Page 8 of Courting War
“Just breathe, Kel,” Cecile whispered, her eyes darting around the room of gathering council members. “You don’t want anyone to hear.”
Kellyn clutched his wooden carving so hard that his knuckles lost all color, and his fingers turned red, causing three yellow wind sprites to burst out of the air and feed on his worry. Kellyn swatted the little creatures away with a hand, and he dropped his voice so low only a god or Cecile could hear, “Pronouncing an unfamiliar name is impossible.”
Nearly impossible.
Kellyn’s affliction made it hard to differentiate words and sounds. When he read, none of the characters made sense, and he often reversed sounds, confusing letters or words that looked alike. During his time at the Agoge Academy—the seven-year military and scholarly training mandated for all Theoden children at age sixteen—Kellyn was calleda big dumb bruteby his peers. The worst label to give a kid in a country that valued strategy and wit above all else.
Kellyn’s reputation became so bad that his parents considered faking his death and stripping his inheritance.
They couldn’t have anunintelligentson.
Cecile’s shadow cat meowed and headbutted Kellyn’s leg. The magic little thing did not like it when he degraded himself—even in his head.
“Kel, no one will find out about your . . . struggles.” Cecile’s voice had an Andromaden lilt, and her comforting smile was like midnight lightning. Brilliant and spellbinding. She was like a painting of the Goddess of Love coming to life. “We’ve spent the past seven days memorizing the speech. There’s nothing that could go wrong.”
He peered over the balcony ledge. “I have a terrible feeling about today.”
“It’s only a feeling,” Cecile said as her ash brown curls bounced in the wind and sparkled in the morning sunlight streaming through the balcony, the blonde undertones peeking through.
“What are you two talking about?” Emmett Evans, the perennial rogue, and Kellyn’s best mate, asked.
“Kellyn’s nervous,” Cecile said.
“Don’t worry. All you have to do is say a name, and it doesn’t even have to be the correct one.” Emmett smirked, his russet-brown skin glowing with amusement as he slid his hands into his pockets. Bluntness was Emmett’s currency. He said what he wanted when he wanted, and he didn’t care about anyone’s reactions.
“Emmett, that’s horrible.” Cecile punched him.Hard.
Unnaturally hard.
And Kellyn knew it hurt. He’d been on the receiving end of her punches far too often in the Agoge.
Emmett held his arms up in surrender. “I’m just saying it’s an option. But we all know I should be this year’s champion.” He tilted his black top hat in a false salute, mocking Cecile. His style matched his flippant, extravagant nature. The double-breasted midnight suit had his house tartan stitched into the vest and was woven from the most expensive spider silk in the world.
Cecile balked. “A terrible option. We all know whatever name Kellyn calls is a death sentence.” A Theoden champion hadn’t won the Sacrifice—or survived—in over 500 years.
“It is a death knell, true, but it’s also a chance to claim the highest honor imaginable and get a guaranteed ticket to the Valysian Fields,” Emmett said.
“But you’ll be dead. The Fields are for heroic and virtuousdeadsouls.” Cecile crossed her arms.
It was a common argument between them. Cecile never fully embraced Theoden culture. Honor was everything.Potius mori quam foedare. Death before dishonor. To die an honorable death was more valuable than any worldly riches. But Cecile was Andromaden at heart, and honor, while still significant, was less critical.
“I’d rather die with honor than lead a meaningless life. Besides, it’s only a death knell because our venerable goddess can’t seem to show up,” Emmett said, poison dripping from his tongue.
Kellyn sighed and turned back to his lovespoon carving, which he would sacrifice to Theodra at his altar later that night. “Careful, Theodra mighthear you.”
“She doesn’t listen, and if she did, she would’ve come down to smite me long ago.”
“Perhaps she doesn’t smite you because I’ve asked her not to.” Cecile clutched the balcony railing and leaned her head out as if basking in the crowd’s excitement. A wind sprite landed on her shoulder and played with her hair—feeding off her emotions.
“I forgot I was talking to her Godmarked, and most loyal male devotee.” Emmett rolled his eyes dramatically. He wasn’t wrong, Kellyn and Cecile were among the Goddess of War’s most dedicated followers.
Cecile loosed an exaggerated sigh and turned her attention to Kellyn. “You look like Death ripped out your heart.”
Kellyn sucked in a breath, and nerves rattled his bones. The anticipation was the worst part. He just needed to start the speech, and it would be fine. It was the waiting that might end him.
“Anyway, have you seen Kellyn’s royal fan club today?” Emmett said, nodding at a group made up of six girls and three boys—the prince was popular with all young people who found men attractive.
Kellyn’s eyes tracked to them, and he swore one of them let out a soft feline sigh. He forced a smile and an awkward nod. How did one ever get used to that type of attention?
