‘That’s not true—’ began Prince Ottone.
‘You should show me what you learnt from the Ferente Sword Master,’ said Alinore. ‘I want to see ifyou’vemanaged to improve this last winter.’
Prince Ottone shifted from one foot to the other. ‘I suppose I could show you a few things. But I’m not sure how useful it wouldbe.’ He scratched at his head, unleashing a lock of curly dark hair that sprang over his eyes.
Alinore laughed. He might be eighteen winters and a man, but he was still the same Prince Ottone.
‘You’re wrong,’ she said, her voice full of a confidence she did not quite feel. ‘In fact, it would be very useful … especially when I come to apply for a squireship, remember?’
Her words hung in the air between them.
Prince Ottone paused, his dark eyes tracking over her face.
The longer he stayed quiet, the more tightly her nerves coiled. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, the practice sword growing heavier in her hand.
Prince Ottone was the only person she had trusted with this ambition. Her one ally in a realm that never seemed to expect much of her. If he dismissed it, if he scoffed or told her it was impossible, she did not think she would be able to recover.
‘That’s really what you want?’ he finally asked.
‘It’s the only thing that feels right!’ she snapped back. ‘I mean, can you really see me marrying some lowly courtier or merchant, and spending the rest of my life trying to capture the Queen’s favour? Because that’s the best I could hope for otherwise.’
She had not meant to sound so bitter, but the truth came out raw and unstoppable.
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I can’t imagine it.’
She turned away before he could see how much his answer mattered. With a flick of her wrist, she swept the practice sword into a perfect figure of eight, then lunged, spearing a pile of empty, mouldering sacks.
‘That was a skilled feint. Very convincing.’
She let the praise settle over her like a shield. Then she droppedher stance and faced him with a smile. ‘Show me something you learnt in Ferente,’ she said, lifting her practice sword and lightly prodding his shoulder. ‘Impressme.’
Prince Ottone laughed. ‘All right then.’
He began describing a different style of attack and defence drills, showing Alinore modified postures and new blade placement. With careful patience, he demonstrated each movement, showing her how to pivot her weight, how to adjust her stance, how to shift her blade just so to find an opponent’s weakest point. She followed his every instruction, matching his posture, mimicking the sweep of his arm. Then, as he corrected her grip, his hand drifted higher, fingertips grazing the side of her neck. The brush of his fingertips on her bare skin sent a shiver through her body. She twitched away, blushing.
‘This dress is too tight,’ she muttered, tugging at her clothes. ‘It’s the baggiest gown I own, but it still gets in the way.’
‘I doubt it was made with fighting drills in mind.’
He watched her with a strange look on his face that she did not quite understand.
Unsettled, she looked away. ‘What was Ferente like?’ she asked.
Prince Ottone shrugged. ‘It was flat and grassy. Lots of lemon trees. And the capital was similar to Tormale – just bigger and without the mountains.’
‘You didn’t like it?’
Prince Ottone’s voice lowered to a murmur. ‘I guess I just missed home.’
Alinore wanted to say “We missed you too’, but somehow it felt too difficult. Instead, she said, ‘Well, you’re back now.’
‘Yes … until the summer when Samsel and I leave for the Kingdom of Carniva.’
Alinore’s smile slipped from her face. She felt a prickle in her chest: the sting of something unsteady. ‘You’re leaving again?’
‘Another visit to another court to learn from another Sword Master for a moon or so.’ Prince Ottone sighed and folded his arms as if gathering himself together. ‘Then … off to fight the Journian rebels this autumn.’
Alinore stared at him. The words sliced slowly into her understanding. ‘You’re going to go to war?’ she breathed.
