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Authors: Marc Secchia
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love? All you do is bleat about Barulak of Geban.” She bleated, exactly like a ralti sheep, “Ba-a-aa-rulak. I love you, Ba-a-aa-rulak. You don’t even dare talk to him. You’re a coward.”
Over at the Princes’ table Barulak and his fellows burst into nervous laughter.
“No Princess of Remoy is a coward.”
“Fine. I’ll show you how it’s done.”
Aranya strode over toward Barulak, who stopped rocking on his chair and began to look rather alarmed. As she approached him, Aranya slowed, intentionally making her hips sway and pasting a seductive smile on her lips. Before he could move, she slipped onto his lap and twined her arms behind his neck.
“Hi, handsome Princes. Having a good time?”
“Now we are,” said Hamarath, the dark, muscular Warlord from the Ur-Yagga Island cluster, who had a love-affair with his mirror, everyone said. “How’re you doing, beautiful?”
“Fiery,” said Aranya, which was rather closer to the truth than she would have cared to admit. “I brought you a present all the way from Remoy, Barulak. Let’s Zip those lips.”
S he kissed him on his mouth. Thoroughly.
Zuziana gave a small shriek of dismay. Barulak’s hands flapped helplessly. Hamarath whistled. The lamps in the room flared once more.
That was as much as she could stand–either of the kiss, or of her own ugly behaviour. Aranya released Barulak so suddenly that his chair toppled backward. He sprawled on the floor.
Her face utterly devoid of colour, the Princess of Remoy stormed toward her.
“You and I will finish this,” she hissed. “Tomorrow, the hour before dawn. I’ll find you.”
“A duel?”
Old-fashioned, but Remoy was renowned for its adherence to the old ways.
“Quivering in your pretty slippers, Princess? Should’ve thought of that before you called me a bastard.”
* * * *
Aranya awoke long before the appointed hour, before the pied warblers nesting outside her window stirred to chirp their greetings to the dawn. She could easily imagine a hundred ways yesterday’s confrontation with Zuziana could have gone better–starting with one hot-tempered Immadian not launching that Dragonship in the first place. Zip was irritating, granted. And spiteful. But was it worth a duel?
As the long-awaited tap sounded upon her door, Aranya crept out into the corridor.
Zuziana thrust a staff into her hand. “Follow me.”
Twin shadows ghosted through the Tower of Sylakia, avoiding the places they knew were guarded. One shadow was a head taller than the other, but they moved with equal stealth. Aranya silently thanked her father’s foresight in providing her training that might be regarded as somewhat unusual for Princesses of other Islands. No ‘she’s only a girl’ for him. Strategies of war, weapons training, code breaking and even lock-picking had featured in her past.
Ever the cunning cliff fox, King Beran.
She glanced at the staff. Ironwood? S he had read about ironwood. Thin but heavy, the staff would easily break bones or skulls. Zuziana probably did not want to kill her–but the lesson she intended would be bruising at best.
Zip led her down six levels to the unus ed basement level of the Tower. She paused to light two torches. “You go that way.”
As they lit the lamps situated in sconces around the perimeter of the circular chamber, Aranya realised that she was in an underground arena. Ten levels of terraced seating led to a sandy centre below. The fighting area was cordoned off with ropes.
“You prepared this yesterday?”
Zip glared at her. “No vipers, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”
“I wasn’t insinuating–”
“Like your ‘size of their families’ comment? So I have sixteen brothers and sisters. I can see what you’re thinking–by the Cloudlands, she must have drawn the very shortest straw to be chosen as the worthless exile out of that lot.”
“Zip, I’m sorry–”
“Oh, shut your yapping muzzle, you mongrel! I’m through with words.
Over at the Princes’ table Barulak and his fellows burst into nervous laughter.
“No Princess of Remoy is a coward.”
“Fine. I’ll show you how it’s done.”
Aranya strode over toward Barulak, who stopped rocking on his chair and began to look rather alarmed. As she approached him, Aranya slowed, intentionally making her hips sway and pasting a seductive smile on her lips. Before he could move, she slipped onto his lap and twined her arms behind his neck.
“Hi, handsome Princes. Having a good time?”
“Now we are,” said Hamarath, the dark, muscular Warlord from the Ur-Yagga Island cluster, who had a love-affair with his mirror, everyone said. “How’re you doing, beautiful?”
“Fiery,” said Aranya, which was rather closer to the truth than she would have cared to admit. “I brought you a present all the way from Remoy, Barulak. Let’s Zip those lips.”
S he kissed him on his mouth. Thoroughly.
Zuziana gave a small shriek of dismay. Barulak’s hands flapped helplessly. Hamarath whistled. The lamps in the room flared once more.
That was as much as she could stand–either of the kiss, or of her own ugly behaviour. Aranya released Barulak so suddenly that his chair toppled backward. He sprawled on the floor.
Her face utterly devoid of colour, the Princess of Remoy stormed toward her.
“You and I will finish this,” she hissed. “Tomorrow, the hour before dawn. I’ll find you.”
“A duel?”
Old-fashioned, but Remoy was renowned for its adherence to the old ways.
“Quivering in your pretty slippers, Princess? Should’ve thought of that before you called me a bastard.”
* * * *
Aranya awoke long before the appointed hour, before the pied warblers nesting outside her window stirred to chirp their greetings to the dawn. She could easily imagine a hundred ways yesterday’s confrontation with Zuziana could have gone better–starting with one hot-tempered Immadian not launching that Dragonship in the first place. Zip was irritating, granted. And spiteful. But was it worth a duel?
As the long-awaited tap sounded upon her door, Aranya crept out into the corridor.
Zuziana thrust a staff into her hand. “Follow me.”
Twin shadows ghosted through the Tower of Sylakia, avoiding the places they knew were guarded. One shadow was a head taller than the other, but they moved with equal stealth. Aranya silently thanked her father’s foresight in providing her training that might be regarded as somewhat unusual for Princesses of other Islands. No ‘she’s only a girl’ for him. Strategies of war, weapons training, code breaking and even lock-picking had featured in her past.
Ever the cunning cliff fox, King Beran.
She glanced at the staff. Ironwood? S he had read about ironwood. Thin but heavy, the staff would easily break bones or skulls. Zuziana probably did not want to kill her–but the lesson she intended would be bruising at best.
Zip led her down six levels to the unus ed basement level of the Tower. She paused to light two torches. “You go that way.”
As they lit the lamps situated in sconces around the perimeter of the circular chamber, Aranya realised that she was in an underground arena. Ten levels of terraced seating led to a sandy centre below. The fighting area was cordoned off with ropes.
“You prepared this yesterday?”
Zip glared at her. “No vipers, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”
“I wasn’t insinuating–”
“Like your ‘size of their families’ comment? So I have sixteen brothers and sisters. I can see what you’re thinking–by the Cloudlands, she must have drawn the very shortest straw to be chosen as the worthless exile out of that lot.”
“Zip, I’m sorry–”
“Oh, shut your yapping muzzle, you mongrel! I’m through with words.
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