“Pointless.” I shrugged. “He doesn’t have any.”
“Let us make certain of that.” With the flair of a conspirator, the princess spun my way, and the ladies crowded in. “The upgrade you gave to your axe,” she prompted. “The customization to Nicu’s knife, and the weapons you rendered faulty from the battle.”
I recalled my handiwork in every project. “What about them?”
“Mother, Poet, and I have been conversing. Since you’re well-acquainted with the castle armory—in addition to certain ancient weapons in the relic vault, which we’ll disregard for the time being—we’ve wanted to make a proposition for a while. However, we were never sure if it was the right time until now.” Briar tapped her chin. “If I asked you to draft weapons using the same resources and skills, would you accept the proposal?”
“Hell yes!” Cadence snapped her fingers. “I want a piece of that!”
“Me too,” Posy squealed. “A custom knife. But can you make mine sparkle in the dark?”
Vale strapped her arms around Posy’s waist. “We’ll get to that, my love. The princess hadn’t finished her point.”
“Which is?” I wondered.
Ambition gleamed across Briar’s face. “Design weapons for us that shall win a war.”
59
Aire
My swords thrust outward, one blade crashing into Poet’s staff, the other blocking the incoming lash of Eliot’s garrote. In the castle’s private training yard, we paused. From their respective positions, the jester and minstrel leered, seizing this opportunity to challenge both of my weapons at once.
Not only did this progress our clan’s ability to fight in sync, but apparently we looked good doing so. I sensed this penchant from the jester, his vanity renewed now that we had returned to the stronghold seven days ago.
In the distance, red leaves dripped from The Maple Pasture. Farther off, the morning sun poured golden light across The Wandering Fields.
Because we combated in shifts, my turn had come to be the central target. I ducked, evading another dual attack as we launched into a second round. Poet’s torso beaded with condensation, Eliot’s lute tattoo rippled along his bare arm, and my inked raptors flexed with each block.
My brethren were exercising their own drills in the troops’ lawn, where Aspen and I originally reunited. By comparison, this area remained exclusive to the Royal family, to be used for practice sessions away from public consumption.
To say the least, Poet rarely preferred this option. He would rather be seen flaunting his naked muscles. Even if the man had eyes for only Briar, the jester’s origins preserved hisdesire to remain a showpiece. But since we had just arrived home, our clan opted to keep a low profile during the first week.
Poet spun across the grass while rotating the staff around his body. This tactic impaired a victim’s equilibrium before the jester executed his blow. The majority of the time, it worked. For the man possessed a speed and flexibility that defied the human race, a product of discipline, kinetics, and a level of agility each knight aspired to.
Eliot whirled the garrote, perfecting a fluid sequence of moves. This became easier now that a certain weaponsmith had adjusted his weapon, enabling it to extend farther and swing with less effort.
My swords diced toward the jester’s abdomen, forcing him into a backflip. Snapping upright like a contortionist, he twisted and angled his body, catching my second thrust with a backhanded maneuver.
Poet and Eliot flanked me, plotting their attack three steps ahead. As dawn burnished the castle’s brown masonry, I lunged into motion, and my partners intercepted. How I had missed these mornings with them. But while my mood soared in their company, more than one distraction compromised my focus.
Hazel eyes. Smoky voice.
A rod swooped into my vision.
Goddammit. I spun at the last second, my sword trapping the jester’s staff in place.
His green eyes twinkled. “You’re either stalling—”clap, “—or pining—”clap. “Either way—”clap“—it offends me—”clap“—to know—”clap“—that I’m not—” he quirked a brow “—the center of your attention.”
“Such a brat,” Eliot sniggered. “And they call me theatrical.”
Poet tossed the minstrel a sportive fuck-you grin, to which the man chuckled. Mischievous, thespian bastards. They pivoted, the staff windmilling toward my head, the garrote toward my calves. Grunting, I vaulted the broadswords like wings, fending off each blast.
We disengaged, panting for breath. Daylight spilled across the grass and embossed our skin, trickles of sweat cutting down our chests. It had been an arduous but fruitless match, for I had not performed at my best.
The jester flipped his staff until it landed atop the bridges of his shoulders, his arms dangling over the rod. “’Twas only nostalgia that kept me from cracking that gilded head of yours.”
“Hyperbole at its finest,” Eliot joked while tipping back a tankard of water, then spritzing his hair in a display that would bring half the male nobles in this fortress to their knees.
