Sherwood Smith - Crown and Court Duet - 01 - Crown Duel

VIP免费

2024-12-20 0 0 309.74KB 124 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

Crown Duel by Sherwood Smith (Book One of the Crown and Court Duet)

PROLOGUE

I HOPE ANY OF MY DESCENDANTS READING THIS KNOW exactly what the Covenant and

the Code of War are, but there is always the chance that my story has been copied by the scribes and

taken to another land that will consider Remalna distant and its customs strange.

The Covenant has to do with wood—and with Fire Sticks.

We share the land with the Hill Folk. They were here before our people came. One legend has it they

were once trees, given human form by some powerful sorcerer. They certainly look more like trees than

they do like people. Other stories insist they came through one of the fabled World Gates and settled

here because of our trees.

For the trees in our country are unique. We have the common kinds, of course. But high in our mountains

we also have the remarkable colortrees: huge, long-lived goldwoods and bluewoods and greenwoods

and redwoods, so named because the grains of these trees run rich with gleaming colors.

For centuries Remalna made itself wealthy by cutting them down and selling them to other lands. But our

greed nearly caused disaster. The Hill Folk, who were being driven from their homes among the trees,

readied themselves to fight. Not in war, because they don't use weapons. Remalna faced a magical fight

that we had no hope of winning. Peace was made only when our people promised that trees would never

again be cut down. Wood would be gathered only if it fell. In return, each autumn the Hill Folk would

give us Fire Sticks, which would burn by magic until well into the next summer.

Rich or poor, every family within the borders of Remalna—from the King to the poorest street

sweeper—gets Fire Sticks. In proportion not to their riches but to their number. And anyone who tries to

take Fire Sticks, or to sell them, somehow receives fewer the next year.

The Fire Sticks are given out by magicians from a distant council, who then disappear. There is a simple

spell we say to start the fire, and to stop it—Words of Power, we call it, though the spell can't actually

do anything else.

Since the days the Covenant was made, no more colortrees have been chopped down. What wood we

use is gathered from windfall, and it is used carefully. Our old wooden furniture is treasured.

And so we've existed peacefully beside the Hill Folk for many hundred years.

Unfortunately, neighboring countries have not let us exist in peace.

For centuries we fought battles hand-to-hand. Several generations ago someone brought to our continent

bows and arrows, which can kill from a distance. These changed the character of battle so much that a

Code of War was agreed on by most of the countries on our continent. The only weapons permitted

would be those held or thrown by hand.

When my story began, these rules had kept us relatively prosperous and in relative peace. I say "relative"

because real peace and real prosperity are not possible when you are ruled by a bad king who thinks he

is above all the laws.

ONE

THE BROKEN SHUTTER IN THE WINDOW CREAKED A warning. I flung myself across the table,

covering as best I could my neat piles of papers, as a draft of cold wind scoured into the room. Dead

leaves whispered on the stone floor, and the corners of my moat of papers rustled. Something crashed to

the floor behind me. I turned my head. It was the soup bowl I'd set that morning on an old, warped

three-legged stool and promptly forgotten.

The rotted blue hanging in the doorway billowed, then rippled into quiescence. The whispers and rattles

in the room stilled, and I sat up with care and looked at the bowl. Could it be mended? I knew Julen

would be angry with me. Julen was the blacksmith's sister, and the mother of my friend Oria. After my

mother died she looked after me, and she had of late taken over cooking for us. Crockery was hard to

come by these days.

I reached for the pieces, my blanket ripped—and cold leaked up my arm.

I sat back on my cushion, staring down in dismay at the huge tear at my elbow. I did not look forward to

the darning task ahead—but I knew that Julen would give me one of those looks she was so good at and

calmly say that practicing my darning would teach me patience.

"Mel?"

The voice was Bran's. He tapped outside the door, then lifted the hanging. "Meliara, it's time to go see

Papa."

Ordinarily Branaric never called me Meliara, but I was too distracted to notice right then.

"Bran!" I leaped to my feet. "I did it—just finished! Look!" I pulled him into the room, which had once

been a kind of parlor for the servants, back when the castle had had plenty of servants. Pointing proudly

at the table, I said, "I know how to cheer Papa, Bran. I've found us a way to pay this year's taxes! It's

taken me two days, but I really believe I have it. It'll buy us another year—you know we need another

year. Look," I babbled, stooping down to tap each pile of papers. "Every village, every town in Tlanth,

and what it has, what it owes, and what it needs. Not counting the gold we set aside for our Denlieff

mercenaries—"

"Mel."

I looked up, my mouth still moving; but when I saw the stricken look in Bran's dark blue eyes, all the

plans fled from my mind as if that cold wind had swept them into the shadowy corners with the dead

leaves.

Branaric looked back at me, his face suddenly unfamiliar. My brother always smiled—with his mouth, his

eyes, even the little quirk in his straight brows. Julen once said that he'd been born smiling, and he'd

probably die the same. But there was no smile on his wide mouth now.

"Papa?" I asked, my throat suddenly hurting.

He nodded just once. "Wants us both. We'd better be quick." I batted aside the door hanging and ran

out. My bare feet slapped the cold stone flooring, and I shivered and yanked my blanket closer. I felt the

old wool give and the hole at my elbow widened as I dashed past the warmth of the kitchen and up the

tower stairs. Bran was just behind me. Neither of us spoke as we toiled round and round, up to the little

room at the top of the tallest tower of our castle. The cold was bitter, promising a fierce winter. As I ran I

pulled my blanket tighter, tucking the ends through the rope I used as a sash.

The fourth round brought us to Papa's room. To my surprise he was completely alone—the villagers who

had taken turns sitting with him had been sent away—and the windows were wide open. Despite two of

our three precious Fire Sticks burning brightly in the fireplace and on a makeshift brazier near the bed,

the room was shockingly cold.

"Papa—" I cried, flinging myself down by the high, narrow bed. "It's not good for you to be so cold when

you're sick—"

"Leave it, child." His voice was just a whisper. "I want to die hearing the windharps. Already the Hill Folk

mourn me ..."

I heard it then, a faint, steady humming on the wintry breeze, carried down from the distant mountain

peaks. The sound was eerie but strangely calming, and I turned away from the window, the cold air

forgotten.

"Papa—" That was Bran.

Our father's gray beard stirred as he turned his head. He gave Bran a weak, tired smile, no more than a

twitching of the lips, and it wrenched at my heart. "Be not sad, my boy. Be pleased," Papa said slowly.

"The Hill Folk honor me. All my life I have kept the Covenant, and I shall die keeping it. They know it,

and they send their music to guide my spirit from the mortal realm."

I took his hand, which felt cold and dry. Pressing it against my cheek, I said, "But Papa, you are not to

worry about Greedy Galdran's tax demand. I've found a way to pay it—I just finished!"

The gnarled fingers briefly gripped my hand. "It's no longer time for taxes, child. It's time to go to war.

Galdran's demand was not meant to be fulfilled. It was an excuse. His cousin wants our lands."

"But we're not ready," I protested numbly. "Just one more year—" I heard the scrape of a shoe behind

me, and Bran touched my shoulder.

Papa smiled wearily. "Meliara. Branaric and Khesot know the time is come, but that is what they are

trained for. Indeed, daughter, they are ready because of the help you have given them this past year."

I fell silent, and he looked from me to my brother and then back, and then spoke slowly and with

increasing difficulty.

"Remember, my children ... although your mother chose to adopt into my family, she was a Calahanras ...

the last of the very finest royal house ever to rule Remalna. If she had wanted, she could have raised her

banner, and half the kingdom would have risen, gladly, in her name. You two are half Calahanras. You

have her wit, and her brains. You can take Remalna, and you will be better rulers than any Merindar ever

was."

I stared at my father, not knowing what to say. To think. It was the first time he had mentioned our

mother since that horrible day, nearly ten years ago, when the news had come that she had died so

suddenly and mysteriously while on a journey to the capital, Remalna-city.

"Promise me," he said, struggling up on one elbow. His breath wheezed in and out, and his skin was

blotchy with the effort, but his voice was strong. "Promise me!... You will... fight Galdran ... protect

Tlanth... and the Covenant..." He fell back, fought for breath.

"Papa," I quavered.

Beside me, Bran reached for the frail old hand. "Papa, please. Rest. Be easy—"

"Promise!" He gripped both our hands, pulling us toward him. "You must... promise me ..."

"I promise," I said quickly.

"And I," Branaric said. "Now, Papa, you must try to rest."

"It's too late for..." His eyes closed, and his fingers loosened from mine, and wandered without purpose

over the bedclothes. "Khesot... You and Khesot, Branaric ... as soon as our hirelings get here from

Denlieff, then you attack. Surprise ... will carry you a long way."

Bran nodded. "Just as you say, Papa."

"And trust Azmus," Papa said, trembling with the effort it took to speak clearly. "He was your mother's

liegeman... If—if he had been with her on that cursed trip, she would be with us now... Listen to him. I

didn't, once, and ..." Grief wracked his face, grief and pain.

"We understand, Papa," Bran said quickly. I couldn't talk—my throat hurt too much.

Our father gave a long sigh of relief and fell back on his pillows. "You're a good boy, Branaric. No, a

man now... a man these four years. And Meliara, almost grown..." He turned his head to look at me.

Horror seized my wits when I saw the sheen of tears in his eyes. "Meliara, so like your mother. I

wronged you, my daughter. Please forgive me for neglecting you..."

Neglect? I thought of the years that Bran had reluctantly gone up to the tower to wrestle with musty old

learning-books while I ran free with Oria and the other village children and, in summers, roamed the high

mountains to dance with the Hill Folk under the full moon. My father had always seemed a distant,

preoccupied man, and after Mother's death he had become even more distant. It was her I'd missed, and

still missed.

Now I sucked in my breath, trying hard not to cry. "But I was happy, Papa," I said. "It wasn't neglect, it

was freedom."

My father smiled. The tears shone in the furrows beside his eyes. "Free..." I don't know if he was

repeating what I said or beginning a new thought; whichever, it was destined to remain unfinished, at least

in this world.

He fell silent, his hands reaching again. This time when we each gripped his fingers, there was no

response, and after a moment his breath slowed, then stopped.

Branaric stood helplessly, looking down at the still figure in the bed. Feeling numb—unreal—I took

Papa's thin hands, which were still warm, and laid them gently across his breast. Then I turned to my

brother. "There's nothing we can do now, except gather the villagers..." And prepare the funeral fires. I

couldn't say the words.

Bran's chest heaved in a sob, and he pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. His grief dissolved my

numbness, and I began to weep.

Bran opened his arms and I cast myself into them, and we stood there for a long time, crying together

while the cold wind swirled round us and the distant windharps of the Hill Folk hummed.

It was Bran who pulled away suddenly. He gripped my shoulders. "Mel, we have to keep that promise.

Both of us. But you don't know—" He shook his head and knuckled his eyes. "Together. I know I'm the

oldest, and Papa named me the heir, but I promise right now, we'll share the title. Half and half, you and

me, even if we disagree—which I hope won't happen. All we have now is this old castle, and the

county's people to protect—and each other."

"I don't want to be a countess," I said, sniffling. "Look at me! Wearing a horse blanket and running about

with bare feet! I don't know the first thing about being a countess."

"You're not going to Court," Bran said. "You're going to war. And about that"—he winced—"about that,

I think you know just about as much as I do."

"What do you mean?"

Bran looked quickly at Papa's body and then said, "I know it's stupid, but I don't feel right about telling

you these things up here. Let's stop the fires and go downstairs."

Each of us moved to one of the blazes and said the Words of Power over a Fire Stick. The fires

flickered out with a snap. I picked up my Stick, which was still warm; I wrapped my chilled fingers

around it and waited as Bran slowly, with a last glance at the still figure on the bed, picked his up.

"Have you been keeping secrets from Papa?" I asked, full of foreboding, as we started down the long

spiral.

"Had to." Bran took a deep, unsteady breath. "He aged ten years when Mama was killed, and every year

since, he's seemed to add another ten. Until this year. Of late each day seems to have added ten."

"Better tell me, then," I said.

"There's no way to make this easy," Bran warned as we reached the ground floor again. "First you should

know why Papa wanted us to go on the attack right away: Azmus has proof that the King, and his

cousin, plan to break the Covenant. It's a letter that Debegri wrote. It's full of fancy language, but what it

means is he's offering our colorwoods for sale outside our kingdom. For gold."

I sucked in a deep breath. "What about the Hill Folk? The woods are theirs! It's been that way for

centuries!"

Branaric shook his head slowly. "Not if Debegri gets his way—and Azmus knows the King is behind this

scheme, because it was his messengers who were sent to carry the letter."

"But we haven't heard from those warrior captains we hired—"

"Now it's time for you to hear the secret I kept from Papa." Bran looked grim. "Those mercenaries from

Denlieff took our money and vanished."

I stopped and faced him. "What? Do we know that for certain? Could they have been delayed—or

ambushed—by Galdran?"

Bran shrugged. "I don't know. The only reliable informant we could send to find out would be Azmus."

"But isn't he still in the capital with Papa's letter to the King?"

Branaric nodded. "Awaiting the signal to deliver it and disperse copies through all the Court, just as Papa

ordered. But as to the mercenaries from Denlieff, both our messengers have come back and said the

commander isn't to be found. No one's even heard of him or his troop." Bran added sourly, "I thought all

along this was as risky as trusting skunks not to smell."

I nodded as we stopped by the empty kitchen and laid the Fire Sticks on the great table. "But Papa was

so certain they'd believe in our cause."

"Mercenaries don't have causes—or they wouldn't be swords for hire," Bran said. "We really need

someone trained to captain our people and teach us the latest fighting techniques."

"We can't hire anyone else; we haven't the gold," I said. "I just spent two days trying to work around the

sums we had to send for the taxes."

Bran raised his hands. "Then we are on our own, sister." I groaned as we walked the last few steps to the

old stewards' parlor, and I swatted aside the hanging. Then I stopped again and groaned louder. I'd

forgotten the broken window. All my careful piles of paper were strewn around the room like so much

snow.

Bran looked around and scratched his head. "I sure hope you wrote down your figures," he said with a

rueful smile.

"Of course I didn't," I muttered.

He slewed around and stared at me. "You didn't?"

"No. I hate writing. It's slow, and my letters are still ill formed, and the ink blobs up, and my fingers get

stiff in the cold. I simply separated all the villages' lists of resources and figured out who could give a bit

more. Those papers went in one pile. The villages that are overreached went in another pile. I made

mental trades in my mind until I managed to match the totals demanded by Galdran. Then I was going to

find Oria and tell it all to her so she could write it down." I shrugged.

Though I'd only learned to read and write the year before, it was I who kept track of our careful hoard of

supplies, and the taxes, and the plans—and now all my work was scattered over the stone floor of the

room.

We both stared until the plop-plop of raindrops coming through the broken window and landing on the

papers forced us into action.

Working together, we soon got all the papers picked up. Bran silently gave me his stack, and I pressed

them all tightly against me. "I still have the totals in my head," I assured him. "I'll find Oria and get her to

write it out, and we can see where we are. We'll be all right, Bran. We will." I wanted desperately to see

that stricken look leave his eyes—or I would begin crying all over again.

Bran lifted his gaze from the mess of rain-spattered papers in my arms and smiled crookedly. "A horse

blanket, Mel?"

I remembered what I was wearing. "It tore in half when Hrani tried washing it. She was going to mend it.

This piece was too small for a horse, but it was just right for me."

Bran laughed a little unsteadily. "Mel. A horse blanket."

"Well, it's clean," I said defensively. "Was—at least, it doesn't smell of horse."

Bran sank down onto the three-legged stool, still laughing; but it was a strange, wheezy sort of laugh. "A

countess wearing a horse blanket and a count who hates fighting, leading a war against a wicked king

who has the largest army the kingdom has ever known. What's to become of us, Mel?"

I knelt down—carefully, because of the broken crockery—set my papers aside, and took his hands.

"One thing I've learned about doing the figures: You don't look at the problem all at once, or it's like

being caught in a spring flood under a downpour. You tackle the problem in pieces ... We'll send our

letter to the King. Maybe Galdran will actually listen, and abide by the Covenant, and ease taxes, so we

don't have to go to war. But if he doesn't, some of those courtiers ought to agree with us—they can't all

be Galdran's toadies—which means we'll surely get allies. Then we'll gather the last of our supplies. And

then ..."

"And then?" Bran repeated, his hands on his knees, his dark blue eyes even darker with the intensity of

his emotions.

"And then..." I faltered, feeling overwhelmed with my own emotions. I took a deep breath, reminding

myself of my own advice. Pieces. Break it all into small pieces. "And then, if Galdran attacks us, we'll

fight back. Like I said, maybe we'll have help. The courtiers will see it in Papa's letter to the King: We

are not doing this for ourselves. We're doing it to protect the Hill Folk, for if Papa is right, and Galdran's

cousin wants to break the Covenant and start chopping down the great trees again, then the Hill Folk will

have nowhere to live. And we're doing it for our people—though not just them. For all the people in the

kingdom who've had to pay those harsh taxes in order to build Galdran that big army."

Branaric got to his feet. "You're right. In pieces. I'll remember that... Let's get through today first. We

have to tell everyone in the village about Papa, and send messengers throughout Tlanth, and get ready for

the funeral fire."

My first impulse was to run and hide, for I did not look forward to facing all that pity. But it had to be

done—and we had to do it together.

And afterward, when the village was quiet and lights went out, I could slip out of the castle and run up the

mountainside to where I could hear the reed flutes mourning.

The Hill Folk would emerge, looking a little like walking trees in the moons' light, and wordlessly,

accompanied by their strange music—which was a kind of magic in itself—we would dance slowly,

sharing memory, and grief, and promise.

TWO

IT WAS EXACTLY A MONTH LATER THAT JULEN, ORIA, Hrani the weaver, and I gathered in

the kitchen—the only warm room in the castle—and studied Bran from all angles.

He flushed with embarrassment but turned around willingly enough while we judged the fit of the tunic

Hrani had remade for him. The old green velvet, left from Papa's wardrobe, nicely set off Bran's tall,

rangy build. His face was long and sharp boned, like Father's had been.

The only features Bran and I shared were wide-spaced dark blue eyes and wavy red-brown hair—both

inherited from our mother. The green of the tunic was just right for his coloring.

"This tunic might not be the fashion—" Julen began.

"Of course it's not the fashion," Oria cut in, her dark eyes full of scorn for the vagaries of courtiers.

"When from all accounts their fashions change from week to week—maybe day to day."

"This tunic might not be the fashion," her mother repeated as if Oria had not spoken, "but it looks good.

And wear your hair tied back, not loose or braided. Better stay with the simple styles than look foolish in

what might be old styles."

Bran shrugged. He had as little interest in clothing as I did. "As long as they don't take one look and laugh

me back into the snow, I'm content." He turned to me and sighed. "But I can't help wishing you were

going. You've a much quicker mind than I have." Quick to laugh, quick to act—and much too quick

to judge. How many times had I heard that warning? I stole a look at Julen, who pursed her lips but said

nothing.

I shook my head. "No, no, you got all the charm in this family—along with the imposing height. All I got

was the temper. This is a mission to win allies, not enemies, and if they laughed me back into the snow,

you know I'd go right back at them, sword in hand, and try to make them listen!"

Bran and Oria laughed, and even Julen smiled. I crossed my arms. "You know it's true."

"Of course," Bran agreed. "That's why it's funny. I can just see you taking on a palace full of sniffy

courtiers twice your size, as if they were a pack of unruly pups—"

"Here, my lord, try the blue one now," Julen said. Despite the title—which she had insisted on using since

Father's death—her tone was very much like the one she reserved for little Calaub and his urchin friends.

"And that's enough nonsense. You'll do well if you go down to those barons and talk like you mean it.

And you, my lady," she rounded on me, "if you wish to be helpful, you can see if Selfan has finished

resoling the blackweave boots." I got up, knowing a dismissal when I heard one. Oria started after me

but paused at the door, looking back, a considering expression on her pretty face. I looked as well, but I

saw only Bran unlacing his tunic as he talked to Julen about those boots.

Oria gave a tiny shrug and pushed me out the door.

"Something wrong?" I asked.

Her dark eyes gleamed with humor now. "Mama is very cross, isn't she? I don't think she wants your

brother going to the lowlands."

It was not quite an answer, but during the last couple of years I'd gotten used to Oria's occasional

mysterious evasions. "Can't be helped. Azmus wrote out copies of our letter to the King and gave them

to prominent courtiers, but not one response have we received. It's time to get some allies with

face-to-face meetings, or we're finished before we even start."

She pursed her lips, the humor gone. "I made him up some good things to eat," she said. "Let me fetch

the pack."

Not too much later we all stood in the castle courtyard as Branaric finished tying his travel gear onto the

saddle of his horse. Then he mounted, gave us a quick salute, and soon was gone from sight.

He didn't like saying farewells any more than I did. I retreated back into the castle, and for a time

wandered from room to empty room as cold drafts of wintry wind chilled my face. Inevitably my path

brought me to the library, empty these ten years. Black scorch marks still stained the walls and ceiling,

potent reminders of the terrible night we found out about my mother's death. Crying in rage, my father

had stamped into this room, where generations of Astiars had stored their gathered knowledge, and

deliberately—one book at a time—set it all ablaze. The only books that had escaped were a half dozen

dull tomes in the schoolroom.

After, Father had retreated to his tower, and never again referred to that night. But his determination to

see Galdran toppled from the throne had altered from desire to obsession.

I paced the perimeter of the room, looking at the grimy ash-blackened stones, my mood dark.

Oria's voice broke my reverie: "Amazing, isn't it, how one can live in a mess and never really notice it?

Perhaps we ought to scour these rooms out come spring."

I turned around. Oria stood in the open doorway—the hanging had rotted entirely away a few years

back. "Why? The weather will just blow more leaves in, and we can't afford windows."

"The wind won't blow ten years' worth in at once," Oria said practically.

I looked around, wondering why I resisted the idea. Was this room a kind of monument? Except I knew

my mother would not have liked a burnt, blackened room as a memorial. In her day, the furnishings might

have been old and worn, for taxes even then had been fierce, but each table and cushion and candlestick

had been mended and polished, and the castle had been cozy and clean and full of flowers. And this

room ...

"She loved books," I said slowly. "It was Papa who declared war on them, just as he did on Galdran. I

really don't know why Papa burned this room. Nor do I know how to find out." I reached a decision.

"Maybe we should clean it. Except—what a chore!"

Oria grinned. "A challenge. I've wanted to set this castle to rights for—" She stopped suddenly and

shook her head. "Mama said to bring you down to the smithy. You can sleep in the loft. That way we can

add this Fire Stick to the two we've already put in our supply pack."

I nodded, glad to be relieved of having to sleep alone in the castle. It wasn't the sadness of the past

lingering in shadowy corners that bothered me so much as my own fears about the future.

During the long, snowbound month that followed, I kept busy. The few times I had nothing to do, Julen

assigned me chores. She called herself my maid, and her directions were framed in the form of a question

("Would you care to deliver these mended halters to the garrison, my lady?"), but otherwise she treated

me much as she treated Oria. I found this comforting. I didn't feel so much like an orphan.

We spent a lot of time at the old garrison—a leftover from the days when every noble had some kind of

private army—training in swordfighting with all those who had volunteered to help in the war. Our army

was comprised mostly of young people from villages across Tlanth.

In charge now was Khesot, a man whose seventy years had been devoted to the service of the Counts

and Countesses of Tlanth—our father, and his grandmother before him—except for a five-year stint

fighting for the old King during the long siege when the infamous pirate fleet called the Brotherhood of

Blood had tried to gain access to the coastal cities. It was these five years' service as a soldier that had

gotten him placed in the position he was in now. He'd never risen higher than leader of a riding, but he

knew enough of war to realize his own shortcomings. And he was the best we had.

The huge, drafty building echoed with the clanks and thuds and shouts of mock battle. Khesot walked

slowly up and back, his mild brown eyes narrowed, considering, as he watched us work.

"Get that shield arm up," he said to a tough old stonemason. "Remember you will likely be fighting

mounted warriors, and I very much fear that most of us will be afoot. The mounted fighter has the

advantage; therefore you must unhorse your opponent before you can hope to win ..."

We had spent days affixing shiny metal bits to our shields to reflect sunlight at the horses and cause them

to rear. We had also practiced slicing saddle belts, hooking spears or swords around legs and heaving

warriors out of the saddle. And we learned other methods of unhorsing warriors, such as tying

fine-woven twine between two trees at just the right height so that the riders would be knocked off their

horses.

Khesot turned around, then frowned at two young men who had assumed the old dueling stance and

were slashing away at one another with merry abandon, their swords ringing.

"Charic! Justav! What do you think you are doing?"

The men stopped, Charic looking shamefaced. "Thought we'd refine a little, in case we take on one o'

them aristos—"

"Many of whom are trained in swordplay from the time they begin to walk," Khesot cut in, his manner still

mild; but now both young men had red faces. "By the very best sword masters their wealthy parents can

hire. It would take them precisely as long as it amused them to cut you to ribbons. Do not engage their

officers in a duel, no matter how stupid you might think them. Two of you, moving as I told you, can

knock them off balance ..."

He went on to lecture the two, who listened soberly. Several others gathered around to listen as well.

Oria and I had been working with one another until I stopped to watch. Now Oria lowered her sword

arm and eyed me. "What's wrong?"

I dropped my point, absently massaging my shoulder. "Did I frown? I was—well, thinking of something."

She shrugged, and we went back to practice. But I kept part of my attention on Khesot, and when he

drew near to us, I disengaged and said, "I have a question for you."

Khesot nodded politely, and as we walked to the side of the room, he said, "May I compliment you, my

lady, on your improvement?"

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

CrownDuelbySherwoodSmith(BookOneoftheCrownandCourtDuet)PROLOGUEIHOPEANYOFMYDESCENDANTSREADINGTHISKNOWexactlywhattheCovenantandtheCodeofWarare,butthereisalwaysthechancethatmystoryhasbeencopiedbythescribesandtakentoanotherlandthatwillconsiderRemalnadistantanditscustomsstrange.TheCovenanthastodowithwoo...

展开>> 收起<<

Sherwood Smith - Crown and Court Duet - 01 - Crown Duel.pdf

共124页,预览25页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

Sherwood Smith - Crown and Court Duet - 01 - Crown Duel

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: