Book 3: Chapter 23 – Raining On My Parade [Part 2]
Book 3: Chapter 23 - Raining On My Parade [Part 2]
As if the sky itself wished to force a postponement, the rain had begun well before dawn—no gentle patter, but a hard, slanting downpour that hammered the slate roofs. The messenger’s cloak had dripped a small pond on the dormitory’s tiles, and his words had been most unwelcome: His Highness Velens would not postpone. The Crown Prince, it seemed, remained a poseur to the last—more enamored of spectacle than sense.
Seraphina sighed and set her teacup down. The china chimed against the saucer, a small bell struck in a storm.
“Aren’t you eating a bit much, Hughes?” she asked the boy at her table. A rain-dimmed window framed him; beyond it, the Academy lawns were already sodden and sullen.
“I need energy if I’m to go up against a Senior!” he said, almost cheerful, chewing like a man with nothing at stake but the crust in his mouth.
Strange boy. Did he fear nothing—or did nothing in that head of his rattle enough to know danger? Even if he won, he would earn the ire of a potentially soon-to-be sovereign. The bill would be presented later, with interest. Of that, she was sure.
“You do know Velens is a fair hand with a blade,” Seraphina said, keeping her tone light as she pushed down her guilt into her mental trash bin. “And as the challenger, he’ll try to push for a match to satisfaction. We have the right of refusal, of course. We could insist on first blood, or—”
“To satisfaction will be fine,” Hughes said blithely, that almost inane smile never leaving him.
Seraphina, against her better judgment, felt worry catch behind her ribs like a fishbone. “Velens favors his left hand. Hughes, are you left or right-handed?”
“Oh, I can use both,” he replied, tearing into a slice of buttered, partially burned bread she insisted on calling “toast.”
Like everything about her, she could make even the most mundane seem wonderful, Hughes thought to himself. The bread, or “toast,” tasted better because Seraphina had named it and brought it into this world. It was a crime that Velens had treated her so poorly. No excitement, he reminded himself, not before the clash. He would not underestimate, nor would he overestimate. He would analyze and overcome. Breathe. Let the emotions flow in and past me.
Seraphina’s fingers brushed the ruby of her earring. Ambidextrous. Less than one in a hundred—she had read that somewhere. The odds that both of them… Foolish. Coincidence, nothing more.
“You may ask one of my Knights to second you,” she said, studying him. “They’re better with a sword than I am. It’s unusual, to say the least, that you nominated one of the fairer sex.”
“I could think of no one better to be at my side,” he said simply, as if remarking that water was wet.
Color rose, swift and traitorous, to her cheeks. How could he say such things so cleanly? After a heartbeat, she coughed into her fist and found her balance again. “Again: as the challenged party, you will get to choose the manner of the duel.”
“I don’t own any weapons,” he said, washing the toast down with water. “So… any weapon will do, I suppose.”
“I do believe that you are not taking this seriously,” Seraphina murmured, getting slightly irritated. “Velens has trained with some of the realm’s finest masters. He may play at courtly foppery, but it would behoove you to remember that he is also a member of the Adventurers’ Guild. At just sixteen, he has achieved the Bronze.”
“I’m glad you’re worrying about me,” Hughes said, smiling that same infuriatingly open smile. “But I will be fine, Lady Seraphina.”
“I am not wor—” She bit the word in two. “In duels like this, people die.”
“Oh, I know,” Hughes said softly, and for an instant the levity left him. “Lady Seraphina, I do.”
Exasperation nipped her patience. “Milly, fetch my estoc. Please.”
Miriam froze as if struck. Please. Milady must truly be out of sorts, the monstrous maid thought.
I am most definitely not out of sorts, came the cool warning across the link they shared. Now hurry, Seraphina demanded across the link of the Beast Lore Amulet.
The maid gave a small squeak, nearly leaping out of her skin, and fled.
A few moments later, Eloise peeked around the door, a fine cloak around her shoulders, followed by a very sleepy-looking Desdemona de Savant. With her hair in disarray and her collar unlaced, de Savant was one of the lucky few who could manage the dishabille look.
“Good morning, Seraphina,” Desdemona yawned. “Must we truly do this for—what was his name again? Peter?”
“Hughes,” Seraphina said, frost blooming in the single word.
“You know my mother,” Desdemona went on breezily, “she wouldn’t approve of me witnessing a potentially violent event.”
“Violence, Desdemona?” Seraphina’s eyes did not so much as blink. “You?”
The challenge hung. A second later, Desdemona’s gaze skittered. “Well, we should all show support for a common friend,” she amended, smiling first at Seraphina, then at Eloise.
“You two seem… chummy,” Seraphina observed, coolly. She had expected them to still be at each other’s throats over Sir Gravens.
Eloise lowered her lashes. “We’re in the same class. We thought it best to reach an understanding. No need for enmity between us ladies.”
“Gravens, why are you half naked!?” Seraphina snapped suddenly, clapping a hand to her mouth as she rose.
Both girls whirled around. They looked at each other, their faces a bright red.
“The pair of you, honestly!” de Sariens chided. “No enmity at all,” the blonde girl murmured to herself. “How very noble.”
And how long will that truce of yours last? She needed those close to her to compete against each other to some degree. To vie for her time and concern.
Miriam returned at last, the door thudding shut behind her. She carried the estoc in the crook of her arm as one might carry a sleeping cat—carefully, respectfully, mildly afraid it might wake and bite. The scabbard was of a leather darkened to a near-black. No ostentation: a plain throat of blued steel; a chape hammered to a simple boot; a frog of thick, oiled straps studded with five discreet rivets. A weapon for work, not for show.
“Your blade, milady,” Miriam said, and offered it hilt-first.
Seraphina took it and felt at once how honest a thing it was. The grip fit her hand without argument: a spiraled wrap of dark leather over cord, flaring gently to the pommel.
She drew the blade half a handspan, lifting it to her eye. No fuller, no gentle edge—just a long, unyielding taper of silverine steel with a diamond section as precise as a surveyor’s line. A maker’s mark sat shyly just above the ricasso. This was New Undertown steel. Heavy dwarven steel with a hint of Mithril within it.
But to her it felt light in her hand, too light as she fully sheathed it. Flimsy, even. For the young girl knew she could snap it across her knee. But then, most things felt flimsy to Seraphina these days. Her raw Strength spoiled her sense of what would break with the smallest application of effort.
With Eloise’s help, she buckled the sword-belt low on her hips, angling the hanger so the scabbard would not tangle her stride. She adjusted her split skirt, buttoning the hidden placket that turned fashion into utility
Hughes watched her the way you would watch a beautiful, but dangerous, beast. “A sword, it suits you,” he said.
“It suits the task at hand,” Seraphina answered. Outside, thunder rolled over like a drum beaten with heavy hands. “Well then, ladies. Hughes.” She gathered her cloak, raising the hood. “Shall we be off? We mustn’t keep the Crown Prince waiting. I really do hope the weather finds its manners later.”