Lord Tristan’s fist tightened, a pale knot of bone, poised to strike. But before the crude display could fully form, Sir Gareth’s hand, swift as a viper, landed a sharp, almost silent slap against Tristan’s thigh. The coiled tension dissolved into a pathetic flinch.
So quickly, Tristan’s feigned bravado crumbled. It was a common sight, this dance of dominance, a crude exhibition played out even in the hallowed antechambers of the Grand Ducal palace.
Tristan let out a strangled gasp, a sound less human than a plucked fowl. Lords Cassian and Kaelan, who had been spectating with ill-concealed amusement, erupted in laughter. Tristan, predictably, wheeled on them. His face, usually a mask of haughty indifference, contorted into a petulant sneer. “Amusement, is it? You find this amusing?” He jabbed Kaelan’s arm, a childish retort.
A minor commotion, quickly quelled. The three young lords sauntered out, their departing footsteps echoing faintly on the polished marble floors. Before disappearing through the arched doorway, Lord Kaelan turned, offering a lazy wave. I returned it, a polite, practiced gesture, devoid of genuine warmth.
Settling into my cushioned alcove, I pulled a heavy, leather-bound treatise closer. My fingers wrapped around a fine, silver-tipped quill. Before dipping it into the inkpot, my gaze lifted, sweeping across the ornate, frescoed walls of the private study chamber.
Then, my head lowered to the vellum. I was nearing the third elucidation, my quill tapping absently against the page, when I glanced up again.
Beyond the arched window, the ancient Veridian oaks were just beginning to surrender their emerald leaves to the crisp breath of autumn. Their sharp, earthy scent, usually a balm, seemed to carry a strange melancholia today. The sky, in stark contrast, was a breathtaking, vivid cerulean.
“A convent school would be a far less taxing charge,” the old Court Tutor, Maester Valerius, had often lamented, his voice raspy with years of instruction. “This place is a veritable serpent pit. A pit. Young men, barely past their childhoods, clawing for position, for favor. By Highsummer, the pecking order solidifies, but until then? It is all feigned deference, thinly veiled challenges, ceaseless vying for the Grand Duke’s eye. My head aches from it. And the cycle begins anew with each season’s fresh batch of aspirants. Let us see... by which Star Sign were they born?”
He would unfurl his palm, counting the knuckles one by one, a familiar, weary ritual. “The Gryphon, the Serpent, the Falcon, the Stag... Ah, yes, that means—.”
I found myself mimicking his motion, stretching out my hand, counting the joints on my fingers. But the pattern remained elusive, a secret calculus of the court I hadn’t mastered. I flipped my hand, counting the raised bones on the back instead.
First Quadrant: thirty-first day, second; twenty-eighth day, third; thirty-first day, fourth; thirtieth day, fifth; thirty-first day, sixth; thirtieth day, seventh; thirty-first day, eighth; thirty-first day... ninth.
I never would have foreseen, back in the verdant days of Highsummer, that the chill of late Autumn would feel so much like the tumultuous Spring again.
“Young lords are nothing but untamed beasts. Irrational, emotional, impulsive, utterly oblivious.”
I stared at the knobby bone of my middle finger, tapping the desk like a harpsichord key. The Tutor’s faint voice, likely hoarse from a persistent cough, droned from the adjoining chamber, punctuated by the faint scratch of chalk against a slate.
My gaze drifted to an empty seat near the front of the study circle.
For a flicker, I imagined an impression on the dark wood – one side pressed deep, the other hovering, as if a head had rested there, lost in thought, or perhaps in slumber.
My fingers stilled.
I turned my head. Sir Gareth sat hunched over his own lexicon, his face half-buried in the pages. His eyes were narrowed, half-closed. He would fix his gaze on a complex cipher, as if prepared to devour its meaning, only to suddenly slump forward again, pressing his brow against the ancient parchment. I watched, a quiet observer, as his nose flattened between the thick pages and his forehead.
Then, I turned away.
“...Did I allow myself a moment of repose?”
My mind felt oddly disconnected. I marked the third elucidation with a neat star, moving to the fourth.
---
Midday repast was served: a rich venison stew and a small compote of spiced pears. Sir Gareth finished his compote first, then abruptly turned to me.
“Lord Thorne, you are second in our cohort, are you not?”
“Indeed. That is correct.”
“And across all the palace’s younger scholars?”
“Also second, Sir Gareth.”
“By the Grand Duke’s grace.”
“Pardon?”
“Then the foremost scholar in our cohort, Lady Lyra, is also the foremost in all of Veridian?”
“You were not aware? I have always remained second only to Lady Lyra.”
“She commands an even more rigorous schedule than yourself, I hear?”
“Her private tutelage often extends until the first watch of the morning.”
“By the Mother. That is relentless.”
“Her dedication is profound.”
I had no inclination to prolong the discussion. I scooped a spoonful of stew, carefully bringing it to my lips. Fortunately, Sir Gareth did not press the matter. He merely nodded, a slight, almost imperceptible tilt of his head.
“Ah—.” The silence stretched, a delicate, awkward tension. The cessation of conversation felt too abrupt.
I hesitated, weighing my options. I abhorred such uncomfortable voids, so, without conscious thought, I blurted, “And yourself, Sir Gareth? What is your standing?”
His silver eating utensils stilled, suspended mid-air above his bowl. I found my gaze fixed on his hand. He held his implements with a precise, almost elegant grace. If there was one thing Sir Gareth performed with unquestionable decorum, it was this – the proper manipulation of one’s eating tools.
“Within the cohort...”
“Yes?”
“Ninth.”
“...Ninth?”
“Why do you regard me thus?”
I quickly averted my eyes from his hands. Could he be serious? Not dissembling? I was so taken aback that the question almost escaped my lips, but I swallowed it back, the words catching in my throat like thorns. Confound it. That was a near misstep. To inadvertently cause offense would invite his unpredictable temper.
I paused, deliberating. Would he prefer a polite compliment? Or would indifference, a carefully cultivated air of expectation, serve better? My mind, a finely tuned instrument of courtly survival, swiftly calculated the optimal social response. He did not seem overly fond of his current companions, judging by his earlier demeanor.
The latter option, then, felt safer. “Ah. You stand higher than I might have surmised.”
“What? Surmised? How lacking in wit did you deem me?”
“I did not deem you lacking, Sir Gareth. It was merely... I believed you struggled with the Old Tongue?”
“The Old Tongue is my sole weakness. Only that.”
“And you do not attend the private academies.”
“My absence from such institutions does not preclude diligent study. By the Saints, did you truly imagine me an imbecile?”
“No, no, not at all.” I waved a dismissive hand. “It is impressive, however, given your self-directed efforts.”
“...Truly?”
“Indeed. Commendable.”
For some inexplicable reason, Sir Gareth began to mash his spoon into his stew. And – was that a faint blush? I caught a fleeting glimpse of the tips of his ears, tinged a subtle crimson.
Now that I considered it, Baronet Alaric had ranked thirty-second. And that was only due to the presence of others who fared even worse. Thirty-second out of thirty-six. Reflecting now, I realized my attention had rarely strayed beyond the most superficial aspects of Baronet Alaric, those directly impacting me.
With that sudden insight, a chilling realization struck. I had been drowning in the very sort of pathetic, obsessive infatuation I once scorned. Meanwhile, Sir Gareth, utterly oblivious to my internal turmoil, had clearly received a potent surge of confidence. His tone, now, was entirely altered – brimming with self-satisfaction.
“Oh, you likely were not aware, Lord Thorne – my command of the Veridian Tongue is exceptional.”
“Indeed? How exceptional?”
“A perfect score. I have never yielded a single mark in the Veridian Tongue.”
“*Hk!*” I choked, a sudden spasm seizing my throat. The instant he uttered the words, a mouthful of the herbal cordial I had been sipping sprayed from my lips. Sir Gareth scowled, abruptly yanking his tray further from my reach.
“By the Twelve! What sort of reaction is that?”
“I merely... did not anticipate that.”
“Is it truly so astonishing?” He frowned, a slight pout to his lips. “Yes. My Old Tongue scores are wretched, but that is inconsequential.”
There was an odd undercurrent of self-deprecation in his voice. So, I offered a jest in return. “Perhaps a more diligent engagement with classical texts might serve you.”
“What nonsense do you utter? I am a profound devotee of the literary arts.”
“A devotee? I have never observed you with a tome.”
“That is because I indulge my passion in secret, within my chambers.”
“And why, pray tell, the need for such secrecy?”
Sir Gareth’s eyes, which had curved in amusement, drooped slightly as he scooped a spoonful of stew to his lips. Then, he casually pressed his lips over the spoon’s edge. Something about that image, so deliberately casual, unsettled me. I bit the inside of my cheek.
Sir Gareth met my gaze as he drew the spoon away, then lowered his eyes and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to its tip. “Even the most private verses are literature.”
That was undeniably a jest. A crude jape. My face burned. To conceal my sudden flush, I snatched a crumpled serviette from beside my tray, flicking it at his face. It struck just below his long, narrow eyes, falling harmlessly onto the polished table. One of his eyes twitched, a subtle ripple of annoyance.
Not that I cared for his displeasure, but just in case he harbored true indignation, I feigned contrition. “Pray desist from such vulgarities. Particularly within these esteemed halls. It is... distasteful.”
“Oh? This? Do you mean Baronet Alaric’s particular affectation?”
“I care not whose affectation it is. Simply cease.”
“Is this not, I wonder, a popular sentiment amongst our generation now?”
I merely stared at him, attempting to decipher the sincerity behind his words.
---
I was sleeping less these days. That was a clear indicator that my spirit, if not my body, had found a precarious peace. Mornings, which had once felt leaden and sluggish, now arrived with a strange crispness, a refreshing clarity. It was a welcome shift – in my estimation, the gravest sins at eighteen were complacency and the indulgence of excessive slumber.
“Ah, blast—.” My jaw clicked with a painful grating as I polished my teeth. Ever since Baronet Alaric had struck me, my jaw emitted an odd grinding sound whenever I opened my mouth too wide. Aside from that, this day held a promise of quietude.
Yet, even within my newfound tranquility, sudden pangs of irritation persisted. The cause was invariably Baronet Alaric. Or rather, the ripples of discord that emanated from him. Most of those incidents took root within these very palace walls.
“Oh, yes. I chanced upon Baronet Alaric last night.” Lord Rhys spoke, biting into a dense, coarse loaf of bread filled with cured meat – the sort of unrefined fare favored by the lesser guardsmen.
Lord Tristan, who had been playfully thumping Rhys’s ankle and making mock dagger-hand strikes, suddenly perked up. “Holy Saints! You remind me! I was on the verge of mentioning this. I overheard whispers through the kitchen staff – you know Maester Solon, do you not? That wandering scholar of... unique proclivities? I heard Baronet Alaric is lodging at his residence.”
“Maester Solon? That indolent Parken Solon?” Sir Gareth, rummaging through a small velvet pouch, asked casually. When he withdrew his hand, he held two small, gilded sweetmeats. For some reason, he offered one to me.
I stared at it, a flicker of confusion. “...What is this?” I met his gaze, but Gareth merely offered a slight nod, as if that was explanation enough. The one who reacted most vehemently was Tristan, whose pouch of delicacies had evidently been raided.
“By the bloody Mother. I procured those! Why in the Seven Hells are you all consuming my provisions, you scoundrels?”
“Oh, as if you have never purloined my own, you pig.” Lord Rhys made another mock dagger-hand strike, this time towards Tristan’s throat. Tristan instantly spun, seizing Rhys’s doublet, and swung a feigned punch towards his face. Of course, he harbored no true intention of connecting. That was simply their manner.
I disregarded their puerile squabble, looking down at the sweetmeat in my hand. Its gilded wrapper bore the crest of a split lemon, artfully rendered. I peeled the delicate paper, popped the candied morsel into my mouth, and lifted my head.
“What do you think, Lord Thorne? The taste of first ardor?” Sir Gareth grinned.
“I find no particular affinity for lemon.” My response was not merely for the confection, but a veiled evaluation of his crude jest. More than anything, I found no amusement in the notion of ‘first ardor.’ That cloying, slightly bitter sensation clung to the back of my throat, spoiling my appetite. In the end, I could not even finish the sweetmeat. I tossed it discreetly into a nearby waste bin.
“Oh, what a lamentable waste,” Gareth mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands. Ignoring him, I reached into Tristan’s pouch, seeking a different sweetmeat. They were all variations of lemon or lime. Lime, at least, was the lesser of the two evils. I unwrapped one and placed it on my tongue.
“At any rate, Maester Solon, you say? It aligns perfectly with Baronet Alaric’s character.”
“What, because they are both... unfastened?” Sir Gareth’s words were sharp, cutting through the courtly decorum. Uncomfortable, I turned my head to observe him. He sucked on his sweetmeat with an expressionless mien, twirling the tiny gilded stick between his lips. I pulled mine from my mouth.
Something about this felt... wrong. Sir Gareth seemed utterly unconcerned. He tilted his sweetmeat in the air like a miniature rapier, making random jabbing motions. “He dallies with patrons – be they lords or ladies, it matters not. And when he discovers someone of suitable... pliancy, he directs them straight to Alaric. It is a rotation of shared favors. An exchange of bodies, passing them amongst their circle.”
“So Maester Solon is also... of that persuasion?” Lord Tristan suddenly interjected. Whether he had concluded his playful scuffle with Rhys, or merely halted mid-feint to eavesdrop, I could not discern. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if genuinely processing the revelation.