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“You can’t marry her,” he sneered. “She’s your sister. There’s no law in the world that recognizes unions like yours.”
Maksim rose, and I could see the anger, not only on his face but in the angle of his shoulders, the way he held his blade.
“She is not my sister,” he said. “From the moment of her birth, she was betrothed to me. I have proof.”
Now the crowd exploded in shouts and confusion. I stared at Maria in complete bewilderment. “What proof?”
She searched my face. “Did you know about the betrothal?”
I nodded slowly. “He told me last night. Something to do with our fathers fighting together. But what proof can there be of an agreement between comrades in arms?”
My stepfather’s herald quieted the crowd, and my stepfather rose from his seat. The hush of the crowd was total and instant. There wasn’t a sound except the wind in the trees.
The king cleared his throat. “If you have proof, then show it.”
“Here,” said Maksim, holding out the vellum scroll. “Let the herald read it.”
“No, I think…” The king fell silent as the crowd began to murmur. “Very well,” he said, “read it.”
The herald took the scroll, studying the seal carefully. “This is the seal of king Robert,” he announced. “Prince Maksim’s father. Your brother…”
He fell silent as he raised his eyes to my stepfather.
“No doubt, you say?”
“My king, it is my job to know these things. This is your predecessor’s seal.”
“It could have been forged,” the king said, his voice sounding slightly desperate. What was in that scroll? “You cannot say that it is not.”
“I can and I do, your highness. There are details here… The age of the weathering, the marks that are beneath the wax. There can be little doubt…”
“Little doubt,” the king repeated, but the crowd was having none of it.
Cries of read the scroll, tell us what it says, get on with it rang through the stands. Even Prince Galen’s people were starting to get restless, sensing that there was some sort of skulduggery afoot.
The king fell silent, sitting back down as the seal was broken and the scroll unrolled.
And then a hush fell as the herald began to speak.
“It is a contract. A formally binding agreement. Between the king—King Robert, that is—and a knight named Michael McNeal. I hereby declare…” The herald continued, reading the legal terms, but I was already stunned. Michael McNeal. My father. I glanced across at my mother to see her eyes wide. If she knew about this, she was a better actress than I ever suspected. “…my first born son, Maksim, upon the agreement of both parties, to be wed. No other may come between this agreement, except by the permission of one or both.”
If I was confused by this news, the King was absolutely dumbstruck. Though he was a number of yards away from me, I had spent many years studying his face and movements. Never, in all that time, had I seen him so utterly stunned, his mouth moving silently as he searched for words.
Finally, he managed to speak. “I was unaware of this.” He turned to my mother. “My dear, I didn’t know.”
She scowled at him, but Prince Galen stepped forward.
“I don’t give two shits about any of this,” he said, with a cross-body practice slash of his sword. “You’re still going to have to fight me. She was promised to me. And I am damned well going to get what I am owed.” He spun on his heel, took two steps into the circle and showed off a terrifyingly well-practiced killing thrust.
“In point of fact, I don’t have to fight you,” Maksim said, turning away from his uncle. “That agreement supersedes yours. However, it will be my absolute pleasure to cut you down like a fucking dog.”
Galen roared as he slashed with his sword, but Maksim stepped deftly away, grinning as if this was all just some big game.
Watching the duel was unbearable. I tried to keep my eyes open, just so that Maksim knew I was with him for every step and parry, but time after time when Galen looked to be on the verge of delivering the final blow, my eyes clamped shut instinctively.
In those dark moments, I listened for Maksim’s last breath, his last powerful roar, but again and again, I heard only the sound of his feet on the footing, and a surprised gasp from the crowd. Maria’s grip on my hand would loosen and I would peek out from one eye to see that Maksim had cheated death. Yet again.
“This is not our fighting style,” I heard from somewhere in the crowd. “Who taught Maksim to fight like this?”
“It is our fighting style. Or at least it used to be, back in my younger days,” came a reply.
I tried to turn to find the speakers, but it was impossible to tell. I couldn’t help but echo the first speaker’s sentiments: who had taught Maksim to fight like this? I’d seen him fight. It was all brute strength and stubbornness, not deft parries and swift footwork.
