Despite Twenty-six’s refusal to be healed by blood magic, his wounds sealed themselves and began mending more rapidly than they ever had before. Whatever Four had done to drive off his fever had obviously had a more widespread effect than intended.
Twenty-six kept that information to himself, however. He trusted Four, for the most part. The prince had only attacked him so viciously to prove how far out of reach revenge still lay.
What gnawed at Twenty-six was the way he kept sliding further into the blood drinker’s world. With every step, he sunk deeper into their filth. He knew he had to keep going, full sail, but every new corruption was another break from who he had been. He’d accepted that he would do whatever it took to redeem the blood debt for his people, but that didn’t make the disgust with himself any easier to swallow.
The slide was made all the more confusing by the realization that two of those blood drinkers weren’t repulsive creatures of evil. Nine was a vicious, overactive child, but loyal to the death. Four had no self-control, but he was nobler than he attempted to appear.
Four had asked him if they were friends.
He thought back to Uelaat. Strong, dependable, the embodiment of the raedr—a maelstrom to the dirters and a becalmed soul to his people. Araam had trusted Uelaat with his life. Moreover, with his bride’s life.
Twenty-six wouldn’t trust Four alone with anyone’s bride. But he might trust Four with her life.
***
The first-year championship match pitted Four against Nine, swordstaff against twin swords. Wagers in the student quarters were made solidly in Four’s favor. Nine was the only one who laid money on himself, and there was some question as to whether the brat should even be allowed to bet since it was an unprovable certainty that he’d stolen that money from one of them.
In the staff quarters, gambling on the match wasn’t nearly as lopsided. Only two of the brat’s wins had been the strange, one moment here, the next unaccountably somewhere else sort that denoted blood magic. The majority of Nine’s matches had been won by skill. There was a wildness to the little berserker most opponents didn’t know how to defend against. His attacks looked like mindless chopping, his parries like last-minute close shaves, but the masters and a few of the best third- and fourth-years spotted the dexterity in the storm. Among the masters, the wagers were one bet on the close-rat for every three bets in favor of the prince.
By that point, everybody who would stand still for five seconds had heard that Nine’s extra lessons hung on winning this championship match. As far as the runt was concerned, the lessons were over.
Saint Daven’s money was on the prince.
“You don’t want to back your sword student?” Malice asked, marking down the bet. In addition to being the advanced arithmetics lecturer, the Coffee Island master enjoyed the side job of Thornfield’s unofficial staff bookmaker.
Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.
Saint Daven shook his head. “Four knows his weaknesses, and he’s seen how Nine uses his strengths. If the prince tries at all, Nine can’t beat him.”
Izak had come to the same conclusion. With his hopes of dropping out of the bracket early already dashed, and now that he would be facing his smaller, dumber, less experienced roommate in front of the whole school, he was going to have to win this absurd fake tournament all over again. Since he was already in the final match, there wasn’t any extra leisure time to be gained by losing, anyway.
The match wasn’t as one-sided as Izak guessed it would be. He won, but narrowly. Only a last-moment lockup of the runt’s blood energies saved him, and only because it came from Nine’s blind right side.
Luckily for the prince, Master Fright was between them announcing the victor when Nine broke free of the immobilization. The master caught the brunt of the brat’s fury before Nine could unleash it on the prince.
Fright’s new doublet was ruined, and the twin swords were confiscated for the remainder of the spring tournament.
“Guess that means sword lessons is confiscated, too,” Nine said, fixing Saint Daven with a sullen glare that came mostly from the left eye.
“Ever heard of weighted swords?” the weapons master asked.
Nine spat in the mud. “I know I don’t much like the sound of ’em, me.”
“By the end of the day, you’re not going to like the feel of them either. They’re iron bars with sword grips. Should help you put a little more strength behind those wild swings.”
“Be better if you taught me how to keep outta those lockups Four does. They’re bad medicine.”
“I don’t know if that’s something that can be taught. It comes down to the resistor’s strength of will versus the caster’s power.”
“Strength a’ will! I got so much strength a’ will it like to choke me!”
“Like to choke us all,” Saint Daven muttered.
“Show me how to do it.”
“I don’t have anywhere near the power someone wielding royal blood magic does.”
“That don’t matter none. I’m a fair study, me. I’ll learn on your weak stuff and puff it up next time I’m facing Four. What’d’ya say?”
“Put some effort into the weighted swords, and I’ll think about it.”
***
“We are friends,” Twenty-six said when the prince of the dirters returned to their room after the late meal.
Four stopped halfway to his bunk and shot Twenty-six a bemused grin. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“The blood drinker magic you used during our match—how much effort did it cost you?”
“Less than someone who wanted to kill me and avenge his people would hope.”
“Will you teach me to overcome that blood magic attack as well?”
Four folded his tall form into his bunk and leaned cross-legged against the wall. “I don’t think there is any overcoming it. There’s just being torn to shreds.”
“It was an illusion. It left corresponding wounds, but the weapon was not real. There must be a way to overcome it.”
“That’s debatable. I’ve used the full measure of that attack on more people than even know it’s possible, and none of them have ever managed to survive it, let alone fight it off.”
“I don’t need to fight it off, just—”
“Just to keep moving long enough to kill the dirter king,” Four finished for him, rolling his dark eyes. “Yes, yes, I know, Nine knows, the spiders and the cockroaches know. We all listen to you talk in your sleep about how great death is.”
If he let Four get off the subject, he would never get a straight answer.
“Will you teach me or not?” Twenty-six demanded.
The prince stared down his nose at him. “You’ll be up to two favors. That’s a dangerous sum to owe royalty.”
“Blood drinkers don’t assist their friends without compensation?”
“Maybe the ones too stupid to indebt a valuable pirate asset to themselves.”
Twenty-six chose his words carefully. “I will agree if the second favor covers all types of blood magic you know now and may discover in the future.”
“I’d better make it a good one, then,” Four said.