Such constant defensiveness eventually paid its price. Cyrus’s foot scraped along the dirt, just enough to twist his knee at an awkward angle. Rayan’s sword crashed down for his head. Cyrus crossed his swords into an X and blocked despite knowing how terrible an idea it was. The impact, and the horrid pain in his elbows and arms, confirmed the folly. His swords bowed inward, then fell. The glowing blade sank down, halting an inch away from Cyrus’s nose. He stared at the sword, knowing if this had been a real battle, and Rayan an imperial paragon, then his skull would have been cleaved in half. All those years of training would mean nothing.

His frustration and anger bubbled out in a single, calmly spoken word.

“Shit.”

Rayan laughed as he pulled back. Once both sword and shield were stowed away, he offered Cyrus a hand to help him back to his feet. The paladin was all smiles and excitement, the exact opposite of how he’d been at the close of their first duel.

“A far cry from the boy I first taught to swing a sword,” Rayan said to all gathered. “And a good deal better than our last duel, too. In my opinion, he passes my test. What say you, Thorda?”

Cyrus looked to his master sitting upon his stool. The older man tapped his fingers together, and Cyrus swore he was dragging out the silence on purpose.

“I say we pack our belongings,” he said. “Tomorrow morning we leave for Vallessau.”

CHAPTER 15

ARN

It had been a long two months for Arn Bastell, sharing cramped quarters on the caravel, and he still had another month to go until he reached the shores of Thanet and docked in its capital of Vallessau. One more long, awful month. If only he could avoid murdering someone until then.

“Praise and glory to the holiest of holies,” prayed Jarvis, one of the acolytes. The men and women in matching white robes gathered in a circle on the center of the deck, holding hands and tilting their heads so the sunlight washed over their faces. Their eyes remained closed as they prayed. “Watch over us, Lucavi, grace of the heavens, incarnate of the divine, god above all gods.”

“Our god of gods,” echoed the others in the circle. Arn leaned over the railing, his back to the circle, and rolled his eyes. No matter how dramatic the need Thorda had insisted in his letters, Arn found himself questioning the time and torment it had taken to cross the Crystal Sea.

“Do the faithful bother you, Meffrit?” a man asked as he joined him at the railing. “I caught that eye roll.”

Arn was his real name, but Meffrit was the lie he’d used to secure passage to Thanet, and thankfully he’d grown accustomed to it quickly during the trip.

“They’re decent enough folk,” he said. “I’ve never been much for prayer.”