Page 77 of Shadows and Roses

Cold settled into her eyes. She had done that and worse, but the rebel wouldn’t understand. Steel shone in the sunlight asshe idly spun the blade. This wasn’t the jeweled pommel and gold-threaded hilt with a needle-thin blade that she wore in court. A practical guard’s weapon was heavier, dull in appearance but the edge no less sharp. Both were familiar in her hands, though this sword was preferable; it didn’t always mean cruelty.

"Are we dueling with swords or words?" She took a ready stance.

"Why not both? Are they really that different?" Nonetheless, he lunged into a probing, short feint.

She didn’t move. "What does a peasant know of either? Tell me, who were your tutors?" Her feet barely shifted while he circled her.

"Oh, none as illustrious as yours, I’m sure." Another test strike, followed by an upstroke across her chest. She parried, shifted sideways, then slid her blade inside his reach but he leaped aside. Quick. Not a bad swordsman.

"Skills and titles have little in common. Was your father a knight?" she asked.

"A few knights helped me refine my technique before they died on my blade. Necessity and survival were my tutors."

"Raise your forearm a touch, your angle lets me reach—yes, good." She smiled slightly as his expression darkened. "My tutors were knights and generals. My tutors were also equally skilled children my age and older, who wanted nothing more than to embarrass, hurt, or kill me." She struck, increasing her speed with every few words.

"My mother put a blade in my hand before I could walk."

He was keeping up but sweating, while her movements remained swift and efficient, her eyes cold.

"I made my first kill when I was nine."

He stumbled, fell backward out of her reach,but bounced to his feet quickly.

"A few years after that, the adults began noticing me. When they realized they couldn’t overpower me without a blade or claw finding their throat, they tried less direct means." He lunged again, flinging sand and dirt at her face. Her eyes closed and she parried blindly but perfectly. This time, she stepped into his reach with her blade pressed to his throat.

Her eyes opened, free of dust. "Only one lord caught me. I cut off his wandering hands," she whispered, coldly analyzing his shocked, momentarily doubt-filled eyes.

A princess didn’t have the luxury of being hidden in safety.

"Do you surrender?" she asked louder.

Damon's eyes flashed with hate and anger. A few seconds later, he unclenched his jaw and dropped his sword, smiling. "I surrender, fair lady."

She stepped back. The rage was gone, but now she knew it was there, underlining every word he spoke.

He bowed. "Well fought, my lady. So the rumors are true. I'm glad to see you're no weak puppet."

Jerome closed in to pick up the rebel's weapon. She waved him away. "Keep your sword, Damon. Let's talk about the alliance and what you can do in Nadraken."

He picked up his sword while her Escorts surrounded her. A mocking smile graced his lips as he stepped back. "Castien first. If he comes out of this alive, we'll see about the rest. So, what has prevented his rescue?"

Her newest Escort would likely be alive, despite her fears. It was his sanity she truly doubted. The mask that slid over that thought was too natural.

"We do not have eyes on him. He was moved out of the dungeons by the time we were ready, and they have increased security in the halls we believe he's being held in. Going in blind could get him and my people killed." She paused. "Why have you not made the attempt?"

He chuckled. "I’m flattered you think I have that kind of reach. One or two spies in Nadraken does not a rebellion make. Or a rescue."

They returned to the study, where the fire had been lit and warm drinks waited. Damon chose a cushioned chair off to the side.

"As for you… I thought it was something like that. Or ineptitude," he smirked. "Our inside man is a long-established servant in their court. A eunuch and a mute, they think he's harmless. No one will suspect him."

He paused. The arrogance melted from his face, replaced by a touch of the anger she'd seen earlier.

"Castien is in their Queen's… playroom, she calls it. Our spy only sees him once a day, in the evening. His last report said that our friend has many scars, is very thin, and doesn't talk." The hot rage in his eyes blinked away. A mask like her own, if less well refined.

She glanced at Thakris to take over. Vern’s protégé would handle this undertaking.

The Escort asked, "He's in the same room every evening? Is it locked? Heavily guarded?"

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