“Just show me.”
Pierce closed his eyes briefly, then, in rapid succession, showed him
Scalloping the Potato, Fine-shaving the Ham, and Butterflying the Flying
Prawn. The knife had warmed to his grip by the time he finished; he was
vaguely aware of the flashes that came from it as metal caught the sun. When
he stopped, the knight was regarding him with a peculiar, skewed stare,
blinking rapidly as though light from the sun’s reflection had streaked
across his eyes.
He said finally, very softly, “Who are you?”
“My name is Pierce Oliver,” Pierce answered, relieved that the knight had
asked before he attacked. “And I’m not a knight. I was just in the kitchen
accidentally—”
“Yes. You made me remember something. My mother used to chop like that. That
same magical blinding tangle of knife moves. I loved to watch that when I was
little. She was—is still, I think—a sorceress.”
Pierce swallowed. His heart seemed to shift and glide in his chest like a fish
easing from shadow into underwater light. His eyes stung, blurred. “On Cape
Mistbegotten?”
There was silence. When he could see again, the knight had crossed the battle
lines to stand in front of him. His pale, intent eyes were very wide.
“Heloise Duresse. She is my mother.”
“Heloise Oliver.” Pierce heard his voice shake. “She took her maiden name
when—after she left you here in Severluna. She is my mother.”
The knight, still holding his eyes, gave a short nod, as though in
recognition. “You look like her. I remember that, now, too. And your father?
”
“My father—” He paused to swallow again. “She didn’t tell my father about
me when he returned to Severluna after he saw her for the last time at Cape
Mistbegotten.”
“So.” The knight’s hands rose, clamped above Pierce’s elbows. “So you are
my brother.” He smiled then, the astonishment and pleasure in his face making
Pierce’s eyes burn again. “This is amazing. I always felt I lacked a brother
and finally here you are. My name is Val Duresse. Our father is—” He
stopped. His eyes flicked away from Pierce, then back again, an odd, wry
expression in them. “Well, he’s not on the field. I’m not sure where he is
now. He’s not good at keeping his cell turned on. We’ll find him later, at
the Assembly.”
Pierce’s heart pounded suddenly at the thought, which had been, until that
second, only a marvelous possibility. “Will he—I mean, he doesn’t even know
I exist. And I’m not a knight; I can’t just—”
“Yes, you can. You walked onto this field in a kitchen uniform and challenged
every knight here. I accepted your challenge, and you won before we even began
to fight.”
“I haven’t got a clue—”
“There is that,” Val agreed, with his quick, charming smile. “We live in
enlightened times. Not every knight chooses to fight or carries a weapon.
There are other ways to serve. Come and choose a knife for me. I want to learn
more of your Deli Style. And if that’s all you know about fighting, so should
you.”
12
On another part of the field, Daimon faced an unknown knight.
Like a shadow, the knight matched Daimon’s height and reach. He wore black
from head to foot; his head was rendered invisible by an acorn-shaped helm
with a finger’s breadth of a slit across it for sight. Nothing on the mantle
flowing from his shoulders indicated, by ancient beast or heraldic device, who
he might be. Daimon was similarly hidden in red, his body sheathed in metal,
his helm densely padded against the mighty heave and thrust of the black
knight’s broadsword. The helm smelled of oil, copper, and old sweat; the air
he breathed was thick and hot and merciless.
He was battling, it seemed, something maddeningly unnameable, as old as time
and as elusive as mist. This dark, faceless knight was a manifestation of the
idea he had been struggling with since the moment his mother had appeared out
of nowhere and offered him a realm of enchantment and a consort’s place
beside the young woman who already ruled him. That offer was weighted with
implications heavier than the shield he raised against the dark knight’s
sword hammering away at it. He could not decide which was more incredible: the
intriguing, compelling, and even justifiable offer itself, or the faceless,
nameless stranger Daimon saw in himself who might accept it.