Chapter 6
Rosie
What in the hells.
What in the actual gods-blazing hells.
My jaw hangs open, and my eyes bulge in their sockets. I shake my head, struggling to clear the ringing in my ears, struggling to reconcile the words which I just heard issued from that damnably kissable mouth.
He can’t be a prince. He can’t be.
Can he?
Somewhere in the distance, I hear Captain Norlan barking commands.
Galvanized guards rush from the edges of the hall, surrounding the man in black in a forest of gleaming lances.
He stands in the center, shoulders back, head high, to all appearances unbothered by the numerous deadly blades aimed at his various extremities.
His gaze, which has not once so much as flashed in my direction, remains fastened on the king.
“What is this?” Alderin demands, striding to the edge of the dais.
The champions all gather before him, forming a protective barrier between their king and the stranger.
Several hands reach for swords only to find empty scabbards.
“Who are you, sir, and how have you come to be here? No one may enter Stromin without my knowledge or permission. The magic of the gate wards prevents it—you could not pass through without first giving your true name, which must then be written down in the Book of Admittance. The name of Valtar Skylock is not written there.”
“No, indeed,” the man in black replies. “I did not enter by the gate. I swam the river and climbed the barge wall.”
The hall echoes with an eruption of shocked, murmuring voices.
My own breath catches in my throat. The sheer audacity of that claim!
Stromin Palace is nearly impenetrable, with only a handful of entrances and exits, one being the river, which flows underground through pitch-black tunnels for many miles before reaching the palace itself.
Even then, the barges which traverse those waters cannot access the palace unless the river level is raised by artificial mechanisms. The barge wall is a sheer face of a hundred feet.
I know all this firsthand, for I arrived by river a week ago and carefully studied my surroundings when I came, searching for possible means of escape. There is no getting out that way.
There should be no getting in either. The idea is laughable!
Anyone who tried to swim that river would be either drowned or dashed to death on razor-sharp rocks long before he came anywhere near Stromin Palace.
And yet the stranger states his claim with such absolute calmness, as though referencing a summer afternoon stroll.
The tension is broken by a sudden burst of laughter.
Prince Taigan steps forward from among the other champions, striding across the floor until he stands between the man in black and the dais.
He swings an arm, pointing an accusatory finger at the stranger.
“Uncle,” he cries, “this man is a bald-faced liar! He is no prince, but one of your own guardsmen. I saw him myself on duty earlier this day, clad in a Gorduin uniform. Give me one good reason why he shouldn’t be run through on the spot for daring to impersonate a prince! ”
“I shall decide who is to be run through in my own court, boy,” Alderin replies, and the coldness in his voice douses some of the fire in the prince’s eye. He addresses the stranger again. “And is what my nephew says true? Are you indeed a member of the guard?”
“I am not,” the man replies in that deep voice of his, which could melt bedrock with its latent heat. “I took possession of an unused uniform soon after my arrival so as to blend in with the household while I prepared to make myself known to you.”
Well, I suppose that explains how I bumped into him earlier today.
He was lurking about in alcoves, trying to go unnoticed by the other guards, who would surely have seen through his disguise in a heartbeat.
I’m not sure if this makes me trust him more, but at least I’ve got some explanation for that ill-fitting uniform.
I swing my gaze from the stranger’s face to the king’s but can discern nothing of Alderin’s state of mind beyond utter bewilderment.
A good reflection of us all, I shouldn’t wonder.
“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” he says after a musing silence.
“You have admitted to infiltrating my court by secret means, impersonating one of my guards, and now declare yourself the Seventh Champion in a bid to win the hand of Princess Roselle.” He tips his head a little to one side.
“Aside from it being entirely unprecedented for a Seventh Champion to participate in the trials, Inithana has not been our ally these last twenty years. Why should we let a prince of Inithana take part in this sacred championship, if you are indeed such a prince?”
The stranger does not answer for a long moment.
Then, without a word, he begins very calmly to unfasten his shirt.
It’s so…incongruous. Such an odd thing to do in light of the king’s question.
The guards exchange glances, and several of them take aggressive steps forward.
The stranger pauses, flicking a look at them from under his stern brow.
They freeze, the tips of their lances quavering faintly, but make no further move.
So, the stranger goes back to undoing his laces, pulling open the tunic and undershirt, and baring his breast to the scintil light.
I gasp. I can’t help it. For as he draws back the fabric, revealing the hard definition of his torso, he reveals also a terrible scar.
A burn scar, very like mine, only so much worse.
For this scar boasts the rough, undefined, but recognizable shape of a rampant dragon.
Ragged wings spread across his pectoral muscles, a horned head arches over his heart.
The sinuous spine trails down his breastbone, and the twisted tail encircles his navel.
It’s so raw and red against his pale skin.
This was no accident, no wound received in the heat of battle. It was done to him on purpose. A very specific purpose.
For a moment, no one moves. We all stare at that symbol, which every last one of us recognizes. A symbol of destruction and devastation from which none of us has escaped unscathed. My mouth goes dry, and my heart sinks to my gut. The truth burns in my head like searing irons.
He’s not a prince. He’s…
“Dracori!” Taigan bellows, leaping back several paces. Then he lunges at the nearest guard, wresting the lance from his grasp, and makes as though to run the stranger through on the spot.
“Halt!” Alderin’s voice cracks like a whip. Taigan freezes in place, the tip of the lance mere inches from the man’s heart. The man does not move, does not flinch. He stands there, holding back the folds of his shirt, and looks into the eyes of the vengeful prince without blinking.
Blood thuds in my temples. That hideous mark has haunted my dreams these last sixteen years.
At sight of it, green flame explodes on the edges of my vision, threatening to consume me.
But when I lift my eyes from that savage scar to the face of the man who bears it…
no. I cannot reconcile it. That severe brow and harsh jaw are cruel enough, but his mouth—that slight uptilt in the corner, the faintest impression of a dimple in his cheek—surely a mouth like that does not belong on the face of a monster.
In a sudden rustle of long robes, Alderin moves.
Stepping down from the dais, he motions to the guards, ordering them back.
Though they cast him uneasy glances, they dare not gainsay his command.
When he stands beside Taigan, the king swipes the lance from his grasp and tosses it lightly aside.
“A wise man takes no hasty action,” he declares, his voice not loud but carrying in that echoing space.
“You would do well to remember it, nephew.”
Taigan curses, his hands fisting with fury.
Alderin ignores him, however, and proceeds to draw nearer to the stranger, near enough that it would take no more than a single swift dart with a hidden blade to put an end to the king’s life.
A hidden blade which I know the stranger carries on his person.
I’ve seen it. I open my mouth, half thinking to call out a warning.
But then the king speaks: “You must know that to reveal that evil sign here within the walls of my court means your death.” His voice is edged with threat. “And yet you stand there, baring the truth before these witnesses. Why?”
The stranger inclines his head slightly in deference.
“It is proof of my story, Your Majesty. My brother and I were both branded with this mark on the day we watched our father burn. It is the symbol of my shame. Shame that I did not die with my father that day. That I did not throw myself upon the pyre and either drag him from those flames or perish in the attempt.”
He releases his shirt then and drops his hands to his sides.
The folds of dark fabric hang over his breast. “It is also proof of my conviction to join this trial. You think your people have suffered under dracori oppression? Here on your continent, an entire sea between you and the might of Mhoryga, you know nothing of suffering. My people serve the Dragon Queen or they burn. Our sons and daughters are taken, infused with dragon blood, and, if they survive the process, born again as the dracori you so fear—their wills stricken, their spirits broken, their souls lost to damnation. The very air of our once beautiful land stinks of sulfur and charred flesh.”