Chapter Five Xander
I toss the piece of orange peel into the grass, my fingers sticky with juice of the fruit, before I break a wedge off and pop it into my mouth. Next door, Malcolm Hillenbran spars with his dad, the clack of their wooden swords ringing out every few seconds.
“Good, Son,” his father says, pushing black hair away from his face.
Malcolm stands tall, letting his sword fall to his side.
The two don’t look related. Malcolm’s hair is more like dirt, his eyes an even muddier brown.
Where his skin is like the light of the moon, his father’s is darker.
Tan, like mine. “Lift your sword and prepare to block.”
“But—” His father doesn’t give him time to whine about more training before he swings, and Malcolm cries, “I’m too tired to keep training!”
“We’ve only just begun!”
I bite down on another piece of the orange.
I wouldn’t give up so easily, I think to myself as I chew.
Malcolm always complains. In school, he’ll argue with the teacher when he thinks a subject is too hard, and I’ve watched him boss the other kids around to avoid sticking to the rules of a game.
He believes himself to be the hero, but I’ve read enough books to know that being one is not about making everyone do what you want.
It’s about doing what is better for the greater good.
His father swings, and I see the impact before it happens.
I may not have ever sparred before, but I’ve watched them enough to tell when his father is going to draw low.
But Malcolm jumps back too late, and the tip of the wooden sword hits his side.
Malcolm screams, dropping his weapon dramatically as he cradles the spot just below his ribs.
I finish off my orange and brush my hands down my pants, the movement drawing his gaze towards me.
He narrows his eyes and opens his mouth, tears already dripping down his cheeks.
But before he can get what I know will be an insult out, his father’s hand squeezes his shoulder.
I’m too far away to hear what they say to each other, but eventually, Malcolm storms away, leaving his training sword in the grass.
His father’s hands go to his hips, and he looks disappointed as he stares at the spot Malcolm just stood.
I would train harder. I wouldn’t give up.
I take a step towards Malcolm’s house, wondering if it is okay to ask his father if I can have a turn to spar.
But my mother’s voice stops me before I get the chance.
“Xander! It’s time to go!”
Malcolm’s dad looks in my direction, and I freeze when his eyes meet mine, hoping he might ask me to take his son’s place in their lessons. Wishing I had someone to teach me and then feeling jealous of the fact that stupid Malcolm Hillenbran gets to have a dad that cares about him, while I—
“Xander.” My mother’s hand ruffles my hair, sending the dark strands over my eyes. I quickly push them away and step to the side to look past her, but Malcolm’s dad is already waving goodbye and going back into the house. I frown as I turn and look at her.
“I don’t want to go into the city.”
“I know you don’t, my scholar. But we need to go now so that we will be back in time to bathe and ready for bed.
You have school in the morning.” I sigh, and my mother laughs as she wraps an arm around me, turning me back to our small green house.
We haven’t lived here very long. Only one summer so far.
I’m hoping we can stay long enough that I can watch the spring flowers grow after the snow.
“How about we stop at the confectionary on the way home? I’ll let you pick out any two treats you want. ”
“Okay, Mother.”
“Mother,” she repeats, shaking her head and making the long black braid at her back swish side to side. “Do other children of nine address their parents so formally?” We step into the house. It smells like the orange I ate and flowers, like my mother.
“I thought you like it when I sound smart,” I respond, leading us to the small room in the back my mother uses to sew clothing for customers.
Despite moving here so recently, she has already made herself known as the best seamstress.
She is the best wherever we go. Sometimes, when she is working late into the night by the fire, I think about asking her if being the best is worth it.
Especially when I know she had to leave the capital because of it.
Because her talent drew my father’s eye.
“I like that you are smart. But you mustn’t forget to partake in the delights of childhood too.
” It’s something she says to me often. I snag a bag from the corner and begin gently laying the tailored clothing into it, my mother doing the same with a second pile.
Looking out of the small window in the room, I watch as Malcolm and his father leave their house together, wearing cloaks as they turn down the dirt road that will eventually lead to the heart of Ashby.
Where we will be going too. “I noticed you watching the Hillenbran’s earlier,” my mother says, and I quickly look back down to the clothing in front of me. “What caught your attention?”
“They were sparring.” I shrug my shoulders.
“Would you like to learn how to spar?”
“Scholars don’t spar.”
“Says who?” My mother bumps her hip into my arm gently, drawing my gaze up to hers. “If you want to spar, then you shall learn to spar.”
“I have no one to teach me.” In the books I read, there are always two types of heroes: those who win with their fists and those who conquer with their minds.
My mother calls me “her scholar” because she says that I am the latter.
That I see answers to problems before others can.
She says it like she’s in awe of the ability, like it’s something that she could never do. But she is the smartest person I know.
“We can find someone to teach you, I’m sure.”
“Does my father know how to spar?” Her eyes widen in surprise, and I wish I could take the question back. It isn’t that I’m not allowed to ask questions about him; it’s that every time I do, my mother’s face changes.
“To be honest, Xander, I do not know. In the brief time your father was in my life, I never saw him train, but I would not doubt it if he knows how.” She redoes her braid, her eyes lost in thought.
Mother tells me that I take after her with my midnight black hair and dark eyes.
I wonder if that is true or if she just doesn’t wish to see my father when she looks at me.
“But, I promise, you don’t have to model yourself after him. ”
“He is the king.”
“Yes, but that alone does not make him a great man.” Her hand rests on my cheek as her thumb rubs the skin there.
“You are infinitely more than he will ever be, even at only nine. I know you wish for what your peers have and, perhaps, you might even be angry with me for not giving you something similar.” I try to look away, but she turns my face back to hers.
“But you, my scholar, do not need anything more than what is in here.” Her other hand moves to tap on my chest, right above my heart.
“You are good, kind, and incredibly intelligent. You are strong and loyal. All of those things were not given to you by the king or any man.”
“Or woman?” I ask, happy when the question makes her smile.
“Or woman,” she agrees, leaning down to press her forehead against mine. “Much as I wish to take credit.” She laughs, and my eyes fall shut at the sound. Sometimes, she goes a long while without laughing. “Those things are simply who you are. I am so proud to be your mother, Xander.”
“This is good news,” Grayson says from where he leans against the wall, his arms folded over his chest. “You wanted to have the chance to get the information from her before the king could, and now you have it.”
I nod and press back against my chair, one hand loosely set in my lap, while the other rests on the table in front of me.
Grayson’s right. This is the best case scenario.
After the king’s torture session led to the shifter—Bella—passing out, Jerrick and I had brought her back to her cell.
The king then gave me the job of breaking her for information.
It’s exactly what I needed, unfettered access to her that wouldn’t be questioned by him or any other guard.
Yet something felt off about him just giving me the responsibility.
Everything he does always comes with a cost that I am expected to pay.
“I want to know every single godsdamn thing Rhea could have told that shifter. I want to know exactly how many times Flynn was in that tower.” His frustration had turned his cheeks pink while two lines formed between his brows and his finger dug into the armor at my chest. “I want to know if he touched her. If Alexi did.” It had taken everything in me not to vomit.
Maybe that was my punishment. He must have known that I found the idea of my father and my cousin together romantically repulsive.
So what better way to torture me than by making me complicit in his plot to bring the princess back?
“Get the information by any means necessary.”
“Was it rough?” Grayson’s voice drops an octave, drawing my gaze away from an indent on the wooden table in front of me.
“Nothing I haven’t seen before.” I attempt to shrug but abandon it halfway through. Grayson knows me well enough that I don’t have to pretend.
“Nothing you haven’t experienced.” His light brown eyes glisten with anger, the bitterness of a father figure forced to watch as a child’s actual father beat him.
Tortured him. Not just physically—though King Dolian rarely ever did it with his own hands—but mentally.
Emotionally. He’s not wrong, but that conversation isn’t one we need to have right now.
Not as we wait for the people to filter in from Vitour.