Victor stood behind Queen Kynna’s high-backed, hand-tooled, gold-filigreed chair and listened to her and King Vennar hash out the terms of the duel. The king sat in a similar chair on the opposite side of an equally ornate table. It was Victor’s job to appear imposing, and he did his best. Still, with his aura tightly in check, his armor all stowed away, and his Core locked down like a bank vault the day before payday, he didn’t think he was imposing anyone, least of all Vennar or his champion, Obert.
Obert, on the other hand, was putting on a show of deadly force and barely restrained potential for destruction. He was an eleven-foot-tall man built like a ballet dancer. He walked more gracefully than a panther and projected a ferocity that would make a tiger seem cuddly. His long, lithe limbs were corded with hard muscle, his skin was tan and glistened as though oiled, and he wore armor consisting of a shiny breastplate, an eagle-visored helm, shiny bracers, and rune-inscribed greaves. Victor considered it “shiny,” but the armor was more than that. It shone with the inner light of dense enchantments and radiated with a lustrous greenish-blue tint.
Victor forced his face into an unimpressed, almost lackadaisical expression as he regarded him. Still, inwardly, he was impressed, especially by the man’s eight-foot longsword that hung from a scabbard on his back. Victor could only see the hilt and pommel—a glowing tiger’s eye gemstone—but the thing had a presence he couldn’t deny. Still, Victor didn’t react. He didn’t smile or glower. He didn’t let his gaze linger. He constantly surveyed the room, the table, the monarchs, and even the motes of dust gently drifting through the beam of sunlight streaming through the high window.
He could tell his inattention was bothering Obert. The man stared at him as though he could melt Victor’s heart with his gaze. Victor almost smirked at the thought—maybe he could! He let his eyes drift past Kynna’s crown to King Vennar, a very different sort of man. Short—for a Ruhnian, with very dark, nearly black skin and eyes that glowed much the same way as Kynna’s and Dar’s. Was he a distant relation? His flesh certainly reminded Victor of Dar’s. It wasn’t quite the same—it didn’t look exactly like stone, but it had a porous, uneven quality that made it difficult to imagine how it would feel.
The king’s voice was certainly far smoother than Dar’s. “I understand you feel backed into a corner, Kynna—may I use your given name?”
“We’re both monarchs here, Wil. I won’t complain if you don’t.”
“Very good. First, let me thank you for responding to me before King Groff. I assure you, Frostmarch will offer better terms than Xan.” He glanced at Victor and ran his eyes up and down his figure, from his well-polished boots to his freshly cut hair. Victor thought he saw a smirk hiding behind his bright eyes. “I’m pleased you’ve found yourself a young champion willing to stand for you. I’d heard rumors but hadn’t let myself fully believe them.” His lips curled into a more pleasant smile, and he leaned closer to Kynna over the table. “I’m not ashamed to admit that I loathed the idea of a great old warhound like Foster dying to save a lost cause. Will your new man take the knee, as Foster never would?”
“Oh no. You mistake me, Wil. I’m not here to negotiate a surrender. Today, we will agree to the terms of the duel.”
Chamberlain Thorn and his counterpart—a small woman Victor hadn’t caught the name of—sat at the left-hand sides of their monarchs, and it was the woman who reacted first to Queen Kynna’s words. She audibly choked and had to hold the back of her hand to her mouth and look down, coughing softly to clear her windpipe. Everyone ignored her as the king once again looked at Victor.
“You’re serious?”
“Quite so. Shall we begin?” Victor couldn’t see Kynna’s face, but she sounded very prim.
King Vennar, still staring at Victor and attempting to make eye contact while Victor continued to study the empty space in the air between himself and the far wall, could barely contain the lascivious expression on his face—a dog eyeing a child’s abandoned hamburger. He slowly nodded, cleared his throat, and elbowed the woman beside him. “Certainly. Let’s discuss terms.”
Kynna inclined her head slightly, her tall, crystalline crown glittering in the light as it dipped forward. “Have you any thoughts about sovereign succession?”
King Vennar brushed the back of his hand over his lips, almost like he had to physically push away the hungry grin. “I see no reason to be overly harsh. I would think banishment will suffice.”
“Of only the monarch or their entire lineage?”
“Oh, I would think the entire lineage.” He tsked and, again, leaned forward with an earnest expression. “You could avoid that if you’ll just have your new champion take the knee. I’d keep you on as a Duchess.”
“No, King Vennar, I believe we should do this properly. I have my ancestor’s reputation to manage.”
“Ah yes, the great Ranish Dar.” Vennar smirked, shaking his head. “So. Are we agreed then? Banishment for the ruling family?”
Kynna nodded. “I believe that will suffice. No need for a grisly display of beheadings.” At her words, both chamberlains began to write on the documents before them. She tapped one of her hard nails on the table—click, click, click. “And the Oaths of Submission?”
“One hundred years,” Vennar spoke firmly, and Victor saw Obert shift in the corner of his eye, but he refused to look at the other champion to see his expression. Instead, he continued to let his eyes wander around the room, staring at the art, the furniture, and even the tiles along the far wall.
Kynna glanced to her left, looking at something Thorn had written, then nodded. “Very well. All nobility, minor and major, shall swear peace and allegiance to the victor for a term of no less than one hundred years. We’re in agreement?”
Vennar nodded. “We are. Tribute and Taxation?”
Again, Kynna looked to Thorn. “What is our proposal, Chamberlain Thorn?”
Thorn cleared his throat and lifted his notebook, speaking clearly, almost like he was presenting to a room full of people, not just the three at the table with him. “We propose the following: The vanquished shall be bound to deliver tribute unto the victor in the form of wealth, crops, and provisions. The amount paid shall be no less than thirteen percent of each season’s surplus, verified by the Crown’s agents, who shall be given full access to all records upon request.”
Vennar frowned, looking at his chamberlain. She didn’t speak but tapped something in her notes as she nodded. Vennar looked back to Kynna. “I agree.”
“This has been painless, Wil!” Kynna sounded borderline patronizing, but Victor couldn’t see her face, so he couldn’t be sure. Vennar didn’t look angry, though; in fact, he looked like he’d just been given a gift. “There’s just the matter of the Right of the Chosen Blade.”
Vennar barked a short, harsh laugh. “Forgive me, Kynna, but do you even have a cadre? I’d thought Foster was your last champion until...” He glanced at Victor again, this time doing nothing to hide the smirk on his face. “Recently. Still, I’ll bite. How many champions should the victor claim?”
Kynna stiffened her back, squaring her shoulders. Victor imagined she was putting on a show of indignation at Vennar’s dismissive attitude. Even so, she spoke very precisely with perfect decorum, “I would think a single choice will suffice.”
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Vennar leaned back in his chair, pushing away from the table as he waved a dismissive hand. “Very well.” He looked to his chamberlain. “Is there aught else?”
“Just secondary terms, Your Majesty—things like hostage exchange, judicial authority, cultural exchange—”
“Thank you, Lord Champion. May I speak freely?” Her voice echoed from inside her helm—stern, husky, and confident.
“I’d be angry if you didn’t.”
“I don’t reciprocate your feelings. I think you’re awfully rude. I think Queen Kynna ought to have your tongue stabbed through with a hot poker, and I think you’re probably going to die tomorrow.”
“As my auntie would say, ‘qué encanto!’ Hah! Did that translate? I can never tell what the System’s going to make sound like English—er, Rhunish?”
“You said I’m charming,” Bryn replied in a tone that made the words wonderfully ironic.
“Perfecto!” Victor laughed and started for the door. “I’ll need your help finding my way back to my chambers. This is a big palace.”
“Take a right after the door.”
Victor grinned, pleased that he’d scored a blunt-speaking, no-nonsense escort. As they walked, he slowed and gestured for her to hurry beside him. “Tell me about Obert. You ever seen him fight?”
“I have. He’s a devil with that long sword of his. Most people agree he’s deep into the epic tier of mastery.”
“Mmhmm. And what sorts of affinities does he have? Any spells that stand out?”
“I don’t know how true it is, but I’ve heard his strongest affinity is for momentum, but I’ve also heard he has a touch of the void. I don’t know much about his abilities, sir, but I’ll say this much: the longer you fight him, the more deadly he becomes.”
“Hmm.” Victor nodded, sighing as he pressed his hands into his lower back, stretching as they walked.
“You’re not concerned?”
“Sure, but I figured he’d be good with that sword. I mean, it’s no secret that he’s dangerous. I guess, if anything, your words make me feel a little better. Now I’ve got the beginnings of a strategy: kill him quickly.” As he spoke, his lack of sleep got to him, and Victor yawned hugely. “Sorry about that. I didn’t sleep much last night.”
“Nerves?”
“Hmm? Oh, no. I was reading. My mentor sent me with a huge list of topics to study.”
“Your mentor?” For once, Bryn sounded respectful. “Do you mean Ranish Dar?”
“Yeah. I tried to get him to cut out some of the more boring-sounding stuff, but—”
“Boring? You have books from Ranish Dar, and he personally told you to read them? Boring?” Her voice rose stridently as she hurried to keep pace with him, so much so that a pair of housekeeping staff looked up from the cabinet they were dusting, staring after them with wide eyes.
“Easy, Bryn. You’re going to get me a bad reputation around here.”
Bryn scoffed. “Too late to worry about that!”
Victor smiled again, genuinely enjoying her acerbic nature. “Yeah? People are talking?”
“Do you want the truth, or do you want me to be ‘easy’?”
“The truth, but don’t yell about it!” Victor recognized the stairway down a long gallery of stately portraits to his right, so he turned that way.
“Well, most everyone thinks you’re a madman or a criminal paying penance to the great Ranish Dar. People are getting their affairs in order and packing their belongings. Most agree that we’ll be released when Her Majesty, Queen Kynna—long shall she reign—is ousted and banished. Not many are happy with you for forcing the duel; there was some hope that another neighboring kingdom would put pressure on one or both of Gloria’s enemies, thereby granting us a reprieve. That hope is dashed now that—”
“All right, all right. I get it. Listen,” Victor pointed down the hallway toward the purple-black pair of doors at the end, “there’s my room. I’m going to go in there and write some letters to people who don’t hate me. Then I’m going to try to get a little sleep. Can you make sure I don’t—”
“Oversleep?” Bryn slammed a fist against her shiny, silvery breastplate. “It’ll be my pleasure, Lord Champion.”
“Jesus, chica,” Victor laughed, “Do you have to make it sound like an insult?”
“Win tomorrow, and then maybe I’ll change my tune.”
“Hah! Right on. Say it like it is! You know I like it.” Victor turned to face her more squarely, then stood to attention as though he was back in the Free Marches preparing to address his troops. He slammed his fist to his chest in salute, stared into her eye slit soberly for a moment, and then smartly turned on his heel and strode to his room. He had a lot of letters to write.