“Come.” Eryx stepped off the throne dais and drew his sword—a leaf-shaped blade that looked far sharper and shinier than the ones the royal armory supplied. “Let’s see what my training masters can teach a farm boy in six months.”
Carver stared. He swallowed.Gods damn it.He’d have to hold back. Andlose.
Wishing he had his Thalyrian blade that was stashed at home, Carver drew his army-supplied sword as he dutifully approached the king under the north-facing windows. His own shiny, leaf-shaped, perfectly balanced blade would’ve stuck out like a beacon of wealth against his simple soldier’s gear. “I’ve learned much. Your training masters are highly skilled.” The words rolled out like the gods-honest truth. It wasn’t far from that, even though Carver had to hold back with the trainers, too. He had to hold back with everyone in his unit except Dex and Silas, which was probably another reason they’d become friends. He could still beat them in a sword fight anytime he truly wanted to, but at least sparring was a challenge and fun.
With Eryx, sparring wouldn’t be fun.
His stomach tensed at the questions of how to play this and what to reveal. Should he be good? Mediocre? Bad? Bad would reflect poorly on everyone, mediocre galled him, and good was only okay until he failed.
Despite facing off with a “farm boy,” Eryx wasn’t ready to risk injury and called for a thick leather breastplate to cover his torso and vambraces to protect his arms. Finally ready, the king cleared a space around his throne with a quick flick of his fingers, leaving Cleito cowering on the marble dais and sending his nobles and advisors toward the wall. This was the closest Carver had gotten to Cleito, and now that he could see her better, her wraith-thin body covered in new bruises and old scars left an even angrier rattle in his bones. Her orange hair—unusual for Atlantis—fell in long, tangled hanks and somehow made her bowed head look like lava pouring down her arms.
Carver forced his gaze away from Atlantis’s oracle. Her obvious suffering made him readier than ever to pound on Eryx—and more worried about faking a loss. It was never as easy as it sounded, especially when he wanted to run the bastard through. Twice.
Squaring off, they raised their swords. In comparison to Eryx’s, Carver’s blade looked short and dull. “Do you often spar with your soldiers, Your Highness?” In the training courtyard, he’d only seen the king spar with his most skilled and high-ranking guards.
“It happens.” Eryx began to circle, light on his feet and sinewy strong. “I haven’t had a chance to get to the training yard today, and sparring is my preferred form of exercise.”
That—and tossing sacrificial women over the wall between the high, main square and the rock-lined harbor below. Some put up a fight, especially at the last second, and he had to overpower them.
Carver roped in his rage and waited for Eryx to make the first move. When it finally came, it was a quick jab that might’ve caught a lot of people off guard and left a hole in their torso if the king leaned into it even a little too hard. It was the kind of strike Griffin had led with a thousand times, and Carver parriedon reflex, moving fast as years of training kicked in.
Eryx’s jaw hardened. His mossy eyes flicked over Carver, taking him in more carefully. Knowing he’d already revealed too much, Carver somehow loosed a sheepish smile and a shrug, as if to saydumb luck. It took a torturously long time for Eryx’s expression to smooth out.
When it finally did, Carver raised his sword again, having leaned into the ruse by lowering his guard.You’re just a soldier like any other. Act like it.It was true, after all. It wasn’thimwho’d been chosen by gods.
They both sank into their centers of balance and tested each other with a series of moves. Carver matched the king’s attacks strike for strike while trying not to outdo him. Eryx needed to feel superior, but Carver also needed to perform well enough to earn whatever respect this man was capable of giving and gain some personal insight into Eryx’s fighting skills. It would help Bel.
As the minutes wore on, and the constant, ringing hits grew harder and more aggressive, Carver realized that Eryx was more competent than he’d anticipated. He found himself breathing hard and having trouble balancing how to defend himself while still holding back and not ending the match. His aching ribs didn’t help, but at least shots of pain and sore bones and skin kept his grimaces real during the rest of this farce.
Eryx nearly sliced him across the chest, and Carver leaped away, wincing. He ground his molars. When he had a good opponent, it doubled his desire to win, and knowing he had tolosewent against every competitive hair on his head.
Steel clashed. Bootsteps squeaked across the polished floor. They both moved with quick efficiency, coiled strength, and bursts of power. Cleito whimpered when they got too close, and Carver did his best to steer the fight away from her.
“The farm boy seems to be a natural.” Eryx’s grated-outwords didn’t sound like a compliment, and Carver subtly eased back, faltering on purpose before recovering just as fast. There was a fine line between maintaining Eryx’s interest and not giving away that he’d fought more battles than he could count against men and monsters alike. The line blurred sometimes, and Carver snuck in sloppy hits and heavy footwork as a reminder that he’d only been holding a sword for six months instead of his entire life.
Eryx suddenly went on a clear offensive, probably ready to end the lengthy sparring match he wasn’t losing but wasn’t quite winning, either. In his surge of aggression, Eryx slipped up. Carver saw the opening to disarm his opponent, and instinct took over before his brain caught up. Too late to pull out of the move, he dropped his sword as soon as the blades hit. It clattered to the floor, shockingly loud in the hushed room.
The king smirked. “Looks like there’s still some training to go,farm boy.”
Fury exploded inside Carver. If only he could leave an Eryx-shaped body print on the pristine marble and be done with at least one of the charades he was living in this place.
Instead, he nodded as calmly as he could. The tacked-on moniker rankled because of Eryx’s snide tone and not because of any shame in farming. “I can only hope to match your skill someday, Your Highness.” At least several years of faking things made it easier to say words that stuck in his throat.
Eryx looked pleased. His shoulders drew back. “This guard unit is in my throne room from now on,” he announced loudly. “And you”—he looked straight at Carver—“have earned the right to guard my dog while I attend to some matters in private.” He picked up Cleito’s leash and handed it to Carver.
Carver gripped the rope, willing his knuckles not to turn white. “I’m honored, Your Highness.” His blood thundered inhis veins. Every agonizing second of that sparring match just became worth it, especially losing.Thiswas what he’d been working toward since setting foot in Atlantis.
Eryx didn’t respond or look back at either Carver or his seer. As the king walked away, Carver vowed to help Bel make the son of a Cyclops’s death so memorable the story of it would span centuries and worlds.
As soon as Eryx left and all the other guards, including Dex and Silas, were out of earshot, Carver turned to Cleito. Low and fast, he said, “Please, can you answer some questions for me? I need information—information that could change everything.” The oracle didn’t look up. The urgency in his voice didn’t seem to reach her. “The Shard of Olympus,” Carver whispered. “Have you heard of it? What is it? Where?”
Still looking at the floor, she started muttering words he couldn’t understand. It was all jumbled up and too quiet to distinguish.
“Cleito? The key? The key to bringing back magic. Is it the Shard of Olympus?”
Her words became clearer, though she still didn’t look up. “Fire in the sky. Broken temple.”
“Broken how?” Carver asked. “When? Where? Is the shard in it?”
