Flecks of Gold (19 page)

“She learns quickly, Sire. I don’t think you will find her a burden at all. She sees complete lacings,” Breeohan interjected.

The king’s eyebrows flicked up once more. “For now, I suggest that the two of you rest for awhile. I will have much for you to do later.”

That was plainly a dismissal. Breeohan stood. I was a little slower than he, wishing I could look around at some of the books lining the walls, but the king was studying the letter from Ismaha again, and I didn’t want to annoy him after his kindness. I also wanted to ask him about his trip to America, but he had seemed reluctant to talk on the subject. Questions teemed in my head as I followed Breeohan toward the door.

“Just a moment.” The king looked up from Ismaha’s letter. “You failed to tell me your real name, and Ismaha doesn’t mention it either.”

“Mary Margaret Underwood,” I said.

King Verone sat still in his chair. “And your mother?”

“Fiona.”

The moments lengthened uncomfortably as the king stared at me.

I started to wonder if he had forgotten Breeohan and I were even there, but then he said softly, “Breeohan, I would like you to stay for a moment, if you wouldn’t mind waiting outside, Mary?”

“Sure.” I flashed a glance at Breeohan who returned it with a shrug.

I sat outside, studying my hair lacing, wondering what it would take to change it some other color. I thought I knew which thread to tweak, but I couldn’t quite work up the courage to do it after Rafan’s reaction that morning. My royal interview bothered me, but I couldn’t focus my thoughts very well. Why hadn’t the king talked more about America? Had he felt it would be kinder to steer clear of the subject since the lacing to get back to Earth was lost? I couldn’t figure it out.

Finally Breeohan came out of the room, looking unnerved, which only increased my feeling that there were important facts flitting away as quickly as I reached for them. He turned to the king’s servant. “The king asks that you fetch Prince Sogran.” He turned to gaze beyond me down the hallway.

“What happened?” I asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

This threw Breeohan from his train of thought, and he pulled himself back from wherever he had been. “What are you talking about?” He looked exasperated, but he also seemed intensely confused.

“You seem a little overwhelmed. What did the king say to you?”

“He said a few things.” He looked in my direction, but his gaze focused beyond me, puzzling something out.

“Well, that’s helpful.” I sighed. I didn’t feel like pulling teeth to get the details, so I started walking.

Breeohan walked with me in brooding silence. He showed me the door to my room and was about to leave when a man wearing dark red silk approached us and challenged me to face him in the jova courts. I stood dumbfounded, watching the man’s face glow with malicious intent.
How could he have known to challenge me?
I wondered. The image of Avana’s glowing face floated back from memory. No doubt this had been the slimy little suck-up’s idea, but there was no way I was going to mention that to Breeohan.

“I will meet you there at the seventh portion,” the man said as if there was no question of me declining the challenge. He strode away, and Breeohan muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a curse. It was already about three quarters past the sixth portion, so I quickly entered my room to put my traveling pants and shirt on since I didn’t have anything else. All the time I dressed, I wondered what I had been challenged to do.

As soon as I emerged from my chamber, we began walking back through the palace, and Breeohan pounced on me. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”

“No. You were going to tell me, but it must have slipped your mind.”

“Well, let me tell you now. You are going to have to fight Doln Baro.”

“I figured as much.” I tried to sound casual, but my stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch. “What kind of fighting?”

“The art of jova includes all manner of weapons. There is one blessing. Since you were challenged, you get to choose the weapon.” His brows knotted in worry. “I wish I could stand in for you, but there is no way. Perhaps if you claim an injury? That could work. No, everyone saw you this morning. They will think you are a coward without honor if you refuse to fight.”

“No one gets hurt, right? I mean it’s not to the death or anything?” I held my breath.

“Not usually. There are judges to keep track of points. Whoever reaches five first wins. People are often injured, however. That is the blessing and the curse of having so many mages around to heal you. The nobles take advantage of that privilege by ruthlessness in the jova court challenges.”

I was starting to panic, so I stopped and took a few deep breaths. I’d been a fool to let that silly Avana goad me into pretending I knew what a jova court was. “Okay, let me think. What if I choose no weapons?” I asked.

“I don’t think it has ever been done before, but there is no rule against it.”

“Good,” I said as we stepped outside. “Maybe if no one is used to hand-to-hand combat, I’ll have a chance.” We were about to enter a crowd of people surrounding a circular structure.

“Oh, and don’t use magic,” Breeohan said. “It is forbidden within the court, and the mages in the crowd will be able to tell if you do.”

My stomach lurched again, but I forced myself to focus on possible fighting strategies. I walked into a structure that reminded me of a small Roman Colosseum where gladiators had fought and people had faced off against hungry lions. It was an uncomfortable likeness. There were weapons of all kinds on the wooden racks that lined the outer wall. Most looked similar to what I’d seen in barbarian movies, but there was something about seeing a staff with razor-sharp jagged metal jutting out of both ends that squeezed my heart into terrified thumping in a way the movie weapons never had. I was directed to the middle of the circular court. Six feet up from the wall of weapons were benches filled with nobility wearing bright colors and hats with enormous brims. I wondered for the sixteenth time why I couldn’t have kept my big mouth shut.

Doln Baro walked from the arched entryway to the open sky of the round court and faced me. He wore thick, nut brown leather that shone in the sunlight. I wondered if the material would hamper his movements enough to help me get away with certain moves. Seeming to be on the verge of a yawn, he asked, “What weapon do you choose?”

A disbelieving grunt burst out of my mouth. He was trying too hard to look uninterested. “None. I choose hand-to-hand combat,” I said.

Baro looked startled, and it was nice to know I could upset his mask of boredom just a little. “Are you afraid of a sharp edge?” he sneered.

“Are you afraid of not having one?” I countered.

“It makes no difference to me. I will beat you either way.” He did his best to look exceedingly bored.

I wasn’t sure how we would get started, so I kept a wary eye on him, noting the spectators settling into seats. How had word spread so quickly? Perhaps Baro had declared his intention to challenge me right after the court assembly.

“I find your attire quite appropriate. A beggar’s outfit will certainly crown the moment when you beg me to spare your life.”

“No one is allowed to kill on the jova courts,” I said, hoping he didn’t note my slight quaver.

“I certainly could not be blamed if something were to happen accidentally.”

As Baro and I talked, the crowd chatted excitedly. I scanned the group quickly for Breeohan but couldn’t see him anywhere. At some cue I couldn’t see, a hush fell. I didn’t get a chance to think of a reply to Baro’s threat. A deep horn sounded, and Baro attacked. I almost didn’t sidestep his attack quickly enough. I wrenched my body to the right of his charge, out of leg range. He bulldozed forward again, and I could tell immediately that he was not used to fighting without a weapon. His lunge was off-balance. This time as I sidestepped his punch, I caught and pulled his arm as I swept his leg from under him. The momentum of his punch sent him tumbling forward onto his face.

He got up quickly, growling, transformed from the bored courtier to an enraged hornet. I had to give him credit, though. He was smart enough not to charge me again. I waited on the balls of my feet for his next move, every nerve tense, ready to spring. Instead of trying to run me over, Baro tried to slide in close enough to punch me in the face. I front-kicked him, then continued my momentum, sweeping down his arms and punching his face instead. I felt the numbing tingle of fist hitting flesh as I again sidled away from his recovery blow.

I didn’t like that I was actually hurting Baro. A longing for my dojo swept through me. With my thoughts distracting me, I almost missed blocking Baro’s next punch to my face. Because of that, his other fist struck my stomach, and I staggered back. Baro gave me no time to recuperate but came flying at me as he had at first. Even winded, I managed to step to the side and sweep his feet from him using his own momentum. But I was panting, and I felt a sharp jab of fear. I wished the fight would just end.

Baro got up, his face turnip red. If he’d been mad before, he was positively raging now. He didn’t seem to know how to do anything but punch. I blocked him with determined concentration. Sweat on my brow trickled into my eyes, making me blink constantly. One blink lasted too long, and he hit my jaw hard enough to blacken the world for an instant. I struck out blindly and was blocked, but it gave me enough time to be able to see again.

Rage built off the fear inside me. I focused on Baro as if he was the only thing that existed. My sensei had often remarked that it took getting hurt before I woke up enough to start fighting well. Baro had just woken me up. I attacked, striking with quick combinations of punches and kicks. He tried to block, but I hit more often than he blocked. I hardly heard the low bellow of the horn.

“Stop.” Baro shielded his face with his arms. “It is over. For pity’s sake, stop.”

I recoiled from him as if hit. His face was bloody, bruises already blossoming on the sections of his skin not shielded by his leather outfit. I looked at my own hands to see them covered in red. Bile rose up my throat, and I came perilously close to regurgitating chunks of food all over the arena. A temporary fighting frenzy had taken over. That had never happened to me before. My fear from the fight turned inward; I was afraid of myself.

I looked around the crowd, feeling lost, looking for something I couldn’t identify. The crowd was standing, clapping politely as if I had just performed a piano concerto, not beaten a man’s face in. I stumbled stupidly toward the archway that led outside, tripped through it, and ran like wildfire to my room. Once I got there I used the cleaning lacing on myself, but I still felt dirty. I dipped my hands into the water basin and scrubbed until my already raw knuckles bled. At that point I was shaking too much to continue.

“Stop having conniptions, Mary,” I told myself. “It’s not as if you killed him or anything. He’ll be healed in two seconds. Won’t even get scars. So why are you acting like a two-year-old?” A drop rolled down my face. I was shaken, not because I had hurt Baro, but because for a split second as I had been attacking him like a crazed maniac, I had almost enjoyed it, reveling in the feeling of fist squarely hitting face.

There was a knock on my door. I jumped from guilt but stayed quiet.

“Princess, are you in there? You need to let someone see to your injuries.” It was Breeohan. I would know his smooth baritone voice anywhere. I stayed silent. “May I come in?” he asked. Then in a lower, quieter voice, he said, “Mary, please let me in.”

My eyes were glued to the door, wishing he would come in but also wishing he would go away. After a few minutes I heard his steps as he walked off.

I woke to the sound of knocking. A glance at my window showed a brilliant orange and red sky against the few clouds hovering overhead. I lay on top of the soft feather mattress and all the covers, still dressed in the outfit I had fought Baro in. My knuckles stung, and my jaw hurt, so it took me a few seconds to get my mouth to creak open.

“Come in,” I said, still too groggy to form any coherent thoughts.

“Princess, I was pleasantly surprised to see you fight so well this afternoon. It was amazing. I haven’t ever seen jova matches where the weapon is no weapon.”

I couldn’t see him, but Rafan’s gravelly voice wound around the bed curtains like a saw to my ears. He walked to where I could see him, smiling broadly.

“Can I help you with something?” I tried to sound as if I hadn’t just woken up, but I was still feeling groggy and wasn’t sure I pulled it off.

“I am here to help you. There is to be a formal dinner tonight held in your honor, and I wanted to make sure you made it to your feast.”

I didn’t want to go. I was sure I would be gawked at, talked at, and just plain stressed out by trying to act royal rather than rural.

“What’s this? Your jaw is bruised, and your hands . . . Let me heal them for you.”

“No thanks, I’ve got it,” I said, and with a swift twist, I healed myself.

Rafan’s frown almost looked like a pout. “I brought you another dress for dinner.” He threw a dark blue gown onto the bed next to me.