She slapped him. “Useless creature. Get out of my sight. Train with the soldiers for the rest of the day.”
Confusion spun his head as he caught himself on the pillow. She wanted him to leave. He had disappointed her. He climbed to his feet and bowed. “Yes, Mistress.”
He lowered his head as he stepped down from the throne. Too many eyes followed his movements. Memories of another court clashed with the present. An Escort did not bow. A courtesan smiled proudly at the crowd. He was neither. Not anymore.
As he passed the prince, he heard a quiet murmur. “What a pretty traitor you are. I’ll almost regret killing you.”
In the back of his mind, a whisper stirred. An Escort outranked a foreign prince. He didn't need to bow his head and shut his mouth. The Queen's pet should show his teeth. What had he said before? Something about golden sails…
Traitor.
They do not want you.
Pain sparked behind his eyes. His cheek stung. Mistress ordered him to train. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he stared at the floor as he walked out of the hall.
Combat cleared his mind. The pain and the voice never appeared with a sword in his hand, and his muscles warmed. Actually, the little voice hardly spoke at all anymore. Its faint tremors of fear felt so far away. Once it was gone for good,he would finally have peace in his own mind. He would be everything Mistress wanted him to be.
The soldiers shouted insults that he ignored with the next clash of steel. Most of them didn’t care to spar, and their preferred form of training involved bullying the weakest amongst them. The Queen’s guards stepped in once, early on, and they left him alone now. He remembered training with more disciplined soldiers, but who they had been wasn’t important.
Here, he could dance again. Here, he didn't feel weak. The sword in his hand was strength. The precision in his movements was power. His muscles weren't weak, his body wasn't weak. The weapons masters did not compliment him, but they took longer and longer each day to disarm him or score a hit. He knew how to fight. And if, occasionally, he saw flashes of green eyes, they weren't real. The next strike he needed to block, parry, or dodge was real. The sweat irritating his eyes was real.
When he wasn't sparring, the rhythm of combat forms was the most peace he'd found since arriving in Nadraken. It was an entirely different feeling from being near the Queen. His Mistress. She was a numbing fog. The training hall was a clear winter morning after new snow. Cold. Quiet – at least in his mind. Bright. Fighting required focus. He processed the soldiers – their comments, their movements, their level of threat – and dismissed them.
Sometimes, his memories flowed with the turn of his sword. It was easier to let them float on the surface of his mind while his body moved. Dances in the House of Shadows came first. A soldier's laughter reminded him of an audience’s applause. He had enjoyed performing. When he switched to throwing daggers, and each hit his target, a similar feeling of satisfaction filled his chest. He had always been a fast learner.
As he balanced the next dagger in his hand, he realized the soldiers had gone quiet. His first thought was of the Queen. Shehad plucked a bedmate or two from the ranks before. Expecting to hear the snap of her fingers summoning him, he lowered his blade and turned.
Instead of the Queen, a man in ostentatious gold and jewels sauntered toward him. A few moments passed before Castien recalled the prince’s name. Flanking him were two of the castle's guards. His tall women were nowhere in sight.
The prince smirked and drew both his swords. “You have good form, my friend. Since I've watched how you fight, it's only fair that I show you my style. Care for a spar, Drantarian?”
Castien only faintly remembered the prince's display to the Queen. The other Queen, the one with green eyes. A bolt of pain slashed across his vision. He inhaled deeply and nodded. A spar would clear his head.
Against two swords, he chose a dagger and a sword. That particular combination came easily to him. They circled each other in the relatively quiet hall. Entertainment for the soldiers. He blocked them out. The prince had threatened to kill him. Would the Queen punish either of them if one were harmed?
She would punish Castien. She liked to hurt him regardless of the reason. He wouldn't give her a reason.
Prince Balak struck. Both swords spun in a dizzying pattern. The pattern broke, and Castien had a moment to react – to block a swing aimed at his neck. He turned aside the second blade and shifted to adjust his balance.
When they disengaged, the prince grinned. “Not bad at all. How long have you been here, a week or two? Her Bitchiness in Drantar must have taught you something. And here you are, discarding one throne in favor of another. One wonders why.”
The prince leaped away from Castien's blade, then brought his own in two quick cuts. Dancing reflexes kicked in. The courtesan’s body twisted to avoid danger while landing in aperfectly balanced pose. Balak laughed. “If I were Queen Yelena, I wouldn't trust you. What do you offer her, anyhow?”
He sat at the Mistress’ feet like a dog. The prince was blind if he didn't see that Castien had no value. He was just a toy.
They moved faster. Prince Balak scowled as the tip of Castien's blade made a small cut through that rich cloak. The pirate should have taken it off. The shiny gold thread swished beautifully as he moved, but it must have been heavy and dragging. The prince underestimated him.
Circling cautiously, Balak lowered his voice. “You were different in Drantar. Oh, you look the same – pretty and obedient, but there was something else going on in there, behind those lovely eyes. It's gone now. What happened to you?”
Castien didn't respond. Banter distracted from sparring. He frowned. Where had he heard that before?
The prince stabbed at his stomach with one blade and cut at his legs with the other. Jump, parry. Kick, block with his dagger, and turn.
Swordplay. Banter distracted from swordplay. That was what she had said.
She? Who was she? The Queen–
A kick caught him in the chest. Castien grunted, bent over, and his feet slid.
