Page 40 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“A High King earns his seat through the strength of his blood. A High Priestess is bound to hers by birth. But champions are chosen for skill alone,” Gavriel said. “In Norrelia, Njall is the finest glima fighter of his generation.” He glanced at Njall, who was now at Oorlon’s table. “He is not terrible with a single sword, either. I have beaten him more times than I’ve lost.” A smile. “But not by much.”

Oorlon rose abruptly, drawing every eye in the feasting hall. His large hand closed around Astriyed’s wrist and hauled her to her feet. She did not look at him, or at anyone, and she did not resist, as though this were an expected familiarity.

“My dearest court and honored guests,” the king boomed, “the Festival of Selvara has concluded. May Selvarath’s light remind you of your place beneath Her hand. And of my hand, which serves Hers.” With a cold smile, his free hand slid to the back of Astriyed’s neck, and he nearly dragged her from the chamber.

Goblets slammed down for refills with a fervor that bordered on desperation. Gorien’s eyes hardened. Sifia’s pallor deepened. When Gavriel’s attention shifted to Njall again, he saw immense pain barely contained behind discipline.

Beside Gavriel, Kora made a stunned sound. Both she and Lemierre turned toward him, questioning. He swallowed. What was the gentlest way to explain absolute horror?

“He is despised for it,” Gavriel said quietly. “But he does it simply because he can. Everyone is too accustomed to his excesses, too afraid of him to stop it.”

Kora’s skin went nearly translucent, her pulse quick and visible at her throat.

Lemierre set his glass down with the exactness of a man who had reached the end of his tolerance. “Baron,” he said. “Would you, now, humor me? A friendly duel outside. It seems rather warm in here.” The temperature was perfect.

Gavriel let Pietre’s indolent smile bend toward mischief. With Oorlon gone, courtesy no longer bound them to remain. At last, he would learn what price had been set for his freedom.

“I would be happy to oblige, Your Grace,” Gavriel replied.

The duke nodded to his captain, and they rose with the calm of two men bored of the stew.

Gavriel led him to the training yard, the only part of Selenar Castle that did not emanate dread. Honest in its simplicity, it was a few rings of frozen sand, practice weapons racked along fences, and a scattering of plain storage huts. He knew it like the back of his hand.

He tossed a blade. The duke caught it, testing the steel with a brief turn of the wrist.

Gavriel selected his own, then observed Lemierre closely. This was no staged contest. Not truly. It was an opportunity to learn about the man who now held his fate.

“I won’t kill you before our emperor gives his answer about my return,” Gavriel said lightly, letting the jest keep the moment from turning brittle.

Lemierre’s mouth tilted. “I may be out of practice,” he replied, rolling his wrist again.

“We’ll know in a moment, Your Grace.”

They began to circle, boots grinding frost into the sand. The opening exchanges were light: a probing cut from the duke, an easy parry from Gavriel. But the ring of steel was too clean, too exact, to be mistaken for amateur play.

Lemierre fought patiently, in the rare way that understood waiting itself to be a weapon. His guard stayed close, steps concise, eyes steady on their mark. Each strike carried intent. For a few heartbeats, there were no lords, no mad fae kings, no watching eyes. There was only another man’s will through steel, and Gavriel’s answering it.

“You have certainly trained,” Gavriel said, enjoying himself. Lemierre was good. Not Njall’s equal, nor his own. But far better than he’d expected from a lord of the Empire.

They closed, blades locked. Their faces drew near, breath mingling between them.

“I am a third son,” the duke replied. Then, almost fondly, “and it helped that my father put a sword in every one of our hands the moment we could walk.”

They broke. Gavriel feinted high, then let the cut drop into a low sweep. Lemierre cleared it cleanly and pressed forward, nearly catching him on the recovery. Gavriel laughed, surprised. Again and again, steel met and fell away.

The duke’s guard opened as he bent to intercept a thrust. Gavriel slid inside the line, palm to the back of Lemierre’s hand, twisting his wrist just enough. The blade faltered. He claimed the angle and laid the sword against the column of the duke’s throat.

They stood very still.

Lemierre collapsed onto the frosted sand, yielding the way a man, drained of every last reserve, accepts defeat when it arrives. He lay on his back, chest heaving, dark hair plastered to his brow. “I’m sorry,” he said, breath rough with exertion and something like remorse.

Gavriel’s heart sank. He already knew what the next words would be.

“I meant to negotiate,” the duke continued. “But Oorlon’s demand is too great.” After catching his breath, “I will discuss it with the emperor. But I can’t promise—”

Gavriel loosened his shoulders, drew his blade away, and extended his hand. “I never expected otherwise,” he said plainly. Hope aside, it wasn’t a lie. “Thank you for not withholding the truth.”

The duke clasped his forearm and let Gavriel haul him upright. They stood like that a while, arms locked, sharing the unspoken recognition of one capable man by another.