TVisTV Book 3: Chapter 24 (RAW)

Chapter 24 - The Hero

A hero is born among a hundred, a wise man is found among a thousand, but an accomplished one might not be found even among a hundred thousand men.

- Plato.

A crowd had gathered in the small courtyard of one of the Alchemy Laboratories near the Academy’s Menagerie, fewer than there would have been but for the downpour. Low-quality Zajasite stones marked the ad hoc dueling arena with their weak glow. The flagstones gleamed treacherously, slick with rain. Poor footing for a duel, not that such consideration would bother the Crown Prince much. He could be stubborn like that, Seraphina thought dryly. Or perhaps he aimed to have an excuse should he lose.

Why in the Heavens did Velens insist on doing this outside?  the blonde girl continued to ponder.

The young noblewoman waited beneath a broad umbrella that Miriam held with nervous hands. The maid kept biting her lip, as if the rain might slip through and drown her mistress at any moment. Beside them, Desdemona yawned prettily under an umbrella held by a very sleepy Sir Filippe, one of Seraphina’s personal Knights. Eloise, by some turn of luck, had claimed the shelter of Sir Gravens’ umbrella. Now, he stood ramrod straight, eyes facing directly ahead.

Seraphina looked to Velens and saw that the rain did not touch him. The droplets broke and slid away in the air, a pearl of space kept dry around his fine clothes. A few paces behind stood Este Lize, silver hair lustrous, eyes flicking aside when Seraphina’s gaze met hers. The hussy was using her little tricks, Seraphina thought. Water magic, keeping her prince dry. Velens had chosen Sir Gallant as his second, which was a touch unfair in Seraphina’s estimation. Gallant was of Royal Guard steel and happened to be an Arts Martial instructor. Of course, Velens would choose a paragon.

“Has the Academy officially condoned this duel? Is the faculty so deep in the Crown’s pockets that they will prop up His Little Highness in a private temper?” Seraphina asked, her tone sweet as vinegar.

“I am here as a friend to His Majesty and as a sworn knight of the Royal Guard, Lady de Sariens,” Sir Gallant replied. He looked every inch the knightly ideal, even rain-soaked. If anything, it added a certain extra wildness to him, jaw set, his clothes clinging to a body forged by drill and battle. A faint scar that traced his left jaw added to his martial aspect. Her eyes climbed from that pale line to the steady darkness of his eyes. A girl could find herself adrift there if she were foolish. Such a pity he stood on the wrong side. There was something about that dark, handsome Knight…

Gallant turned to Hughes. “His Highness requests that the duel be to satisfaction.”

“Master Hughes will fight to—” Seraphina began.

Hughes smiled at her, careless and calm, and her words slipped away from her. He gave Gallant a shrug that bordered on insolence. “I don’t know a thing about the dueling business. I do get to choose how we fight, though, right?”

The Knight glanced to Hughes, then back to his prince. “That is correct.”

Hughes folded his arms, considering, while Gallant supplied options. “We have rapiers, longswords, or arming sword with shield, as tradition allows.”

Seraphina tipped her chin, sending a quick look up to the roofline where Sir Frest crouched with his heavy crossbow. Cornelia, her little menace of a familiar, would be wrapped around his chest. They had their signal. 

Remember, just a small bite if I tell you to, Seraphina reminded the sleepy serpent.

If Cornelia gave him a warning nip, Frest would put a bolt through Velens, then through Este Lize after if he had time. Insurance.

And like everything, she believed in layered Insurance. Tia sheltered under the wings of a stone gargoyle, little weapon in hand as a last resort. The Saint would be able to detect her with her many arcane skills if she sensed danger, but Seraphina hoped the element of surprise would be enough.

“You will command that witch of yours to cease her magics,” Seraphina said, pointing to Velens. “We will have no cheating. If so much as smell the tiniest whiff of her trying to influence the Elements here, I will stuff sharp steel down her throat.”

Of course… the water. Cunning little Velens. Having your little witch help you out.

The murmurs swelled around the courtyard. Este Lize flinched, guilty as a cutpurse caught with purse strings in hand. Velens possessively drew an arm about her shoulders and whispered words of comfort against her ear. She looked as if she might cry.

The faint pressure that shone about him, that delicate barrier, winked out. But at that very moment, the rain thinned. Clouds shouldered apart to let in a pale circle of light, as if the heavens themselves sought to flatter him. Fortune is a coquette, Seraphina thought. She will kiss the undeserving if it amuses her.

“We don’t have to fight with weapons, do we?” Hughes asked, cheer as natural as breathing. “Being just a commoner, I’ve had little reason to wave a sword about.”

“Unless you are a cripple, you have had militia training,” Sir Gallant said, voice edged with iron.

Hughes had to stop himself from smiling. The boy had learned long ago that to be a good liar, he had to convince people that he was a bad liar.

“What are you driving at?” Velens snapped.

“Let’s use fists and feet,” Hughes said. “That way neither of us gets hurt too badly.”

“That is the height of stupidity. We will fight like—” Velens began.

“He is within his rights, Your Majesty,” Gallant cut in, unruffled. “Accept the terms or retract your challenge.”

There was a subtle shift in the atmosphere, an air of disappointment.

Seraphina felt her mouth curve. “Yes, Velens. Retract it. There is no honor here for you. You are his senior, and every subject will hesitate to strike his future king. Save what dignity you can and withdraw.”

Always give an enemy an out. Now, she had framed herself as the reasonable one. When word of this event got to the King, Velens would not doubt be censured.

The prince’s gray eyes found her. Jealousy, lust, greed, wounded pride, all circled there, a foul brew that stifled reason and left a man capable of anything.

“Very well,” he said, low and tight. “I will beat your precious lover into the stones. I will break him, Seraphina.”

“How very manly,” she sighed, and let a laugh spill, bright and cruel. Empowered by her Charisma, it caught in the crowd like a spark in dry reeds until even the staunch royalists and supporters of the Crown found themselves chuckling against their will. “Many will remember your performance today. They might even question your fitness to lead a nation. Velens the Incompetent, when you are given the throne.”

Hughes smiled to himself, a cruel thing that lasted but half a second. Also, he noted, Seraphina had not corrected Velens’ terming of him.

“Treacherous words, whor—”

“Careful,” Seraphina said, soft as silk. “I can lay a challenge of my own.”

“You cannot challenge a Royal. Especially a woman,” Velens answered, quick and pleased with himself.

“How convenient, to brandish privilege like a shield,” she shot back. “My challenge will not be a simple duel, Your Highness. My sword will be my father’s strength in arms, the Red Ogre who has never known defeat. The contest will be set upon the battlefield, not a dueling piste. I would be well within my rights, Crown Prince.”

Silence took them. A single shaft of sun reached the courtyard and settled upon the blonde girl. She looked every inch born to rule.

“But enough,” she said. “You chatter so much, Velens, I could have mistaken you for a woman at the markets haggling over the price of a Valny. Let us begin. I have notes to make before the first bell.”

The laughter rolled again, a touch louder now, more dangerous. Velens’ hands clenched, yet even he was not foolish enough to keep fencing with her tongue. He swallowed his temper and entered the dueling ring, tightening his hands into fists.

Hughes soon followed suit; the stones were a treachery of shine and shallow pools. Every stepped gingerly, as if he were trying to avoid a splash.

Then the heavens opened once more and the rains started again as if signalling the start of the match.

The taller boy set his feet as he had been taught by his masters. Chin tucked, hands high, weight centered, short steps that cut the distance and then retreated in neat, efficient lines. Boring, Seraphina thought, but there was discipline in it. He snapped a straight right that would have split a lesser boy’s lip. Hughes was not there. The punch cut only air as the other boy seemingly stumbled under the blow.

They circled. Velens lashed with a low kick, a weakening blow, hunting a calf. Hughes moved again, evading by a hair. His movements were awkward and loose, arms out like a man flailing and trying not to drop a basket. The smaller boy stumbled again, almost fell, then used the stumble to slither past a follow-up hook. A laugh broke from the crowd, quick and mean, the sound of a place that would take entertainment whenever and wherever it could.

Sir Gravens cupped his hands. “Keep your guard up!” he called out to Hughes.

Desdemona clapped once in delight, then covered her mouth, eyes bright as jewels, threading her arm through her escort’s. Sir Filippe blinked himself awake and grinned despite the early hour. Eloise had gone very still beside Gravens as she took in the spectacle unfolding.

Velens pressed. A jab kissed Hughes’ cheek. The next right cross should have floored him, but the boy rolled his head and shoulder with it, letting the force bleed away. He flailed in reply, elbows and wrists all out of sequence, a windmill of motion that ought to have been laughable. Yet the flailing hid a kick that rapped against Velens’ thigh and made the prince grunt and adjust his stance. The rain thickened for a breath, then thinned again. Their breath steamed.

Seraphina watched without a word. Her face was carved smooth, eyes measuring, a regal mask that gave nothing away. Behind the facade, something itched at her, a thread tugging in the back of the mind. There is something I must recall about the game...

Velens stalked in again. He worked a combination so perfect it looked to be lifted from a treatise, left to the eye, right to the ribs, a short knee to unseat balance. Hughes flowed and stuttered both, a mess of contradictions, and again the rib shot only glanced, the knee skidded, and the follow-up cracked against an elbow rather than a jaw. The Crown Prince grew ever more frustrated. It felt, to Velens, like trying to strike at a falling leaf.

“Is that all, Your Majesty?” Hughes asked, breath light. He grinned through rain and a thin smear of blood. “Seraphina deserves better than you.”

The words struck harder than any fist. Velens’ eyes hooded. He stepped in too sharp, too proud, changing rhythm for the first time. His leading foot slid half an inch on the slick stone. It was enough. Hughes’ gaze flicked down, then up again, and something in him aligned.

The boy spun awkwardly. The turn gathered itself, heel sweeping, weight dropping through the hips. Clean, low, and sudden. Velens’ planted leg went out from under him. The Crown Prince hit stone with a flat slap of back and shoulders, skull cracking against stone, the rain splashing from the impact.

A small sound cut through the courtyard. Eloise’s hand had flown to her throat. She stepped forward, away from the shelter that was Gravens, letting rain stripe her dark hair. She said nothing in a silent scream.

Seraphina’s eyes narrowed. The sweep was ragged at the start yet precise at the end, the kind of ugly-beautiful strike that belied premeditation and long practice. The tugging in her mind tightened. It could only be the style of the Empire.

Hughes did not pause. He stepped in, coiled for the finish. He drove forward, hand changing from fist to spear, fingers meant to end a fight. His face had lost its grin as he lifted his hand to strike with a murderer’s patience.

Another thread in Seraphina’s mind snapped taut. Velens must not be pushed to a place where his life thins lest he awaken his true power. He was the Hero.

Activating Dash, she moved

The skill took her. The world narrowed to a line between where she stood and where she must be. Wind and rain stretched into long threads. Her hand closed on Hughes’ forearm before his fingers met his foe’s skin, her grip as sure as a god’s. She felt the heat of him through wet cloth, the threads of lean muscle under her grip.

You have learned Dash (lvl.3)

At the very same breath another hand clamped Hughes’ wrist. Sir Gallant stood there, breathing only a little harder, cloak dripping in perfect sheets. His voice did not rise. “The duel is finished,” he said. “Terms met. Honor satisfied. Hughes is the victor.”

The courtyard fell to silence. Even the rain seemed to hush for a heartbeat. Wet stone, wet breath, the faint hiss of water running to a drain.

Seraphina let go first. She turned her head, eyes seeking Velens. He was staring at nothing, jaw clenched, breath dragging. Still as a living statue. Something moved behind his gaze, a shimmer at the edge of sight, like heat on a road. Her stomach tightened. Have I already nudged the stone down the hill, she wondered. Is the seed of ancient remembrance awake?

The Royal Guard broke from the crowd. Two men lifted their prince by the elbows, dragging him away. Este Lize hurried to his side, silver hair plastered to her cheeks, lips moving with words no one heard. Still, Velens did not respond.

Sir Gallant raised his hand. “This spectacle is concluded,” he declared, easy and commanding both. The dark-haired Knight gave Hughes a brief nod of respect.

The crowd started to disperse, breaking away into increasingly smaller groups. Desdemona blew Seraphina a theatrical kiss and linked arms with a half-protesting Sir Filippe, dragging him away to warmth. Sir Gravens touched two fingers to his brow at Hughes, a simple soldier’s salute, and turned to shepherd Eloise to shelter. She resisted a moment, eyes straying after the retreating prince, then let herself be led.

Hughes looked down at his hands as if seeing them new. He wiped rain and a little blood from his lip and then grinned wide, boy again. “I got really lucky,” he said.

Seraphina’s brow knit, marring her icy, absolute perfection. “Yes, I do suppose you were.”