Rach started instantly, slashing downward with a sudden motion against the wood. They’d opted for thin boards held aloft by servants. The wood might snap if given too much pressure. Keeping the measure of it all while moving fast enough to continue Writing, especially with a non-dominant hand, was an impressive feat of dexterity. But that’s all it was, impressive dexterity. It had nothing to do with Writing.
But for scions and students of the Empire, Penmanship matters. So the male representative of the Penmanship guild moved with just as much control as Rach. My eyes weren’t on him, however. My gaze bored into Rach, who seemed oblivious of the crowd. His knife glinted in the bunting lights of the yard as he cut delicately into the thin board. With a bit of imagination, I could see blood beneath his hands and skin where the board was.
Bile rose in my gorge. Underneath my illusions, my skin lit up with energy. Stomach churning, I tried to calm myself as I began to sweat. It wouldn’t show underneath my Skin Writing of course but I could feel the invisible beads running down my body. I was too close to Rach, the lines of Writing he’d carved into my skin burning icily against my Writing-enflamed flesh. I closed my eyes and silently began to repeat the lines of my Story, immersing myself in the knowledge of what I would do to Rach. The repetition brought a cool concentration with it and a chance to control my inner turmoil.
Opening my eyes, I watched as Rach smirked at the crowd and finished his work with a flourish of the blade. Did he do the same to my unconscious form when he violated me, I wondered. Pushing the question back down to the dark place it came from, I forced myself to spare a glance at Rach’s struggling competitor. His brow poured sweat and his hand shook under the pressure of marshalling the Writing. I suppressed my inner disgust at the pathetic display, aware that I would likely fare no better under his circumstances. I’d hardly bothered to practice with my left hand, after all. Then again, even with such handicaps I could produce better Writing than both of them could.
I knew that Rach finished before the crowd did. My skin started to quiet, the endless drain going back to a steady pull as opposed to the hungry whirlpool it was moments ago. Seconds after it subsided, Rach stepped away from the board and signaled to the crowd. Finishing first would ordinarily give him an edge when considering tiebreakers, but on a night like tonight, it earned him far more. The crowd rewarded his finish with hearty shouts and claps. They even threw in a few mild jeers towards the Guild representative, mocking his efforts. Red faced from the pressure, the idiot let his concentration slip after one particularly noisome jibe.
A moment later the Writing began to spill off the wood, letters falling askew and popping as they hit the ground. Tiny shimmers of energy burst at his feet, burning his pants and causing the Guild man to hop about like a dancing monkey. One of letters slid onto the hands of one of the servants holding the wood aloft and lit them on fire. As the man screamed in agony and dropped the wood, Rach began to Write on his own slate once more. He’d eschewed the blade this time and turned to the reservoir of ink sitting ready for future challenges at his side. Black Writing ran over his wooden letter, modifying the Writing already present.
The burgeoning disaster started to penetrate the thick skulls of the crowd as they began to murmur and step away. Lord Wairth took firm hold of my arm as if preempting any girlish theatrics and said, “How unfortunate. Now don’t be afraid my dear, I’m prepared to protect you from any stray Writing.”
I pressed myself flush against the older man and whispered in mock fear, “Oh dear! Will they be alright?”
“Quite so!” replied Lord Wairth, patting my hand. “You see the Scribes on the edge of the grounds haven’t moved yet? They understand that in matters like this it is the duty of the Writer to handle himself! If the Guild’s representative cannot defuse the situation then he hardly deserves the title after all.”
Clinically, I watched as Rach finished Writing and sent his construct flying over to contain the bursting Words and Phrases. Forcing myself to detach from the situation I watched the servant with the burning hands fall to the ground as a stray letter caught him in the face. His face was an agonized expression of suffering for a half-instant before he died, slumping to the ground.
The backlash from the explosion had the other servant running, his face and arms bleeding from several splinter cuts. He cradled one of his hands as he escaped the radius of the backlash, an expression of relief on his face. Then he looked around for his friend.
Forcing myself to turn away, I watched as the Penmanship Guild’s representative struggled to Write. A flash of anger hit me when I realized he’d managed to create a shield for himself, blunting further damage. A pair of medical Scribes stood nearby, poised to take him off the field once the explosions subsided.
Rach’s construct started to move, circling inwards and suppressing the backlash of the explosions as it went. When it finally collapsed the last stray Punctuation, the only signs of the struggle were the burnt grass and the body of the servant. A moment later a pair of Scribes removed the body and placed a fast piece of Writing to encourage the grass around the stage to restore itself. The wood of the stage itself was Written against burning. Then the Guild’s man was gone as well, bundled up with the Scribes who would heal his wounds and see him safely home.
Lord Wairth leaned in to comfort me saying, “There, there dear, see? No lasting damage.” Then he joined the crowd in applauding the quick work of the Scribes.
When Rach bowed to the crowd, he along with everyone else clapped even harder. After the noise quieted, Rach turned to the princess and said in a contrite tone, “I apologize your highness, in my zeal to save the man I overWrote your card. Can you forgive me?”
The princess almost swooned before nodding. Evidently, she didn’t trust her voice in the face of such peerless gallantry. Irate I looked away as the rest of the crowd signaled its approval.
Rach then faced the crowd and said in a faux sad tone, “I fear I must declare myself loser of this first contest. It is painfully evident that my own creation was simply not ambitious enough for the royal personage. In my foolish pride, I did not have the bravery to reach for the heavens as did the Penmanship Guild’s man here.”
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The crowd would have none of this, clamoring for him to end his modest appraisal of himself. Ignoring them, Rach continued to speak. “Of course in soaring too high he scraped the edge of the sun, but such a thing is but the meanest requirement when writing for her royal highness.”
Turning to the female representative he said, “I fear you’ve the advantage entering our second battle madam. Yet I assure you, my hand will not waver! For although I am down,” before continuing he paused for dramatic effect and threw a sidelong glance at the object of his saccharine speech, “I am fighting for the sake of the princess!”
The crowd reacted as expected as a new set of servants entered the grounds holding the specially rendered water-brushes and polished metal surfaces that would test the speed of both Writers during the second contest. Dipping his brush into the crystal decanter of water, Rach began to Write in swift motions on the burnished metal. Far more demure, the woman took her time, carefully placing her strokes in a precise fashion. She didn’t intend to win through speed but rather control, plying her trade with deliberate motions that minimized the spread of the water.
I approved of her strategy. It demonstrated a care for her words that few Writers would share. But I also knew it wouldn’t hold a candle to Rach’s furious pace, not in the eyes of this crowd. A discerning set of Writers might have made a better go of it, carefully noting her advanced style and spotting the differences in the product. But a crowd as riled as this one in favor of Rach? Not a chance. It certainly wouldn’t help that the princess would be far too inexperienced to tell the difference between the styles, but then the princess would likely favor anything Rach produced regardless of the actual merit.
With a flourish that sprayed a few droplets out towards the crowd, Rach finished his work. A moment later, the words floated off the page flying towards the princess before burning into a glittering shimmer that spelled out his message.
Reading it aloud for the crowd, Rach intoned solemnly, “Royal lady, I cannot compliment you. For in your presence I cannot see stars, not when your eyes outshine them. Next to you, I cannot hear music, not when your laugh is more melodious by far. Serving you, I cannot fear anything other than my own inadequacy. For any man who dares serve you must take the measure of himself and, invariably, will find himself wanting. Thus I must apologize for I cannot compliment you, not with what meagre skill I possess.”
After he finished, the woman from the Penmanship Guild sent her own construct alight. It was less a set of words and more a streaming conflagration of emotions and sensations. She regaled the crowd with a sense of majesty and awe before humbling us with admiration and devotion. To finish she gave us pride. Looking up, I saw two burning symbols hovering in the air above the princesses’ head.
The first was the symbol of the Empire, a roaring Lion. The second was the symbol of the House of Bard, a golden harp. I noticed that the hand playing the harp was clearly female and sporting the consort’s ring, a reference to the royal mother. The image lasted a hair of a second, short enough for the rest of the crowd to miss it.
Murmuring to myself, I said, “So she’s the pride of the nation and the pride of her mother.” Endearing, I thought, and utterly doomed to failure even if it was technically more impressive than Rach’s pretty little speech. But then she knew that, hence the little barb she’d hidden in her choice of emotions, humility giving way to pride. Rach noticed, I’d seen him frown when her Writing flowed over the audience.
She was quite clearly mocking his false humility as a veneer for his pride. Her final note with the consort’s ring and the twin symbols might have also been a veiled insult at his obvious ambition, but as I didn’t know the woman I didn’t know if she was bold or merely foolish. In either case, it hardly mattered to me. After tonight, Rach wouldn’t be able to get his revenge on her anyway.
Beside me, Lord Wairth intoned sagely, “A good effort but hardly the challenger’s equal.”
Judging by the other whispered comments, the rest of the crowd shared his puerile sentiment. I suppressed my sneer, fools the sordid lot of them. Then again, what else had I expected from the aristocrats of the Empire?
Evidently, the princess had no eyes for anyone but Rach either, judging by her imperious smile. Turning a critical look towards the woman from the Penmanship Guild she said, “While I find your offering… adequate, I find myself with no choice but to award Lord Rach the prize.”
At her words, the woman looked slightly furious. She’d expected to lose, not to be humiliated by a strapping girl too young to understand quality. Her expression returned to neutral a second later. But I, and Rach, noted it. He seemed satisfied with her humiliation.
His eyes flashed triumphant before he turned to the crowd and shouted, “So it is a tie! Well then my Lords and Ladies, would you be as kind as to signal your approval?”
The crowd did just that, acting like peasants at a hanging. They frothed and shouted, each one clamoring for Rach to hear them above the din of their neighbors. “Disgusting,” I hissed under my breath.
Lord Wairth seized my hand and leaned close so I could hear him above the noise saying, “My dear, this stamping and shouting is a young man’s game. Shall we find a more secluded location to discuss this riveting display in more,” I could feel his eyes undressing me as he spoke, “intimate detail?”
His overeager voice gave way to pants as he hovered next to my ear, salivating like a dog in heat. It certainly didn’t help his case that to whisper he’d had to pull me down to his level, an indignity that set the tone for his entire lascivious statement. I didn’t want to let Rach out of my sight. But a tryst with Lord Wairth would be a fantastic opportunity to ditch my unwelcome paramour. Once free, I could hunt down Rach at my leisure.
So with a girlish giggle I scolded, “Lord Wairth! How bold of you.” Then I took his hand and whispered in his ear, watching his eyes roll back with pleasure as I did, “I can think of nothing I would enjoy more than your expert instruction.”
Preening, he led me like an errant child through the crowd. Atop the stage, Rach genuflected before the princess, mouth moving in a pantomime of some further compliment. I kept him in my view as long as I could. Then we were away, moving towards the gardens. For an aged, corpulent, and frankly lazy man Lord Wairth manhandled my unresisting figure with astounding haste. The prospect of my willing body had him chomping at the bit, apparently.
Sadly, for poor Lord Wairth, he didn’t know the layout of the palace. Short as he was he couldn’t see a way forward while inside the crowd so he defaulted to escaping the press of bodies before heading anywhere specific. As a result, instead of guiding me to the secluded gardens, he took me towards a nearby gate instead.
As he paused to reorient himself an All-Capitals Writer’s construct intoned, “My Lords and Ladies! Please proceed to the ballroom for the beginning of the dances, the conclusion of which will be the first dance of her Royal Highness of the House of Bard, the Third Princess Maorie!”
At his words, the gate in front of us swept open, the footmen and servants arraying themselves in a processional that would funnel us into the ballroom. The sight of the hall beyond the gates astounded me. I gazed upwards and for the first time since before I’d met Rach, was overcome by beauty.