(Talon’s story)
Galen met Kihrin for the first time later that same day. When he arrived in the training room, his father, Darzin, was there with his new brother. Both wore the padded jackets used in practice, although the new boy’s jacket fit too tightly across the shoulders. As Galen watched, Darzin kicked at Kihrin’s legs and moved his arms, explaining again the proper start position. The young man looked like he had never held a sword before.
Probably, he hadn’t.
“Galen. Good.” His father nodded at him. “I started early. Kihrin, this is your younger brother, Galen.”
The young man raised his hand to Galen, his eyes clouded and his expression unhappy. Darzin’s initial introduction gave Galen a chance to examine his new brother. He was riding on the cusp of majority, with fine features and golden-brown skin. His hair was pale—when he stepped under the light of a window it flared bright gold—and tied back away from his face. Galen thought his new brother had the sort of features women and men both would obsess over. The sort of face that could only be worn by a man who was too pretty, knew he was too pretty, and so could only be an ass about it. This was Darzin’s troublemaker, his wild son, the one to whom Galen would now be compared in all things.
Any relief that Galen had felt, that he now had a brother to divert attention from him, was drowned by the malicious certainty that Kihrin would never be treated as he had been. That he was, literally and figuratively, golden. Galen felt hate seep into him.
He smiled and waved back.
“We will start again with the basic footwork and handwork forms. Once you’ve learned these to my satisfaction, we may move on to bouts.” Galen watched his father tug Kihrin’s shoulders into alignment, until the young man looked over his right shoulder. “Not today, of course. It will be months before I’m satisfied with your advancement. Understand you’re starting quite late, Kihrin. It takes years to make a good swordsman, a lifetime to make a master. You may never make it, but you are my child and you will try, even if it kills you.”
“At least I have your love.” The young man’s voice was bitter and sarcastic. There was no tenderness in the expression he turned on their father.
Galen was surprised when Darzin punched Kihrin. Galen would have expected to be hit if he dared respond to their father that way, but he had assumed Kihrin would be given more leniency. He was even more surprised by the violence and anger behind Darzin’s strike, much worse than anything his father ever directed at him personally. Darzin hit Kihrin with the pommel of his sword, straight to the jaw, throwing the boy’s head back and splitting his lip.
Galen expected the boy to fall, run, cry, but again, he was surprised. Kihrin staggered to the side, put his hand to his face, and wiped away the blood. The look Kihrin threw at their father might have withered plants and curdled milk. Then he stood up straight and returned to start as if nothing had happened.
“Your first lesson, son,” Darzin hissed, “is that you do not ever talk back to me. Understand?”
The young man stared at Darzin.
“Well?”
“Am I supposed to answer or would that be talking back?”
Galen flinched when his father hit Kihrin again, this time knocking the teenager to the floor. The boy flipped over on his back and lay resting on his elbows, while blood dripped from his nose and stained the white jacket. Galen pretended to study the tiled ceiling. It seemed safest.
“Ah, a trick question,” Kihrin said. “Thanks for the clarification.”
“You’re too stupid to know when to quit, boy,” Darzin growled.
“Yeah, I’ve been told that before…” Kihrin answered and then added, “… Father.” He sounded cheerful.
Even though this was normally the answer Darzin expected from Galen, something in the way Kihrin said it set Darzin on edge. He raised his hand, still holding the practice sword, as if to strike at the boy. Kihrin returned the lethal, hard stare and didn’t move.
Galen honestly wondered if he was about to watch his new brother’s death—just hours after he discovered he existed. Darzin didn’t kill Kihrin though, or even beat him.
Darzin tossed the practice sword to the ground. “I’ll be lenient because you aren’t used to this house, but do not try my patience. I have little of it to spare.” Darzin turned and glared at Galen. “Do something useful for once in your life. Talk some sense into your brother.” He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.
For a moment, neither of them said anything. Kihrin picked himself up off the floor and wiped his bleeding nose on his sleeve. “I call that a win for me.”
“You should know—I mean, about Father—” Galen was uncertain where to start.
“Forget it,” the older boy replied. “I expect it goes with the territory.”
“Father’s not so bad once you get to—”
His brother’s reaction was an immediate sneer. “Really? So how often do you end up at the apothecaries for bruises and cuts? Just curious.”
Galen tried to meet Kihrin’s stare. He felt himself cringing. “It’s … fencing. Accidents happen sometimes.”
“I’d believe you, except I’ve seen your father’s demonstrations of warmth.”
Galen bit his lip. “He’s your father too.”
“That’s what he says.” Kihrin crossed his arms over each other. “He’s already shown he likes to hit me. How long has he been hitting you?”
The silence was thick and wooden.
“It is a father’s right to discipline his child,” Galen finally answered.
“Or kill them or sell them as slaves. But a bully is still a bully, even if the law gives them the right.” Kihrin stalked around the room, scuffing his boots against the inlaid wooden flooring. “It’s the same garbage up here as down below, except in the Upper Circle no one would dare say a word to someone like your father. Too rich. Too powerful.” He turned his head and spat blood. Galen stepped back. It was shocking from pure contrast: such an uncouth gesture from someone born of royal blood.
“He is your father,” Galen repeated. “I can prove it.”
Kihrin’s eyes were irate as he looked back at Galen. “Can you?”
“Follow me. I’ll show you.”
45: RISCORIA TEA
(Kihrin’s story)
I stepped forward, clutching the harp with bleeding fingers. “It wasn’t—I didn’t—”
“Not your fault,” Doc said. “I saw. We should consider ourselves lucky the Old Man wasn’t in the mood to breathe fire.” He turned his head to Teraeth. “How badly are you injured?”
Teraeth inspected his arm and winced. The skin was bubbled and crisped. “Badly, if we didn’t have healers on the island who could cure worse.”
“Then you should go see them.”
Teraeth started to protest. He looked at me, back to Doc, and then did something I never imagined Teraeth doing in a thousand years: he behaved. “As you say.”
He withdrew.