“Not Amilia. She wouldn’t…not to me.”

She would, Elyon might have said. There were rumours about Amilia’s licentious leanings as well, and he had little doubt that Gold-Tongue had enjoyed the pleasure of her bed in the past. He thought for a moment about using that suspicion to unhinge the man, but no, that was a little too unseemly. I’m here to cut at his flesh, not stab at his heart. And he loves her, that’s clear enough. The poor sweet fool is besotted. So he merely nodded and said, “I’m sure you’re right, Mallister. Now, are we fighting or talking? I’ve got other things to do.”

They put themselves back into their preferred stances, feet shuffling, circling one another. The crowd stirred once more, as Elyon stepped suddenly forward in a powerful dash, feigned left and went the other way, swinging for Mallister’s arm to get it done. But Monsort was good to it, parrying, twisting away as Elyon slashed again. The two men parted briefly, then drew together once more, sparks flying as steel kissed steel. Elyon could hear the murmurs in the crowd, rising and falling with each blow. Another flurry of swings, thrusts, parries and fends and the two parted, panting, for the third time. “For Tukor,” came another shout from the audience. “Show that Vandarian how it’s done!”

Others echoed him, and there were some jeers as well, Elyon heard, mostly from the common soldiers in the stands and the few lowborn in attendance, dressed in their roughspun wool and threadbare robes. The nobles were, naturally, much more reserved, old men and women sitting in their finery, all puckered lips and seamed, spotted skin, observing their courtly courtesies. But the soldiers were not so inclined, arriving in greater numbers now as word spread across the Sentinels, shouting out in support of Sir Mallister Monsort and hurling obscenities Elyon’s way.

“I didn’t know I was so misliked,” Elyon said, glancing around.

“You’re a murderer twice over,” his opponent told him. “Sir Griffin Kastor. My sister. And some blame you for Prince Rylian too. Best take the cut and fly out of here, Elyon. Else the baying mob will set upon you.”

Elyon had little fear for the mob, baying or otherwise. His reputation here didn’t concern him either. Let the commons believe what they like. He had much more pressing concerns. “There’s battle to be had at Rustbridge, you know,” he said. “If you leave now and ride hard, you might just make it in time. Win some honour for yourself, Mallister. If you can wrench yourself away from Amilia’s bed, that is.”

The knight bristled. “I’m here by order of Prince Raynald.”

“I’m sure. And you call me craven? Hiding here as the princess’s bedwarmer when your prince, who might very well be your king, fights for his kingdom and the north.”

“They were my orders!”

Mallister Monsort burst forward in Rushform, covering the ground at pace and swinging with powerful strikes. He was no master of the form, Elyon knew, proficient enough, but easily dealt with all the same. Elyon shifted backward, tapping Mallister’s strikes away with graceful fends, wrist swishing, the crowd booing loudly. The vitriol was most unexpected, though somehow it fuelled him. Curse you all, he thought. When Drulgar the Dread casts the city in his shadow, you can expect no help from me…

“Fight back, you bastard!” Monsort bellowed at him. He rushed again, swinging, panting, Elyon dancing backward, refusing to engage. The booing grew louder. “Fight! Fight me!” Mallister was puffing now, his footing starting to falter, his early composure gone. He wants to be doing more, Elyon realised. Oh, that sweetness between Amilia’s legs is one thing, but glory another. And he wants it, no matter what he says.

Elyon saw an opening and thrust forward, to prick a hole in Monsort’s thigh, but his aim was off, and the blade slipped past. When he looked up he saw a glint of silver, Monsort’s blade coming down to slice into his shoulder. Elyon twisted at the waist, leaning back, the edge of the steel all but grazing the tip of his nose as it cut straight past. Monsort’s fist followed in behind it, gauntlet bunched, striking for Elyon’s face, but he turned his head, taking the blow to the back of his helm. The impact jarred, and he staggered forward. The crowd roared, surging to their feet. Elyon regained his footing and spun back around.

“Blades only!” he yelled at him. “It’s blades only, Monsort. No fists!”

“Who said so?”

“Those are the rules. First blood by the blade. They’re the rules, damnit. Everyone knows.”

“Vandarian rules. In Tukor it’s different. Anything goes.” And Monsort rushed in again.

Elyon swung in a sidecut as Mallister tried to tackle him to the ground, his blade clanging against the flank of the knight’s breastplate. The crowd were in great voice now, cheering and jeering at every move. It was not what Elyon had anticipated, not the chivalric duel it had started as.

This’ll become a brawl soon enough, he thought. That’s how they’d first met, brawling over Melany’s honour what felt like a lifetime ago. It was after the feast at the warcamp north of Tukor’s Pass, when Elyon’s father had come to treat with King Janilah, ask him to end hostilities with Rasalan. The same night I found out Amilia and Aleron were to be betrothed. Elyon had wanted to bed the princess himself before then, though ended up - drunk, of course - in the arms of Melany Monsort instead. Mallister had found them, canoodling in some corner, and knowing Elyon’s reputation, had not been best pleased. And now here we are again. Fighting for her honour. The gods sure do have a sick sense of humour…

“I’m going to mangle that pretty face of yours, Daecar,” Mallister Monsort said through ragged breaths, prowling before him.

Elyon had to laugh. “Pretty? Look in the mirror, Monsort. You’re prettier than Melany was.”

“Don’t say her name! Never say her name!”

“I’ll say it all I please. Melany. Melany. Melany. Mel…”

His fourth repeat was cut off as the dead girl’s brother launched forward again, swinging wildly. Elyon was ready for it, knocking the blade aside, lowering his body to slam into Mallister Monsort’s breastplate with his shoulder…

He knew at once it was a mistake.

There was a popping sound, a crunch of bone, and pain shot through his arm. Elyon gave out a roar of agony, arm falling limp, as he stumbled back.

Dislocated, he knew by instinct. He’d suffered a dislocation before and knew exactly how it felt.

It was his sword arm too.

That was not good at all.

With an agonised grimace he reached across, took the blade from his limp right arm with his left hand, raising it to fend off his opponent as Mallister came again.

I yield, he felt like calling, to protect himself from further damage, but the fury was in him now, and he would not give in so easily. Instead he thought, I’ll beat him with my left, as he parried Mallister’s sidecut, protecting his upper leg, parried again when he swung for his injured shoulder, and again when he went for his arm. Somehow he managed to defend himself, though clumsily, before backtracking and giving himself room.

Mallister stopped for a moment to observe him. “Your arm…” he said, seeing it. “Elyon, you’re done. Just let me cut you and get it over with.”

Elyon Daecar shook his head. He could see that Lord Morwood had arrived as well now, to sit with the princess in her royal box. He looks like he slept even less than I did. Morwood had been summoned by Amilia the previous evening so that Elyon might brief him on the latest tidings across Vandar - the fate of King’s Point and Varinar and the news of Drulgar the Dread, foremost among them. None of that had been confirmed here before Elyon spoke of it, though of the giant dragon, rumours had begun to circulate. Morwood had gone bone pale when Elyon had told him that those rumours were true, and it appeared his skin had not returned to its usually rosy hue.

It centred Elyon’s mind again on his task, his importance. His arm, his sword arm, was all but hanging out of its socket. It took weeks to recover last time, he remembered, in sudden alarm. For days I could barely even raise it…

And the things I have to do…

He thought of the list, the great long list that was growing every day. Thalan, and Prince Sevrin and the Eye of Rasalan. These new tidings he’d heard of Ilith and his refuge and his bastard brother, who was out there now, looking for the blades. Elyon wanted to find him first. Needed to find him first. I have to look him in the eye and know that his heart is true. Amilia had said they should be working together, that they were both after the same thing, driven by the same need, but Elyon wasn’t sure. Over Jonik doubts would always circle like vultures over a kill. Until I see him for myself, I’ll never trust him. And even then…

He grimaced, as another shot of pain rippled up his arm. There’s more, he thought. So much more. Ven’s army outside Rustbridge. The threat of invasion in the west. Lillia. Amara. Janilah Lukar, who he hadn’t managed to find the previous day, the skies so swamped in thick grey cloud that a proper search had proven impossible. Jonik was looking for him too, Amilia had said. I can’t let him get to the Mistblade before I do. That’s my quest, not his. Mine…mine…

The crowd had turned ugly now, the din of their voices ringing in his ears. He looked around, shocked to see that their numbers had doubled, tripled, without him even knowing it. Hundreds. There are hundreds, he saw. Many of the common soldiers were on their feet, shouting abuse, and a few had even started to throw fruit, peppering the edges of the duelling grounds as they landed in a motley of colours.

“Give it up, Elyon, for Tukor’s sake,” Mallister called, over all of that. “I can see your shoulder’s dislocated. There’s no way you can fight with that arm now.”

“I have another,” Elyon came back, belligerent. The agony was intense. He felt like screaming, but held himself together. “And since when did you care? To the death, you said. You wanted me dead.”

“I was angry. I am angry. When I think of my sister, and what happened that night…”

“I didn’t kill her!” Elyon roared. “How many times do I have to say it! I didn’t kill your damned sister!”

Mallister reached up, lifting his faceplate, jaw clenched tight. “Do you swear it by the gods? By Vandar himself? By the life of your father, your sister?”

“Yes, by them and everyone else! I swear it!”

“Then what happened? What happened, Elyon? I cannot believe she cut her own neck. Suicide…” He shook his head. “I just can’t believe she would do that.”

And curse herself, Elyon realised. To many, suicide was an insult to the gods that made them, a sin punishable by eternal damnation in the afterlife…an unending tumble down the Long Abyss. Mallister Monsort could not believe his sister was suffering that unspeakable fate. He will deny it to his dying breath. How to make him see?

“She did it for you,” he said, over the shouting in the crowd, the bellowing of Lord Morwood as he tried to restore some calm. “Janilah told her he would have her whole family murdered if she didn’t die by my hand that night. You. Your father. She took her own life to save yours, Mallister.”

A grimace rippled across the man’s face. “No…no, I can’t…”

“She did it for a true cause,” Elyon shouted, trying to get through to him. “It was not suicide, but sacrifice. There’s a difference. There’s some honour in that.”

“Honour?” Mallister repeated. He frowned at the notion, shaking his head. “You call it honour, after what she did. What you say she did. To Aleron…”