The fight was over.
She had won.
‘Impressive.’
Alinore staggered back and pulled herself upright, trying to hide her exhaustion and giddy delight.
She had done it.
It was what she had been hoping for ever since the Calestran court received news of Prince Ottone’s imminent return last moon. She had proved herself.
‘That’s the first time I’ve ever fought someone,’ she said. ‘And won.’
Prince Ottone smiled. ‘I’m honoured.’ He bent to retrieve his practice weapon; then he stood watching her, his head tilted to one side.
Her cheeks flushed. ‘What?’
‘Your hair is almost as short as mine. It suits you.’
Alinore reached up a hand and touched the bristly, blunt ends on her dark, shorn head. Prince Ottone had looked shocked when she had first appeared that morning with her cropped hair. Before he could question her, she had held up her sword and demanded they begin fighting. She could tell that he still wanted to ask her more about it – he had a puzzled crease in his brow – but instead, he said, ‘You’re a good fighter. Better than some of the men in my battalion. Does anyone know yet? Have you shown the Sword Master?’
In the fantasies that Alinore entertained late at night, lying in bed in a far, unused corner of the castle’s guest quarters, she imagined challenging the Sword Master to a match during drill practice. The squires and guards would be there, watching on astounded as she fought and beat the old Sword Master with a flourish. Then they would all burst into applause.
‘I’ve not told anyone,’ she replied. ‘Do you think I should?’
‘It depends. Do you still want to apply for a squireship?’
Alinore nodded.
‘I’m not sure—’
She could hear the beginnings of pity in his tone and she felt a sting of disappointment. ‘I’ll appeal to my father’s old Knight Commander, Lord Lassiaro, for a squireship,’ she said quickly. ‘Lord Lassiaro always said my father was his favourite knight.’
Prince Ottone looked unconvinced. ‘What does Cress think?’ he asked.
Alinore shrugged, refusing to meet his eye. ‘I haven’t spoken to her much recently.’ Before he could ask her more, she proffered her hand: the traditional signal ending the match. ‘Thank you, Your Highness.’
He grinned. ‘It’s good to be back home,’ he said, clasping her fingers.
A jolt of heat swept up her arm at his touch and she snatched her hand away. ‘It’s good to have you back,’ she breathed.
But Prince Ottone did not seem to notice her flushed cheeks. ‘I only wish I wasn’t returning in such bad circumstances …’ He paused, the smile fading from his lips. ‘I’m not sure Father even recognizes me. At least I have returned in time to see him before …’
Alinore looked down at her boots, unsure what to say. King Borto’s illness had steadily grown worse over the last season, the brightness of his eyes dulling to a fragile ember. It was widely known at court that the end was near.
‘What about a rematch soon?’ she suggested, prodding him with the blunt end of the practice sword. She did not like to see him looking so miserable.
Prince Ottone managed another smile. ‘Next time I’ll beat you.’
Above them came the booming clang of the Sanctuary bells, cutting through the early-morning hush, summoning the last of Syonno Castle’s sleepers to rise.
‘I should go,’ she muttered.
‘Goodbye, Lady Alinore.’
Prince Ottone bobbed into an exaggerated bow and she laughed. It sounded high and strange. She realized it had been a long time since she had laughed.
‘Goodbye, Your Highness.’
