Ginn Hale - Lord of the White Hell Book One

Kiram hated the idea, particularly when his opponent was Nestor.

He simply could not take any pleasure in exploiting Nestor's poor vision to murder him, not even when the mortal wound was no more than a tap across his chest or neck. Nestor unfailingly complimented him on his strikes and that only made Kiram more uncomfortable.

At times Kiram found it frightening to watch Javier and Elezar demonstrate techniques. They were both skilled with blades and though they were friends, when they fought neither of them held back. They had both drawn blood on more than one occasion.

Elezar struck with so much force that he often cracked the tip off of Javier's wooden blade. He charged in with a shout and always took the offensive. His raw, muscular power drove his attacks. Sometimes Kiram thought nothing could wear Elezar down.

"He's like a bull," Nestor whispered. "You hit him and it just makes him madder."

Kiram nodded, though his attention was focused on Javier.

Unlike Elezar, he rarely relied on sheer muscle and he never overextended his thrusts. He looked so relaxed and his smile was so assured that his hundreds of parries and strikes seemed effortless. But when Kiram really studied Javier's form he could see that Javier was constantly working at Elezar's defenses. He was constantly moving around him, testing and pushing him. Javier was a master of footwork. He never stood still, but always edged subtly in and out of Elezar's strike range.

He drew Elezar out, slowly wearing him down with precise blow after blow. He didn't underestimate Elezar's speed the way Atreau often did. Instead he restrained himself, patiently whittling away at Elezar's energy, waiting for him to get clumsy and make a mistake.

When that moment came, Javier's entire demeanor changed. His smile dropped. He lunged past Elezar's wide swing and punched his cracked blade into the thick padding that protected Elezar's heart. Almost instantly he jerked back out of Elezar's reach. In that moment, just as he pulled back from the killing strike all of the strain of the fight showed in his face. Javier looked both sick and stricken. Then he was smiling again.

"You're dead, my friend," Javier told Elezar.

"You barely…" Elezar looked down at the chest of his padded jacket. A thick white lump of wool protruded from the gash in the canvas. "Well, damn it. Who's going wed those six pregnant whores now?"

"I'm sure they'll manage to find some other dolt," Javier replied.

Nestor leaned a little closer to Kiram and whispered, "Mother would kill Elezar if that really happened."

"How do you know it hasn't?"

"Oh, I'd know," Nestor assured him and Kiram took his word for it. After all, Nestor had a knack for collecting all the whispers and rumors that circulated around the academy. He had kept Kiram apprised of all of the love letters that Atreau received, as well as the rumors of Holy Father Habalan's affair with a milkmaid.

And surprisingly, he was also one of the only reliable sources that Kiram could find for information concerning the curse that plagued the Tornesal family.

Later, when they sat side by side in the library studying, Kiram decided Nestor's insights might be just as good as anyone else's.

Kiram had expected to uncover dozens of references to the curse in academy diaries and biographies. Certainly every other minor affliction of the powerful Tornesal family had been noted. Letters and journals abounded with mentions of fever passions, congenital cruelty, and bloodlust. But until the most recent writings there wasn't a single suggestion of a curse destroying the Tornesals.

The curse was apparently a new phenomenon. According to Nestor, it had first struck one of Javier's uncles eighteen years ago. The curse never afflicted the Sagradas or the Fueres despite the fact that they had intermarried with the Tornesals extensively. At the same time it hunted down inheriting women like Fedeles' mother even when they had married out of the family.

"It's like it knows which of them could inherit the dukedom and goes after them. Doesn't that seem suspicious?" Kiram studied a painting of the Tornesal family tree. The vast branches narrowed to a single line bearing Javier's name.

"Maybe the dukedom is what really makes them Tornesals. You know, like cured ham and goose fat makes a prince's pie. Without them, it's just bean stew in a crust." Nestor turned a page of his own book and Kiram caught sight of the title: One Thousand Royal Feasts and Banquets. "I overheard Holy Father Habalan saying that if Javier would only turn the power of the white hell over to the royal bishop then the curse would be lifted."

"What do you think he meant by that exactly?" Kiram wondered. "It sounds almost like blackmail or a threat."

Nestor blanched and then shook his head.

"I'm sure that's not the way he meant it. He probably thinks, like a lot of people do, that the white hell has gotten a taste for Tornesal blood and now it wants them all."

"Why would it wait eighty-two years for that?"

"Maybe Tornesals are an acquired taste, like tomatoes," Nestor had replied. "I used to hate tomatoes when I was young but just yesterday I had one and I thought it didn't taste so bad."

"I'll take that into consideration," Kiram replied.

"Doesn't sound likely?" Nestor asked.

"Not from what I've read."

Kiram had dredged through hundreds of Cadeleonian texts searching for mentions of curses. All the descriptions bore striking similarities. They were dated from the time of King Nazario Sagrada or earlier, and curses were always described as Haldiim in origin. They were always acts of retaliation for a wrong done.

One fragile text described how the souls of two murdered Haldiim children had become a curse and ravaged the house and lands of the baron who killed them until a Haldiim witch-Kiram recognized the description as a Bahiim-had trapped the curse and bound its fury into the wood of a great oak tree where it could do no more harm.

The mention of a Bahiim dispelling the curse had offered Kiram some hope that he could, at last, get accurate information regarding curses. He'd immediately written to his uncle's husband, Alizadeh, to ask what he knew, but he'd not yet received a response.

The next two weeks offered Kiram no time at all to contemplate curses or even mechanisms. In addition to riding with Javier, constant battle training, and learning the formal rules of engagement, his time had recently been taken up by fittings for the leather cuirass, byrnie, and gauntlets he would be wearing for his fights; he was also drilling on horseback for the opening parade through the city of Zancoda.

The last two weeks before the tournament the majority of scholars had given up their class times to allow Master Ignacio to keep the students in constant training. Only Scholar Blasio and Scholar Donamillo refused. Scholar Blasio gave extensive lectures, but also tolerated a great deal of napping. Kiram guessed that it was just to spite Master Ignacio and he warmed to Scholar Blasio more for it.

However the last week before the autumn tournament Scholar Donamillo also excused his class. Though he asked Kiram to help him carry several books from his classroom to the infirmary.

The air smelled of liniment and sweat. Dozens of young men sprawled across the medical cots. Most sported ugly bruises and cuts or wore bandages over their various sprains. Many seemed to be sleeping, though one fourth- year student looked perfectly healthy and seemed to be using the time to read. Kiram felt a little awed that Donamillo had managed to teach his classes for so long and still treat all the bumped, bruised, and sprained youths in his infirmary.

"This way, to my office." Donamillo led Kiram past the cots and between two huge black screens into the space where he kept not only his hulking mechanical cures but also a desk and shelves overflowing with books and medical instruments. Light glinted off the glass panes of his mechanical cure, lending a radiance to the scholar's deeply lined face.