Sara Larson - Defy

Marcel didn’t get angry when I beat him anymore.

“Nice job, Alex. Don’t listen to the prince. We all know he couldn’t use a sword if his life depended on it.” Rylan nodded at me with an approving smile when I walked over to him and the other men who’d been watching.

I laughed, modulating my tone to keep the sound of my amusement low and as unfeminine as possible. I’d been doing it for so long, I didn’t even have to think about it anymore. Trying to sound like a boy was natural to me now. “When have I ever cared what the prince thinks? The day I start taking advice about fighting from him will be the day Marcel can finally beat me.”

Rylan laughed. “True. I think Marcel’s going to be feeling that hit for a few days.”

“Well,” I replied, “it’s always good to give him a reminder of why I’m going to beat him out for the captainship someday.” I chucked my sword through the air and Asher grabbed it at the last second, just before it hit him in the chest. He and Deron were up next in the practice ring.

“Which won’t be anytime soon,” Deron, the current captain, said as he passed by us.

I watched Asher enter the ring as I peeled off my padding. The oppressive heat held the promise of a storm, a damp weight to the air, as if the very earth were sweating almost as profusely as I was. My shirt stuck to my body, but luckily the leather vest hid the binding I’d wrapped around my breasts earlier that morning. I glanced up at the cloudless blue sky, stretching across the palace and the jungle that surrounded us, and wondered how long it would take before the humidity worked itself up into a mass of dark, threatening thunderheads.

“Come on, Captain , let’s do this,” Asher called from within the ring. The sun made his red hair practically glow — or possibly, it was the reflection off his skin. I’d never seen someone so white before in my life until I’d met him. Most of the people of Antion had at least a hint of olive or darker tones to their skin, to varying degrees. But Asher was originally from Dansii, the nation north of us, where almost everyone’s skin was that white — or so he’d said. But King Hector was also from Dansii, and though he was pale, he wasn’t that white.

In comparison, Deron’s dark skin seemed to absorb the light. I’d known Deron for so long now, he didn’t frighten me anymore, but I still shivered as he lifted his sword and walked into the arena to face Asher, who was ten years younger than him and at least fifty pounds lighter. Deron was the biggest man in the guard, and at thirty-six, also the oldest. But that wasn’t why he was captain — no one had ever beaten him in a challenge. Well, no one except me.

But when I fought him to earn my position on the guard a year ago, I was too new and too young to be made captain, so it didn’t matter.

Marcel came back with two tall cups, one in each hand.

“Water?” I asked, eagerly reaching out.

“Yep,” he said, but he pulled back, keeping the cups out of my reach. Then he lifted one of them to his mouth and drank deeply.

“Are you planning on sharing that, or am I supposed to apologize for beating you first?”

“Nope. No apology necessary. I fully intend to give you what you deserve.”

Before I had a chance to react, Marcel tossed the entire contents of the second cup into my face, drenching me. At first, I was too shocked to do anything except stare at him. Then I burst out laughing. The cool water actually felt good as it ran down my nose and chin, dripped off my short hair onto my shirt.

“Well, that’s one way to admit you’re a sore loser.” I ran a hand through my wet hair, shaking the excess water off.

“You two never stop, do you?” Rylan shook his head, a wry grin revealing his straight, white teeth. His skin was the color of cream with a hint of melted chocolate stirred in.

“I need to go check on things inside the palace,” I said, forcing myself to look away from Rylan’s warm brown eyes. I had no business noticing his smile or his teeth or what shade of chocolate his skin and irises resembled. “Try not to lose any more sparring matches.” I pointed at Marcel. “I don’t think too many would-be assassins are deterred by cups of water in the face.”

“Yes, sir.” Marcel saluted me with the empty cup.

With a sigh and a suppressed smile, I turned away from my brother and strode across the courtyard, purposely making my stride as long as possible.

THE DINING ROOM was lit by hundreds of candles. The scent of hot wax and too much perfume made my head hurt. I stood at attention a discreet distance from where Prince Damian sat, eating his dinner with his customary bored expression. The women on both sides of him vied for his attention, one more blatantly than the other, bending too close to the table, pushing her very visible breasts even higher out of her dress. But the prince only raised one dark eyebrow and lifted a spoonful of chilled pear soup to his mouth.

I wanted to tell the women to quit bothering. Prince Damian never took anyone to his rooms, and as one of his personal guards, I was certain he never visited anyone else’s, either. I believed it was because engaging in that activity would require too much effort — and if there was one thing the prince excelled at, it was laziness.

I looked away from the long table filled with lavishly dressed men and women, and scanned the room. Marcel stood a few feet away from me on Prince Damian’s other side. Across the room, Rylan and his brother, Jude, stood near the door.

As the next course was brought out, the conversation turned, as it nearly always did, to the war. After a few minutes of discussion, Prince Damian sighed.

“Must we always converse about this dreary topic?” He lifted his wineglass to his lips. King Hector had wine and champagne shipped in from Dansii, but only the royal family and their most esteemed guests were allowed to drink it on a regular basis. The rest of the dinner party had goblets full of native juices from Antion — mango and papaya.

“But surely you don’t find it dreary, Your Highness?” A young woman I hadn’t noticed before tonight asked, her expression one of surprise. “This war comes at a steep cost, of course. But I would think that you of all people would be thrilled at the recent success the army has had in stopping those Blevonese sorcerers.”

Oh, here we go , I groaned internally.

“I should?” the prince asked, his voice deceptively inviting. “Why do you suppose that would excite me, in particular?”

The young woman — who couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen, most likely newly presented at court — leaned forward eagerly, exhilarated to have garnered the prince’s notice.

“Well, because of what happened to the queen. I’m sure you’re just as eager to avenge her murder as the king is. Aren’t you?”

The entire room seemed to freeze, silence descending swiftly as the prince pinned her with his gaze. I couldn’t see his eyes from my vantage point, but I knew Prince Damian well. I could easily imagine the icy glare he’d turned on her, his shockingly blue eyes cold. The girl’s color drained slightly, to be quickly replaced by a flush creeping up her neck.

“I find that this … meal … has become unappetizing,” Prince Damian finally said, rising from his chair. Everyone else rushed to stand as well. “Please, remain and enjoy the food. Celebrate the army’s victories with as much exuberance as possible.” The girl stared down at her plate in humiliation, her former excitement completely gone. She looked like she was about to vomit the food she’d been eating all over the table.