Hexes of the Fall (The Hex King Book 1), page 18
Instantly, the whole crowd was clamoring for a rematch, inquiring where the Gildaurem Estate kept its practice weapons.
Genry could hear Lady Tagan’s voice warning him in the back of his mind. “Parties breed scandal like a dirty kitchen breeds roaches. You must stay out of it, Genry!”
“No!” Genry shouted, loud enough to turn several heads in his direction. He drew himself to his full height and attempted to emulate his mother’s royal bearing. “Rhaka Serolina shall have his rematch if he wants one, but by Solace, not here! This is a party! A party to celebrate Peace and the balance established by King Owan! Now is not the time for a sword fight!”
To his relief, this speech seemed to take some of the wind out of the crowd’s sails, and they fell more or less silent. Then everyone looked at Rhaka, waiting for his response. He had stood in rigid silence up until this point, looking like a distressed cat caught out in the rain.
He took several breaths, his eyes narrowed to two angry slits. “Equinox day,” he said at last. “At dawn, before the ceremony. I challenge you to a duel.” Rhaka waited for a reply, staring him down with dark, unblinking eyes.
Genry swallowed, knowing full well that it was a terrible idea and that Lady Tagan would be furious. Plus, he knew it wasn’t likely that he would win a second time.
“I accept,” he said, holding out his hand.
Despite his inner objections, he wanted to do this. He’d never been so sure of anything in his life.
Rhaka gripped it but didn’t shake. “You agree to abide by the dueling standards outlined in the Knight’s Code?”
Genry narrowed his eyes. “Of course.” He tightened his grip on Rhaka’s hand. “I stake my honor. And Galan’s.”
“Then I stake the honor of House Serolina,” Rhaka replied. He shook their hands up and down, his hard gaze never leaving Genry’s face. “I’ll see you later.”
He turned his back without bowing and stalked away through the crowd, shouldering people out of the way left and right.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A Perfect Distraction
GENRY WOKE TO a pounding on his door. Morning already? He sat up and squinted around his room, taking in the dim lighting and the crumpled glokdan that lay on the ground beside his bed. He scarcely remembered the ride back to the castle, but he had apparently had the presence of mind to change clothes before collapsing for the night. He had a slight headache and a red pressure behind his eyes, as if someone were holding a candle within his skull.
He burrowed back down under his covers and had almost managed to forget about the knocking when it came again. Insistently.
“Yeah, one second!” he called, kicking his legs off the side of his bed and throwing on a jacket over his bedclothes. “Who is it?”
The reply was muffled, but Genry recognized Emersen’s voice.
“Emersen? Come in!” He hoped it was only Emersen, as he didn’t feel much in the mood to talk to anyone else just then.
Realizing he was parched, Genry tottered over to the table and poured a glass of water from a pitcher, quickly gulping down a huge mouthful. The door opened.
Genry reached for the pitcher again, still thirsty, and looked up to see a familiar shadow darkening his doorway, causing his hand to slip and splash water onto the table.
Lady Tagan.
She was shrouded in her usual black attire from head to foot, her face partially obscured by a translucent veil that hung straight down from a simple hat. She looked like a widow still in mourning, though King Nallore had passed away nearly a decade ago. Perhaps a decade was a long time to still be in mourning, but he’d never once heard anyone question it.
When it came to Lady Tagan, there was always a reason for everything, always a strategy at play. In addition to being Queen Ellisaria’s mother, she was also her most trusted advisor and chief strategist, which was all the more remarkable on account of her humble origins.
“Are you pleased with yourself?” Her voice was raspy but surprisingly sharp.
Behind her, Genry saw Emersen give him a thumbs-up and an encouraging smile, his eyes conveying sympathy for whatever tongue-lashing he was about to receive. Then he closed the door to resume his post, dooming Genry to face his grandmother’s wrath alone.
She walked slowly but smoothly, as though her feet never really touched the floor beneath her full-length black dress.
Recovering himself, Genry mopped up the spilled water with the edge of his sleeve and hopped to his feet, moving to pull back a chair for her at the other side of the table.
“W-why would I be pleased with myself?” he stammered, wondering which thing she was upset about. There were plenty of options to choose from, and he was having trouble remembering all the details of what had happened last night at the Gildaurem soiree.
Odd, he thought. I only had one glass of wine, didn’t I? Two, maybe. He usually steered clear of alcohol, but the sparkling wine had tasted like weak, peachy juice. Perhaps it had been stronger than he had realized.
“Your challenge to Rhaka Serolina. It’s been the talk of the castle!”
“What? Already?” Genry demanded, glancing at the window. Outside, the sky was still the dull gray of early morning. Most people were probably still asleep. How could word have spread already?
“Rumor rises early,” Lady Tagan said with an acid tone. “What do I always tell you about parties?”
Genry sighed, staring at a grape juice stain on the wooden table as he resumed his seat. “That they breed scandal.” After a short silence, he glanced up and, to his confusion, realized that he could make out the shape of a wrinkled grin through her dark veil.
Her throat clicked several times in a gritty chuckle. “Precisely,” she said. “But, right now, a little scandal is exactly what we need.”
Genry perked up, hopeful. “It is?”
“Indeed. It will be the perfect distraction.”
“Oh,” he said. “Distraction from what?”
“Paranoia. The Peace has always made people paranoid, but this year, it’s much worse because of your sister’s magical awakening. Having a lot of highly paranoid people all in one place is a recipe for disaster. We need to keep them calm and distracted … at least until the equinox is over. After the equinox, most of them will go home. After that, the political climate will still be incendiary, but at least the tinder won’t all be in the same place, and small fires are easier to control than large ones.”
She looked quite pleased, clasping her hands in front of her on the wooden table and leaning forward to pin him with her shrewd blue eyes. “Now, we must discuss how to maximize the distraction. The duel itself is not important, but the buildup must be a spectacle. It seems you’ll finally get to put those sword-fighting skills to good use after all.”
Lady Tagan had always liked to tell him that practicing at swordplay was a waste of time and an uncivilized pastime that was unworthy of his royal birth. In the Age of Peace, she was fond of saying, conflict was resolved not with the sword but with paper. And by paper, she meant either contracts or money.
“I thought you said I shouldn’t sword fight anymore,” Genry couldn’t help but remind her, feeling smug.
“And now I’ve changed my mind,” she snapped. “As uncivilized as it might be, such things are still inspiring to those who are easily impressed by basic displays of physical strength. The times may change, but people never do. Even though the outcome of the duel will neither prove nor change anything, they will still find it distracting, especially if you do your job right.”
“My job?” Genry asked.
“Yes. Your job is to hype up this little duel, as if it’s the match of the century. You must stir up excitement in the court, attend more of those evening parties, and act as if you expect to win. Talk a big game. Practice often and publicly. Refuse to let them forget that this duel is happening and that it’s going to be the most amazing thing they’ve ever seen.”
“But if I do that, won’t people think I dislike House Serolina?” Genry protested. “I thought I was supposed to maintain an unbiased attitude toward the great houses.”
“You make a good point,” Lady Tagan admitted. “And that’s why you must make it clear that your quarrel is with Rhaka alone, and not with the rest of his house. You’re young and impulsive—people will understand a simple rivalry.”
Genry’s heart sank. “But I thought you wanted me to make a friend of Rhaka!”
“The distraction is more important. In the meantime, you should focus your attention on Lady Isolle. I think you’ll remember that, in my note, I mentioned she could be a potential match for you in the future, and you must admit that it would be an advantageous pairing.”
“Mmm …” he said, ears reddening. “I don’t know.”
He knew that Lady Tagan considered all matters of state to be her business and that she considered marriage to be a matter of state where it concerned a Vestrid. She had already tried to procure “advantageous pairings” for all of his siblings and, years ago, for Queen Ellisaria, but none of those efforts had ever been successful.
Despite Lady Tagan’s attempts to set up her daughter with various high-ranking nobles from all over Thaedra, Queen Ellisaria had married a seemingly random Tezeran ship captain who had neither a Thaedran title nor any special standing within the Isles.
Hira, Stery, and Rede had each declined to play Lady Tagan’s matching game for different reasons and in different ways. Hira had left to study at the Athenaeum in Chelora, Stery had undertaken the life of a traveling Hex Knight too busy for such distractions, and Rede had joined the Prelacy to become a priest. Liv and Ordan both saw whoever they wanted without much regard for Lady Tagan’s recommendations, and Ellex had been too young until somewhat recently.
All this had frustrated Lady Tagan to no end, which was extremely ironic given the fact that she had been born a commoner and had married King Nallore, much to the dismay of all his advisors.
“I can see you’re uncomfortable,” Lady Tagan observed. It was a fairly obvious assessment to make, as Genry was chewing his lip and frowning determinedly at the wooden table, his shoulders hunched. “Do you dislike Lady Isolle?”
“No! I don’t even know her. It’s just … I don’t want to think about ‘advantageous pairings,’ especially not in those terms.” He grimaced in distaste.
He’d managed to steer clear of romance thus far, mostly because the court tended to pounce on rumors of courtship at even the slightest provocation. He’d learned to be careful of spending too much undue time with any of his female friends, knowing they tended to pay the higher price whenever the court caught the scent of an amorous affair.
“Very well,” Lady Tagan said. “Think of it as reconnaissance, if you prefer. She probably has some valuable insight into her brother’s weaknesses and tendencies when it comes to swordplay. Knowing that sort of thing could be invaluable for your fight.”
“Okay, maybe,” he said dubiously.
“Now,” Lady Tagan continued, “I don’t want you getting used to dueling folks and solving conflict with violence. This contest with the young Serolina has come at the perfect time, but that does not mean it is without its hazards. Normally, I would be quite upset with you for a stunt like this.”
“It wasn’t exactly my fault,” Genry defended himself. “I never intended for any of this to happen.”
“That makes it even worse. You’re the crown heir, Genry—or you will be soon. You cannot allow yourself to be bullied into accepting a challenge against your will.”
“It wasn’t against my will. I wanted to accept it.”
“Ah, I see. Sometimes, I forget you’re just a seventeen-year-old with a swollen ego. So you want to fight for the glory of Galan? To prove you’re better than Rhaka?”
Genry hesitated. She was getting closer, but something still wasn’t quite right.
“No, I’m not better than him.”
Lady Tagan frowned. “I don’t follow. So, you expect to lose?”
He nodded slowly.
“I don’t follow,” she repeated. “Then, why did you accept the challenge?”
Genry looked away. He didn’t know the answer. He rarely tried to trace his impulses back to their origins, and doing so now was a bit like trying to decipher Cordraxian poetry from one of his textbooks.
His gaze fell on Illuminator. “This is my last chance to have a real duel. If I didn’t accept, I’d probably never have another chance to use Illuminator in a real fight. I saw my future in that blade. I saw myself slaying monsters with it. I had thought … it would come true one day.”
Lady Tagan gave a heavy sigh. “This again? You really must get over it, Genry. It’s not becoming of you.”
Still staring at the extremely glossy sword, he asked, “There’s no way it’s a hexed blade, right?”
Lady Tagan looked at him sharply. “Wherever did you get that idea?”
“Ordan.”
Lady Tagan gave a hmph of disdain. “Ridiculous,” she declared. “The hexed blades would be ancient. They’re all long gone.”
“Is there a way to check and make sure?” he asked anxiously.
“My boy, I’m a royal advisor, not a hexmaster. If you’re really worried about it, go ask Dryward.”
Genry nodded. “I have to clear up that rumor before I fight Rhaka,” he said, running a hand over his face. “I don’t know what Duke Rafale might do if he thought I had an unfair advantage. He might throw a chair at somebody.”
“Genry,” Lady Tagan said in a tone of steep disapproval. “You should keep those speculations to yourself, or people really will think you have something against House Serolina.”
“It’s not just speculation,” Genry told her. “He did throw a chair. At least, I think he did. I didn’t see. I just overheard a very loud argument.”
Lady Tagan perked up with sudden interest. “Oh really? What did you hear?”
Genry hesitated. It seemed like it had been ages since that morning in Hadelyn’s Wing. Plus, he’d been so shocked by the heat of the argument that most of its content had failed to leave an impression. “Uh, not much. The duke said something about Hex Law, and how it was once respected, and that the Peace can’t last indefinitely, and something about honor.”
“All right,” she murmured, her mind clearly running through a million calculations. “Anything else?”
“He said he expected someone, I assume Rhaka, to do as he’s told. Then there was a crash, and I saw a broken chair inside.”
“Fascinating. And you’re sure he was talking to Rhaka? Not Lady Isolle?”
“I think so.”
“Hmm.” She fell into silence, rhythmically tapping one finger on the table. She was silent for so long that Genry began to worry.
“There’s something bigger going on, isn’t there?” he said. “Evening Rose said that the great houses are starting to prepare for a worst-case scenario. She said she heard that Duke Rafale was building a legion. Is that true?”
Lady Tagan looked at him, almost as if remembering he was still there. “There’s no need for you to concern yourself with the bigger picture,” she finally said. “So long as you play your role, everything will turn out fine.” She began to rise from the table.
“Wait,” Genry said. “What about Duke Rafale?”
“What about him?”
“He threw a chair at his son. Shouldn’t we … do something?” By “something,” Genry meant report him to the Horned Guard. It might not be against the duke’s particular Oath to throw chairs at people, but it was certainly against the common law, and the Knight’s Code dictated that all were equal under the law regardless of station. The duke could be charged with violating the Peace if they could prove it or get him to confess.
Lady Tagan just looked at him with open disdain and waved a hand through the air with impatience. “No, Genry, I’m not going to do anything, and neither are you. It is our job to maintain peace between the three great houses, and accusing one of our dukes of violating common law would throw them into chaos.”
She turned her back and began to sweep toward the door, leaving Genry to stare down at the table, trying to come up with some argument that wouldn’t sound childish. He knew she was right, but the law was the law, and he felt deeply uneasy about the argument that he had overhead and the bruise he had spotted on Rhaka’s cheek.
When she reached the door, Lady Tagan looked back at him and sighed. “Look, forget about Rhaka and just try to enjoy the celebrations. I’ll arrange for you to practice swordplay with one of our best knights later this afternoon. Would you like that?”
Genry stared at her in surprise then nodded.
“Very well. You only have three more days until you have to give up swordplay forever, so you might as well make the most of it.” She gave him one last pitying look then opened the door and was gone.
On the list of people that Genry least wanted to talk to, Dryward had to be among the first. He was rude, abrasive, and arrogant. On top of that, he had a pair of intimidating eyebrows that he could use to tremendous effect on anyone who displeased him. If he was in a bad mood, it was better to avoid him. Unfortunately, Dryward was almost constantly in a bad mood, which meant that Genry usually avoided him.
On the other hand, he needed to know whether Illuminator was a hexed blade. So, shortly after Lady Tagan had departed his rooms, he took the beautiful sword from its stand and headed for Dryward’s office with Emersen. He descended one flight of stairs and then another. It had been some time since he had last visited, but he recalled that it was a rather cramped place, deep in the castle dungeons, in a room that had once been used to hold criminals.
He wound through the dim corridors, glad that Emersen was with him and had had the foresight to bring a hex lamp.
“Somewhere around here,” he muttered. He knocked on a door that he thought might be Dryward’s office. When no one answered, he tried the handle and opened it to reveal a dusty old closet. “Wrong one.”
