Chapter 30 Neirin
NEIRIN
The night seemed darker, somehow, as though hours had passed and not mere minutes since I first encountered Cyan in the inn.
The hens, too, had quieted, their incessant clucking hushed after one of the guard’s heavy boots made contact with one of them as he followed me out to the secluded section of woods beside Maerel’s garden.
Moonlight cast shadows through the trees and across Cyan’s brow; his eyes were dark beneath their ridges.
He stepped sideways, and as he did, I mirrored him.
A circling, a dance. A foretaste of what was to come, the reflection of years of mock fights played out in the castle’s training yards.
But Cyan and I were no longer boys trying to prove ourselves to the commander, no longer young men clashing blunt training swords to hone our skills, to prove strength or position.
Now, we stood not as childhood rivals but as opponents with honed blades and sharp eyes.
“You’re posing as a peasant,” Cyan sneered.
With our gazes locked, I studied him. And when he stepped again, I did so as well.
If he was intoxicated, he was masking it well.
Though I had no doubt I could take the man, the fight would be dangerous.
Despite the fool I believed him to be, Cyan was still a castle guard.
And, not only that, but the son of a commander.
Trained from the age he could hold a sword.
If it were not for his arrogance and tendencies to lead with emotion, he could very well be as skilled a fighter as his father.
“No retort?” Cyan snorted.
Standing my ground, I drew my sword. “Save your condescension, Cyan. There’s no one here to listen to you. No one who cares.”
The burly man curled his lip, and his hand went to the hilt of his weapon. “The King will have my head if I slay you, Bastard. And you know it.”
The edge of my lips turned up. Harlan wanted me captured alive.
There was a part of him, then, that doubted the recounting of the events the night of Kaius’s death.
Despite my dagger in the King’s chest and my hands stained with his blood, there was a hesitance from Harlan.
That alone could be enough to secure my safe passage back to the capital.
The realization dawned on me. Would it be so simple, then, to return to the castle and speak to my brother? To defend my innocence and work alongside him to unravel the truth?
It was possible too that Cyan was lying. It would not be against his nature to do so, to feign a ruse in hopes I might surrender and return with him of my own accord. Or perhaps he aimed to put the weight of honor on me so I might hold my blows if I believed he would.
And what of Rion? The timing of his arrival when he came upon me over Kaius’s body the night of the festival was convenient—too much so to dismiss. If he were not the assassin, he was at least a pawn in the game, whether he was aware of it or not. It gave only further reason to distrust his son.
Though I longed for information, for answers, I could not put any faith in Cyan’s word. Nor would I allow him the satisfaction of believing he held influence over me.
When I didn’t reply, irritation creased Cyan’s brows. Flexing his fist, he wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his sword and drew it with a hum that rang through the woods.
“I will not hold back,” I told him, because honor drove me to say as much.
Cyan raised his chin, challenging me with his gaze. The black of his hair and uniform lent him to the shadows of the wood, the moonlight on his face a contrast. His complexion was fairer even than his father’s, though their rigid features were the same.
His resistance to making the first move was a strategic move. He’d learned my technique in the years we spent training alongside each other. The consideration showed more intellect and more forethought than I gave the man credit for, and it spoke to his sobriety.
To leer or to rile him would be too easy, too distasteful.
Retorts stung in the back of my throat, but I held them back.
If I played this carefully, there was a chance I could gain honest information from him, if only by the slip of his tongue.
But not if I drew out his temper, not if I pushed him too far.
I needed him to boast or to make a statement that stood outside the constructs of what I knew to be true.
Stepping to Cyan, I feigned a strike at his left, and when he countered, I swiped at his feet.
But he predicted my move, not to my surprise.
Our training, skills, and the very nature of our movements were shared and ingrained.
A part of who we were since we joined the guard as boys, since our first bloodings.
He stepped back, avoiding my gaze, and the counter leveled us.
Each taking a step back, we circled, eyes intent.
Searching for a way to draw information from the guard, I considered my own blooding.
The face of the man I killed, the cruel twist of his smile.
He and Cyan were the same. Both arrogant, perverse, twisted men drawn to girls too young to be taken.
The girls at the festival. “The night of the festival, I lost sight of you,” I said with a step to my right.
“What came of those girls you had your sights on?”
“There is no place for the claiming of honor among King killers, Bastard,” he sneered.
King killer. I allowed myself only a moment to process his choice of words, the narrowing of his eyes, and the posturing of his stance.
His body language spoke of a man who believed his own words.
He likely knew nothing of the true events that had transpired the night of Kaius’s death.
It was a hunch, an instinct, but very rarely did my intuitions lead me astray.
To keep the brute distracted, off my trail of thoughts, I tugged the corners of my lips up in a mocking smile. “So, your intentions did not come to fruition, then,” I stated flatly. “With those girls?”
Cyan opened his mouth to speak, but I intercepted his words, whatever they would have been.
“You’ve always been an easy read, Cyan. Had you taken one of the girls from the festival, you’d have boasted about it, not deflected with a quip about my honor.”
His chest puffed. “What do you play at?”
Dipping my head faintly in a pose of ease, I discreetly adjusted my hold on my sword. Better he believe I did not see him as a threat in the slightest. “It pleases me to know they escaped your forced presence,” I said. “That is all.”
“Of what importance does this hold?” The guard stopped circling, and I mimicked him. It was clear his patience was wavering, but he’d yet to reveal any information of use—I needed to know about Rion’s involvement in Kaius’s death.
“Did your father catch you again, Cyan? Did he step in before you took what you thought was owed to you?”
The brute’s nose scrunched, and he bared his teeth beneath the curl of his upper lip.
If Rion’s night had been occupied with keeping his son in line, it was unlikely he’d killed my father. The time I’d spent with Evera in the tower, the window of opportunity, was not substantial.
“I suppose you were incorrect, then.” I laughed, low and dismissive. “Perhaps you can’t wet your cock where you like, not as long as your father is there to scour over your every move.”
Eyes widening, Cyan lunged, lashing out with the effects of his emotion.
I countered, dodging, and he withdrew with a fine red line on his cheek. He raised his hand to the fresh cut, and blood smeared the side of his face. He snarled.
“You’ve told me all I need to know,” I stated, voice low.
Cyan’s eyes narrowed, the flicker of a thought crossing his face. He’d been outsmarted, and he knew it. Even as the draw of his brows suggested he was unsure of the manner of information I’d gained from him.
“You will die on this night.” I lowered my chin. “And your death will be a mark of the life you lived, of your predilections.”
The time for conversing had ended. Even Cyan, in his boisterousness, knew when to hold his tongue and when to fight. This was the time for fighting.
Beneath the moon, in the small clearing of the wood behind the inn, our movements mimicked the sway of the branches.
Our breaths became an extension of the wind that moved around and through our lungs.
Despite the impulse that had led me to draw Cyan out into the night, I realized that I had always known, in some part of my mind, that he and I were meant to wage this battle.
We’d circled one another always, and taking his life seemed like my fate.
My first blooding had set me on this path, and my honor demanded I see this through.
With precise movements and quick reactions, we parried until everything beyond the pressed circle of grass and clay earth we flattened ceased to exist. The glint of metal sparked as swords clashed.
The strikes that narrowly missed their mark sent blood pounding in my ears, reminding me that I was alive in this moment, and that any breath could be my last. Whether moments or hours had passed, I could not say.
The passage of time eluded me, as I suspected it did for Cyan as well.
This was how we were trained—to be present in the moment of battle.
Honed attention and a stillness of mind.
Though I was tiring, hatred urged me on. Disgust for who he was and for the things he’d done gave me purpose. I lashed out and, sides heaving, Cyan responded too slowly. The blade ripped through leather and cloth, eliciting a curse from him as he hugged his side.
Breathing fogging, we held each other’s eyes.
Though he was wounded, I was as well. We both bore marks to show our exchanges, and we grew weaker from loss of blood and drain of energy. I withdrew several steps, and a wicked grin twisted Cyan’s face.
If he believed me to be surrendering, he was about to be disappointed.