Prince Skylar
The gray sword hits the white sand with a thud, and I fall to my knees, cradling my stinging forearm to my chest.
“Can’t you go easy on me?” I look up at Captain Tejon, where he’s standing a couple yards away, his sword half raised.
“Afraid not, my Prince. Do you expect your enemies to go easy on you?” He gives his sword a flourish, catching a sliver of sunlight with the three-foot long blade.
“No.” I climb to my feet, bending down to pick up my sword. It’s a simple longsword, with a straight crossguard and a hand-and-a-half hilt with a small ruby set into the pommel. It looked like a lowercase t, with the blade double-edged and the color of polished slate.
“Very well. Again.” Tejon was an imposing opponent, with oily brown hair that fell to his jaw, tanned bronze skin, and deep gold eyes. He was tall, with a set of broad shoulders and muscled arms, large hands under lace gloves. He wore a knee length blue leather jacket, tight boots that clung to his feet and every curve of his legs, and his military dress top, the medals shining and clanking together with every one of his movements. My opinion of Tejon was that he had been a soldier in the King’s-my father’s- army. From there he had worked his way up as a swordsman, earning enough respect to be able to teach said King’s son in the art of sword craft. And that he was incredibly handsome.
I hold my sword out between us, ignoring the pain of my throbbing forearm.
“Good. Lift your right elbow up a bit.” Tejon lifts his sword up, the tip level with my heart. I scowl, doing what he suggests. Listening to Tejon will help me in the long run better then if I ignore him. Which I’ve done before.
And paid the price for.
“AH!” I lunge, curling both hands around the hilt, swinging the blade towards Tejon’s head. At the last moment, I swerve, aiming for his exposed chest. Tejon lifts his sword, blocking, and the harsh ringing of steel against steel echoes throughout the courtyard, slicing into my ears. I grit my teeth, pushing down on the two interlocked swords with all my weight, trying to overpower Tejon. With a grunt, Tejon flings his sword out in an ark, forcing me to duck and step away.
“Good. You are getting stronger.” He says, following me in my retreat.
“Humph.” Grunting, I swing at his legs. Tejon blocks, then with a sweep of his hand, sends my weapon sprawling over the sand a handful of yards away. He brings the blade up, the tip pressing against the soft inside of my throat. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, hammering into my ribs. It was all I could do not to move closer to Tejon. All my instincts wanted me to move closer to him. To all his muscle and bronze skin and gold eyes that sent my chest and heart throbbing, aching for him.
“I win.” He says.
“You cheated.”
“Cheating and exploiting an opponent’s tells are different, my Prince.” Tejon digs the sword tip harder into my neck, letting the cold metal cut and bite skin.
“Exploiting tells?” I ask.
“Yes. Your tell is as obvious as a man in woman’s clothes.” He releases pressure, taking a step back.
“What is my tell?” I recall this particular lesson that Tejon had taught. Every fighter had a tell, a sign or remainder of an old wound. Something they did right before they attacked. It could be anything. Taking a deep breath, tensing certain muscle groups, or even transferring weight to one leg and readjusting the grip on a hilt. I still remembered when he’d taught it, pacing up and done the raised wooden deck across the front of the alter inside Argona’s church, holding a large leather-bound book in one hand and a carved walking stick in the other, tapping it against the floor with every step.
“You tighten your jaw right before you lunge or swing.” Tejon bends down, picking up my sword from where it lays.
“I can see that.” I say. He frowns, the corners of his dark pink lips crinkling.
“I sure hope so, my Prince.” Holding out my sword, Tejon presents the hilt, offering it to me. I take it, wrapping my fingers on my right hand around the leather wrapped hilt, feeling the warm leather bite into my palm.
“Again?” I ask, yearning swelling in my chest, climbing out my throat.
“I suppose.” Tejon stalks back to his original position, spreading his legs out, sword lifted and ready. I slide into my own stance, keeping my grip on my blade loose. Then I wait.
Better to be on the defense then on the attack.
Tejon moves forward in practiced ease, putting his sword in his right hand, giving it a flourish with a flick of his wrist.
“Showoff.” I mutter under my breath. If Tejon was paying attention to my tell, then maybe I could find and use his tell against him; if he had one, that was. Loosening the muscles in my jaw, I strike first, forcing my jaw to remain still and loose.
Good.
My strike hits Tejon’s sword at the crossguard, sending a jolt up my arms to my shoulders, rattling my bones. Gritting my teeth, I press downward, forcing Tejon to go to one knee. He grunts, pushing back up at me with our swords, resisting. Tejon falters, his left arm spasming. There.
I apply as much pressure as I can, until Tejon releases his sword, letting it fall to the courtyard ground. Tejon drops his other legs, making him balance on his knees, the edge of my sword pressed to his throat.
“I win, Captain.” I say, letting pride and the hot rush of achievement flood into me.
“Well fought, my Prince.” I step back, lowering my blade, allowing Tejon to stand. When he does, he bows, low and straight, bending at the hip in an almost ninety-degree angle.
“Here.” Swooping down, I pick up the Captain’s sword, handing it back to him.
“Many thanks, my Prince.” Tejon sheaths the sword back into the scabbard on his left hip, the blade sliding in with an audible slink.
“Thank you for the lesson, Captain Tejon.” I bow to him, though not as low.
“Of course. Now go and wash up. It is not everyday that the King’s only son turns fifteen.”
Hot water pours over me, helping ease the soreness in my back. Planting my forehead against beige tile wall between my hands, I close my eyes, letting the hot shower wash away all the dirt and grime my body gathered during sparring. I groan, splaying my fingers wide.
My father had servants attend to everything that was related to washing and or hygiene for me except for this. The shower was the only thing I could do on my own, the only bit of personal freedom I had in my entire life. And tonight?
Tonight would be a nightmare.
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A mudslide of nobles in their brilliant silks and jewels, expecting me to hold at least fifty different conversations at a time, while eating and traipsing around, and all the while finding creative ways to avoid a hundred marriage offers to girls I had never seen.
At least Tejon would be there, to act as the guardian of the young prince. My father, Randor, would be too focused on enchanting noblewomen away from their husbands to send the night with him to spend time with me. That was how the world worked. Fathers didn’t spend time with their sons, so when the sons grew up, they wouldn’t spend time with their sons, and so on and so forth.
Then there was the issue with the Lore.
Argona had a long and bloody history with the Lore. From after the Siege of Catalina to before the massacres of my father’s doing, there had been uneasy peace, broken up with small skirmishes here and there, but nothing big.
Nothing that could change all of Arkeya.
And yet here we were.
“Why?” The word creeps out, falling off my soaked lips in a cold lump.
“Your Majesty?” Someone on the other side of the chamber door asks, their voice drowned out by the shower.
“What?” I bellow, putting all my emotion into that single word.
“It’s almost time. Hurry up!” That was brave of that person, to order a prince around like a lowly servant. I run my fingers through my heavy, soaked hair, my nails snagging on small knots and tangles. Turning off the water, I step out onto the cold brown tile floor, picking up a white rough towel, wrapping it around my waist.
Two servants, both male, enter the chamber, their eyes downcast. One has a dress uniform tucked over his arm, the other carrying several brushes and ointments. They dress me in belittling silence, tightening and fussing over the placements of every single gold thread. The one with the brushes, a tall man with golden brown eyes and tan hair, places the brush in my hair, and begins to comb my tangled mops.
There was a mirror seated on a stool in front of me, and in it I could see myself. Wavy hair the color of orange flames and copper wire that went to the tip of my ears, the sides and back shaved, the top kept long. Sharp, harsh pale blue eyes. Hooked nose, a light dusting of ginger freckles, a small scar cutting across the corner of my lip on the right side. A firm, well defined jawline and angular thick brows.
As my hair dried, it curled till it was a curly mess on the top of my head, golden red and brown. Three sharp raps hit the door from the other side, causing the servants to jump and mutter curses under their breath. In the mirror, one rushes over, pulling open the door a tiny fraction, sticking his head out. He comes back, exchanging a few tense words with the other, before they both leave. I close my eyes, resting my hands in my lap, listening to the heavy footfalls of a person, feeling the rough wool of my clothes press into my collarbones and hips.
“Why are you tensing, son?” The speaker stops behind me, placing their warm hands on my shoulders.
“Father.” Opening my eyes, I look at the reflection in the mirror, which has begun to fog over from the steam like smoke pressing the sky in thick layers. King Randor of Argona stands as a backdrop to me, his thick red beard and piercing blue eyes that seem to stare into my very soul peering at me. I twist around in my seat, meeting his gaze with my own.
“Dear boy, I hope you could spare a few minutes for talking.” Randor purrs. His voice is deep and rich, lightly accented.
“Of course.” I say. Randor nods, a slight smile pulling at the corners of his cherry red lips.
“There is a option that sits open for you. When and if she comes, I would like you to accept the marriage offer for the daughter of that eastern count.” My father says, releasing his hold on my shoulders, allowing me to stand.
“A-a marriage offer? Father, I’m fifteen, I still have five years till entering manhood, and besides, what if she isn’t there, or what if she refuses?” I stammer, my tongue suddenly heavy in my mouth like a lead weight tied to some prisoners’ ankles.
“This is for the best, Skylar. Argona needs to be stronger then ever, and an alliance between the eastern count and us through a marriage is the best and only way to strengthen our city. I hope you understand that Skylar, because the last thing I need is a divided court when unity is crucial to our survival.”
“Crucial against the Lore, you mean.” I bite the words out, knowing full well that I might be condemning myself to my father’s wrath.
“I suppose. Rotten tree maggots, always showing up when they’re not supposed to.” He spits, a hard blade of loathing entering his voice, turning it razor sharp.
“Did something happen?” I venture, a warm sense of curiosity entering my stomach, turning it to goo.
“Yes. Several prisoners, a Lore girl and one of my Magi, were on a transport wagon that was ambushed by the Lore. There were no survivors.” Randor flicks his wrist, studying the ornamental gold bracer on his forearm.
“A Lore?” That was strange. My father had never ordered a Lore taken prisoner before. The men who did it must have done it without orders.
“Yes. And there has been no word from Captain Theodan or his men on how they lost the Magi assigned to them.”
“Could they be dead?”
“Hardly,” my father snorts, then turns his gaze to me, “I will see you in the ballroom.” Then he leaves, the chamber left in cold silence without him. Sighing, I run a hand through my hair, several strands catching on the gold rings I’m wearing.
Time to get this massacre over with.
I enter through a side door, hoping against hope that no one would notice me. The side door closes with a muffled thud, going unheard in the chatter of my father’s party guests.
Women in elaborate skirts dance around, jewelry of every kind and color adoring their bodies. Men in dress uniforms parade around, holding shots of liquor in their white gloved hands. Couples besieged the main area, light from the chandeliers reflecting in wine bottles and glasses of beer.
From the staircase up to the indoor pavilion, the guests close to my father were dancing in slow, methodical movements.
“May I have the dance, my Prince?” I twist to see Tejon standing behind me, his hair combed back, his brown skin oily and glowing. His eyes sparkle like gems, catching firelight in their bottomless depths. His uniform is perfectly pressed, not a single crease line in sight. On his left pectoral, his medals hung like bars of liquid gold. My heart begins to pound, steady and fast like a drum.
“Tell me something, Tejon.” I breathe, letting him sweep me into his arms for the next dance.
“What would you like to know, my Prince? The battles of Lore, or the inner workings of your father’s politics, or perhaps something else?” Tejon puts one hand on my left hip, clasping the other around my right hand. I put my left on the crook of his elbow, allowing him to sway our bodies side to side.
“What is my father planning for the Lore?” I ask. Tejon frowns, his brows folding and wrinkling. Behind him, the ballroom swims in bright amber and gray flashes, adding to the slight ringing in my temples.
“I know a few things, not all of them good.” He says.
“Tell me.” I say, shifting my weight, pulling Tejon closer, trying to evade my impending headache.
“Everyone knows that he is trying to kill off the Lore entirely. But that’s the mere surface of his plan. His Majesty wants to eradicate all Woodland Emhic. And he believes that wiping out Woodland’s people will achieve that. Whether or not that’s true, remains to be unseen, my Prince.” Tejon turns, making us swerve in the opposite direction. This close to him, I can smell his breath, lemons and vinegar, and feel the waves of warmth that are radiating from his body.
“All of Woodland Emhic?” I blink, stunned.
“Yes, my Prince.” Tejon says. He slides his arm around my waist, sending shivers up my spine, pulling me closer until our chests were almost touching. I’d forgotten the feeling of having someone this close to me. I’d forgotten the tiny daggers of yearning and anguish of wanting the person, but being unable to earn their love.
I’d had a crush on Tejon since the first day he was assigned to train me. Every time he showed skin or got close enough for me to touch, my heart would pound hard against my ribs, restricting my breathing. And in this ballroom, with a splitting headache and Tejon a mere breath’s away, it felt like someone had wrapped a belt around my chest and was pulling it tighter and tighter like a vice.
“Can you explain Emhic again to me? I know that it’s what allows mages to do magic, but I forgot how.” I manage to squeak, the belt around my rib cage tightening even farther.
“Emhic runs in the blood of mages. If they are able to obtain it, a mage can summon the Emhic and use it to, for example, create fire or even to fly.” Tejon says. His teeth are white and straight, glittering silver like stars. Silver like dragon scales.
“Alright. Could killing off an entire race actually destroy an Emhic?” This was the question that was really bugging me. Was it possible to destroy an entire Emhic? It was a question that we as Arkeyains had been pondering for millennia, debating and arguing over for centuries, too frightened of the side effects to experiment with.
“I know not, my Prince. It is the question your father has taken into his own hands to answer.” Tejon sighs, his grip loosening.
“One more thing.” I say, looping one arm around Tejon’s shoulders.
“What, my Prince?”
“This.” I kiss him, overlapping his lips with mine, standing up on my tiptoes, curling my fingers around his collar. Tejon stiffens, then relaxes, and I feel his muscles loosen.
“My Prince. Prince Skylar. Skylar.” Tejon breaks away, putting his hands on my shoulders, taking a step back.
“What?”
“Many apologies, but I must go. I meant to tell you, but you will have another tutor, his Majesty has called me to the raids.” Then he turns and walks away, disappearing into the crowd, leaving me standing there by myself, my mouth parted.
He left.
The realization comes, slamming into me at full power. My knees nearly buckle, all my strength and dignity flooding out of me at once in an embarrassed puddle.
Stupid stupid stupid.
I had to be a fool and stupid to just go and kiss him. Tejon was in his thirties, and I was on the barest fringe of fifteen. Stupid stupid. Stupid.
Great job Skylar. Now he’ll never want to see you again, that’s for sure. You just had to kiss him. Now he’ll hate you for the rest of your sad, miserable life. I closed my eyes, letting my mind swim in the darkness, afraid of what I might see if I opened them.