Chapter 26
Alinore
SHE SAW THE blade arcing towards her, a thin line of shadow set against honeyed dawn light.
She stepped back, but she was not fast enough.
The blunt edge struck her shoulder and she winced.
Before she could recover, the blade swung back and smacked her side.
She toppled to her knees on the cold, damp sand of the practice ring.
‘Too slow,’ tutted Prince Ottone.
‘The sunlight got in my eyes.’
‘Doesn’t matter. You’d be dead.’
Alinore pursed her lips and stretched her shoulder, ignoring the twinge of pain. ‘Just wounded, not dead. Yet.’
Prince Ottone offered her his hand and hauled her back to her feet. They were standing close, and she could feel the warm gusts of his breath on her cheeks. She tried to ignore it.
‘Again?’ she asked.
Since his arrival home from the Journian war three days ago, Alinore had asked Prince Ottone repeatedly for a match, finally wearing him down into acceptance. She was reluctant to let him go now.
‘All right,’ he replied, pushing his dark curly hair away from his forehead. ‘One more before the Sword Master appears.’
Alinore nodded. She must concentrate.
She tightened and released her grip on the hilt of her wooden practice sword, trying to keep her hold firm but relaxed. Bending her knees, she wriggled her toes in her boots and fixed her eyes on Ottone’s blade.
Be faster, she told herself.
Without warning, Prince Ottone sprang forward.
This time Alinore was ready. She parried him away, their blades jarring. Then she side-stepped out of his reach.
Prince Ottone raised his eyebrows. He feigned a thrust at her feet and lunged again, but Alinore was ready and she blocked the charge.
Their blades met with a thump, ricocheting apart.
A look of surprise flashed across Prince Ottone’s face. He pulled back, blade dipping, then rallied and attacked twice more.
Each time she blocked him.
Alinore could see that he was impressed and a little frustrated.
Good.
She had been training every day, gaining strength and skill, waiting for his return. Nerves had caused her to misstep and blunder at first this morning, but now she felt herself settling into the match.
It was a cool, clear morning on the cusp of spring, but beads of sweat prickled Alinore’s neck and she felt the hilt of the practice sword slipping in her grasp. She darted forward, then back again, making Prince Ottone advance and retreat.
He began to pant, his breath trailing faint grey clouds.
Alinore squared her shoulders, ignoring the ache in her right arm.
Prince Ottone’s attacks were forceful and it took all her strength to block them.
She had been trying to build her stamina over the last season, hauling sacks of grain around the pantry at nightfall when most of the castle were sleeping.
But her improved strength was not a match for Prince Ottone, who was naturally tall and bear-like, and had spent the last seasons on the battlefield in real combat.
Alinore did not know how much longer she could last.
Prince Ottone swung his sword, feigning retreat. But as he moved away, he momentarily lost his balance and Alinore saw her opportunity.
She lunged, bringing her sword down hard.
Their blades clashed and Prince Ottone tried to pull away from the hold, but Alinore threw her body into the attack.
With a hiss of defeat, Prince Ottone dropped his practice weapon.
It hit the sand with a dull thud.
The fight was over.
She had won.
‘Impressive.’
Alinore staggered back and pulled herself upright, trying to hide her exhaustion and giddy delight.
She had done it.
It was what she had been hoping for ever since the Calestran court received news of Prince Ottone’s imminent return last moon. She had proved herself.
‘That’s the first time I’ve ever fought someone,’ she said. ‘And won.’
Prince Ottone smiled. ‘I’m honoured.’ He bent to retrieve his practice weapon; then he stood watching her, his head tilted to one side.
Her cheeks flushed. ‘What?’
‘Your hair is almost as short as mine. It suits you.’
Alinore reached up a hand and touched the bristly, blunt ends on her dark, shorn head.
Prince Ottone had looked shocked when she had first appeared that morning with her cropped hair.
Before he could question her, she had held up her sword and demanded they begin fighting.
She could tell that he still wanted to ask her more about it – he had a puzzled crease in his brow – but instead, he said, ‘You’re a good fighter.
Better than some of the men in my battalion.
Does anyone know yet? Have you shown the Sword Master? ’
In the fantasies that Alinore entertained late at night, lying in bed in a far, unused corner of the castle’s guest quarters, she imagined challenging the Sword Master to a match during drill practice.
The squires and guards would be there, watching on astounded as she fought and beat the old Sword Master with a flourish.
Then they would all burst into applause.
‘I’ve not told anyone,’ she replied. ‘Do you think I should?’
‘It depends. Do you still want to apply for a squireship?’
Alinore nodded.
‘I’m not sure—’
She could hear the beginnings of pity in his tone and she felt a sting of disappointment. ‘I’ll appeal to my father’s old Knight Commander, Lord Lassiaro, for a squireship,’ she said quickly. ‘Lord Lassiaro always said my father was his favourite knight.’
Prince Ottone looked unconvinced. ‘What does Cress think?’ he asked.
Alinore shrugged, refusing to meet his eye. ‘I haven’t spoken to her much recently.’ Before he could ask her more, she proffered her hand: the traditional signal ending the match. ‘Thank you, Your Highness.’
He grinned. ‘It’s good to be back home,’ he said, clasping her fingers.
A jolt of heat swept up her arm at his touch and she snatched her hand away. ‘It’s good to have you back,’ she breathed.
But Prince Ottone did not seem to notice her flushed cheeks. ‘I only wish I wasn’t returning in such bad circumstances …’ He paused, the smile fading from his lips. ‘I’m not sure Father even recognizes me. At least I have returned in time to see him before …’
Alinore looked down at her boots, unsure what to say. King Borto’s illness had steadily grown worse over the last season, the brightness of his eyes dulling to a fragile ember. It was widely known at court that the end was near.
‘What about a rematch soon?’ she suggested, prodding him with the blunt end of the practice sword. She did not like to see him looking so miserable.
Prince Ottone managed another smile. ‘Next time I’ll beat you.’
Above them came the booming clang of the Sanctuary bells, cutting through the early-morning hush, summoning the last of Syonno Castle’s sleepers to rise.
‘I should go,’ she muttered.
‘Goodbye, Lady Alinore.’
Prince Ottone bobbed into an exaggerated bow and she laughed. It sounded high and strange. She realized it had been a long time since she had laughed.
‘Goodbye, Your Highness.’
She watched his thick-set shoulders turn and cross the courtyard, disappearing through the north archway.
Alone, she cast her gaze back to the practice ring: the battered wooden fencing and dark, churned sand.
She had to allow herself a moment of triumph.
Prince Ottone was an experienced, skilled fighter and she had beaten him.
The hard work and training of the last winter had been worthwhile.
She had proved herself. She was ready for the next step.
Alinore was just letting the victory settle into her bones when a shout ripped through the quiet of the morning.
Then the Sanctuary bells began ringing again, this time high and frantic.
Alinore jumped and turned, startled. The courtyard lay empty. Darting into the shadowed cover of the cloisters, she pulled the hood of her tunic over her head. If anyone appeared, in the half-light they might mistake her for a stable boy or an attendant.
More shouts and cries rang out from above, over the clamour of the bells, and Alinore looked up at the battlements in surprise.
Figures swarmed the wall-walk, their movements hurried.
She caught the glint of steel helms and the flash of purple Calestran livery.
Then a length of cloth was dragged up a pole, whipping once before catching, unfurling with a snap.
She gasped.
A black flag fluttered against the pale sky, its shadow falling over the courtyard.
She knew what that meant.