Chapter 4 Toran #2
Nose Hair laughed. “You won’t win. You can’t even hold your sword straight.”
He frowned, peering down at his sword. It was straight. Plenty straight. He raised his arm until his elbow locked, his sword becoming one long extension of him.
The adjustment cost him. Nose Hair struck, bringing his blade down close to the hilt of Toran’s.
The blow was stronger than Toran had yet to see from Nose Hair, and it ripped his sword out of his hand, sending it clattering to the deck, where it skittered across wood and slipped between the fence posts, out of reach.
He was weaponless. He supposed it was what he deserved.
Distractions did not win fights, nor did weak grips.
Still, Toran laughed as his opponent came at him.
Nose Hair slashed and swung, meeting only air as Toran jumped back, his feet quick to avoid each strike. Precision was all but lost to Nose Hair now that he thought he had a sure advantage. Toran waited for him to make a particularly sloppy downswing before attacking.
As the blade rose high above Nose Hair’s head, Toran launched himself forward, closing the space between them before Nose Hair could blink.
He grabbed the man’s wrist, forcing him to keep the hand holding his sword high in the air, and shoved him back into the fence, using his other arm to pin him against the post. Squeezing the skin and muscle at the bottom of Nose Hair’s hand, Toran twisted the man’s wrist until the blade came free of his grip.
The sword fell, the hilt dropping right into Toran’s outstretched hand.
He whirled, keeping his body between Nose Hair and the man’s own sword, then sent Nose Hair stumbling back against the fence with a sure kick to the gut. Arm firm, he put the sword’s length between them. A flick of his wrist, and Toran sliced open his opponent’s forehead.
What was left of the crowd quieted. Blood oozed from the thin cut on Nose Hair’s head. The cut wasn’t deep, but blood still trickled down into Nose Hair’s eyebrows. The short slash was enough to be noticeable.
Enough to win.
Toran dropped the sword and grinned. “Now, where’re my drinks?”
He turned to Nose Hair’s companion, relieving her of their three pitchers of ale. Passing one off to Quint, Toran raised another to his lips and let the liquid fall until a river of ale ran down his throat, ending in the pit that was his stomach.
Ale sloshing, he met Quint’s hard scowl. He ignored it, as he always ignored Quint’s nonverbal reprimands, and pointed to the pitcher Quint clutched in his left hand.
“Take a drink,” he said. “Join me.”
He hadn’t thought it possible for Quint to scowl harder.
“Only a wild animal would join you,” Quint said, tilting his nose away from Toran, “and even they might run from the stench of your breath.”
“Then why are you here if not to drink?”
“I’m here,” Quint said sharply, “because you left this behind.”
He thrust a hand toward Toran, pressing something to his chest. Toran barely felt the prick as the pin broke through the fabric of his shirt and punctured skin. He looked down at his own chest, at the outline of the golden crown now pinned there.
“Hell.”
He wanted to rip it from his shirt, claw it out of his chest, even if it tore a gaping hole in skin and fabric. He’d rather lose a decent shirt, rather bleed, than have someone spot the pin and—
“You’re the Prince’s Crown?”
He cursed, the words spitting from his mouth like foam from the sea. He had to give Quint credit. His friend knew exactly what he was doing by outing Toran’s rank here.
Toran turned. It was Nose Hair’s companion.
He quickly downed the rest of the first pitcher and tossed it to the ground before eyeing the woman. “So?”
The color in her face deepened. “You’re the best fighter our country has.”
Toran wrinkled his nose and started in on the second pitcher. “You think?”
Nose Hair turned back, his face as dumbfounded as a duke dropped in a pig’s pen. In fact, most people heading for the door stopped, their interest hooked once more.
Nose Hair pushed his friend aside and jabbed a hearty finger into Toran’s chest. “I’m not paying your tab for a week.”
“But I won!”
“You’re the Crown,” Nose Hair said—like Toran had no idea the significance of his own title. “It wasn’t a fair fight. You cheated!”
Perhaps it was cheating if he knew he’d win. He preferred to think of it as educating himself on the odds. And the odds were always on his side. The day they weren’t was the day he ceased to be the Crown part of the Crown Prince.
Since its origin, Orlonea had a tradition of putting rulers on the throne who’d earned their crown—by defeating it.
When the Crown Prince or Princess turned five, they were assigned a Crown of the same age.
The royal heir and the Crown then trained side by side—in history, continental affairs, decorum, leadership, and, of course, combat.
The education was the easy part. The hard part came later, when both Prince and Crown were grown.
Before Kohen could wear the King’s crown, he first had to beat his Crown in the tradition known as the Crown Duel.
Should the Prince win his right to rule, his Crown was then expected to stand as his closest advisor.
And if Kohen didn’t win…well, then the world would get to see what Toran looked like in a crown.
The chance of Kohen losing and Toran becoming King was small. A Crown had only beaten an heir once over the course of Orlonea’s long history.
It won’t happen again, he told himself. He wouldn’t become King. He didn’t let himself think otherwise.
And yet Toran knew the Prince wasn’t close to beating him in a fight. It was why Kohen had made wild bets in this very pub—to get out his frustration over losing to Toran yet again. To win, for once in his life.
But Kohen hadn’t been to this pub in a long time. Not since Toran had started coming on his own. They’d switched places, and perhaps the Prince was closer to victory than he knew.
Toran washed down the thought with a long gulp of ale.
Nose Hair’s companion sidestepped Toran and snatched the final pitcher from Quint’s hands. All around, people grumbled about a rigged fight.
“But I’m smashed!” Toran shouted.
No one listened. No one cared. And he remembered how much better he felt when he didn’t care, either.
“Now will you come home and accept the King’s mission?”
Toran turned, squinting up at Quint. “You did this to make me go back?”
“Of course.”
“I have no home. I’m an orphan, remember?” He laughed, though there was nothing funny about what he’d said. “Besides, joke’s on you ’cause I’m not leaving ’til I puke.”
Quint frowned, the creases between his brows hard and deep. “She’d slap you right now.”
Again, Quint was right. He blinked up at his friend. “Yeah?” he sneered. “Well, I want to slap you right now.”
Quint’s expression didn’t change. “Read this,” he said, and shoved Loriana’s journal in Toran’s face. The open page still smelled of ink.
Toran leaned back but couldn’t stop his eyes from devouring the familiar handwriting. He read the first few sentences at the top of the page and stopped.
It was as if all the alcohol drained out of him. His head cleared and his emotions rushed in to fill the empty space. The yellow engagement ring hanging around his neck felt cold against his bare chest.
The only thing Orlonea prizes more than our resources is the Witch. I will find the Witch and bind her with siren’s hair from home. Only then will I have something worth bargaining.
His fiancée hadn’t traveled to Gadore merely to negotiate trade relations between their two countries. Loriana had come to hunt the Witch.