The knight’s eyes were both covered by silk patches.
Felix remained frozen where he stood, and the blind knight turned back to the Prince, speaking in a voice bright and merry but with an underlying edge. “Can’t say that I trust him a great deal, my Prince,” he said. “Begging your pardon, but he doesn’t have the most dependable reputation.”
“I’m not sure you’re one to talk,” the Prince said. “Gambling, Sir Eanrin!”
“Call it a bit of surreptitious research, my Prince,” the knight said.
“All in your service, of course.”
“Of course.”
“But I don’t mind saying I’d like to get what he owes me. I won a good deal off that scoundrel and have not yet heard the clink of gold.”
“I’ll take care of it immediately,” Aethelbald said. “Return to your duties. And, Eanrin?”
“My Prince?”
“No more surreptitious research for my benefit, please.”
“Your wish is my command, my Prince!” The blind knight gave an elegant bow and, after turning his face momentarily toward Felix and wrinkling his nose, swept from the barracks yard.
Aethelbald looked down at Felix.
“Who was he?” Felix asked. “What was that about?”
“No one and nothing concerning you, Prince Felix,” Aethelbald replied.
He looked at the sword at Felix’s side. “Have you come to practice?”
Felix grinned and drew the practice sword, pointing it at Aethelbald’s chin. “Do you feel brave, Prince of Farthestshore? I think I might trounce you today!”
Aethelbald’s mouth turned up in a half smile, but he shook his head.
“I must settle some important business first. Perhaps later.”
“Why later?” Felix said. “You’re here now! The business will wait for a match or two.” He heard one of his attendants snort and glared back at the three of them. They assumed straight faces and pretended to be interested in other things in the yard. Felix whirled back to Aethelbald and said in a lower voice, “They don’t think you’ll practice with me again. They think you were just making a fool of me yesterday and are now bored of me.”
Aethelbald eyed them, then turned back to Felix, pushing aside the wooden sword still pointed at his face. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re scared to spar with me! I think you’re afraid I’ll beat you this time!”
Aethelbald shook his head. “Baiting doesn’t work on me, Prince Felix,” he said and started across the yard.
Openmouthed, Felix watched him go, then suddenly brandished his sword and called, “Fine! Be a coward!” Listening to the snickers of his attendants, he turned and, growling like a hurt dog, lunged at one of the practice dummies so hard that it nearly fell off the pole. “Don’t need you anyway,” he muttered, rolling his shoulder muscles and twisting his neck. He took first position and prepared to spring at the dummy again.
“A fine stance,” a thickly accented voice cried. “You have surely been trained by a master, Prince Felix.”
Felix paused, his sword arm suspended before him. Prince Gervais stood at the edge of the yard, his fists planted on his hips and a long sword sheathed at his side. Felix nodded curtly and completed his lunge, less vigorous than the last one but more precise. He smiled, tight-lipped, admiring his own work.
Gervais applauded. “Very nice, young sir,” the Prince of Beauclair cried. He stepped into the yard, removing his sword belt as he did so. “Tell me, Felix, have you another practice sword? I should be honored to spar with you if you are willing.”
Felix looked at the smiling prince and recoiled at the idea of a match with him. Every movement Gervais made was full of a dancer’s grace, just the sort of form Felix’s own master had been struggling to beat into him over the last few years. But his attendants were watching and whispering to each other again. Felix felt his hackles rise, but he said, “I’m willing if you are, Prince Gervais.”
Gervais smiled at the boy, a smile that Felix wanted to smack off his face, and called to one of the guards. “Bring me a weapon.” He set aside his own sword and took the wooden one offered to him. Felix watched him stretch a few moments, and his heart sank. Even in his stretching exercises, Gervais had the look of a master.
The two princes took positions across from each other and saluted. Immediately after, Gervais’s sword arm extended, his torso inclining forward, his hand rising to shoulder level as he advanced. His movements were so quick and fluid that Felix could only just parry and leap back, avoiding a touch by inches. His heart quickened, pounding in his throat as adrenaline rushed through his veins. Their swords crossed, wood thunking heavily on wood. Felix parried three times, a fourth, and then felt the slap of the sword on his leg. It hurt, and he bit back a curse behind a grimace.