, but his eyes are trained directly on his father.
“And with that,” Luther says, spreading his palms wide, “I wish you all success and a fine display of swordsmanship.”
He backs away as the dean of the divinity school takes his place, murmuring a prayer.
As he does, I watch the four swordsmen—Kingston, Kai, Lanz, and Callahan, in practiced order—fall to one knee, their foreheads pressed to the hand holding their swords upright.
Sainte-Odile does the same. And for a moment, I’m struck by how genuinely…
reverant the moment seems, as opposed to some perfunctory little pause before a sporting event.
It’s moving, actually. All of their eyes closed.
Certainly better than something corny like the national anthem.
And all too soon, it’s over.
“First bout,” calls the official. “Saber.”
In front of me, the first swordsmen are taking their places.
Kai. Hulking, tall, bouncing his weight lightly from foot to foot, looking fired up as if smoke’s about to come out of his nostrils.
The other swordsman, in Sainte-Odile Green, is stone-faced, but Kai seems unable to resist a smirky little grin.
He murmurs something only the two of them can hear before he slips on his mask, and then the official gives a signal.
“Swordsmen to your places,” he says. “En garde.”
Wordless, instant, they both spring back into position. It’s elegant and swift, almost balletic: their sabers poised at each other, tips angled just above target range.
“And…allez!”
Kai explodes forward, slashing straight for the head—fast, relentless. His opponent, about half a head shorter but just as solid, deflects— no, parries , I think—cleanly, retreating just enough to duck the next cut, his blade whistling through the air in a counterattack.
But Kai pulls his arm back just in time. Silence—no buzz from the score box, no point.
They pull apart briefly, breathing hard, but not for long. Undaunted, Kai launches forward again, goes for a head cut—or, no, feints a head cut, but drops, snaps his wrist and whips his blade up and across to hit the other guy right in the side.
The buzzer sounds.
“Touch left,” calls the scorekeeper. “Point to Caliburn, 1-0.”
Cheers from the crowd, which Kai barely registers, just circles again and shakes out his legs.
This time, Kai barely rests before he strikes again. Left, right, left, down, up, in. Buzz, a point.