TVisTV Book 3: Chapter 22 [RAW]

Chapter 22 - The Challenge

Marriage, in life, is like a duel in the midst of a battle.

- Edmond About.

Seraphina basked in the applause as a butterfly might greet the first rays of dawn, wings spread wide to drink in the warmth. Her name now fluttered from lip to lip, whispered through the halls of the Academy—by both students and faculty alike. Many offered her words of sympathy and understanding for the breaking of her engagement to the Crown Prince. Some, more daring, even whispered censure of Velens himself. Each hushed murmur, each quiet condemnation of her former betrothed, brought Seraphina a secret thrill. It was not merely vindication, it was triumph, and she savored it like honey upon the tongue.

Now, on the second day of the Harvest Festival, Seraphina reclined with measured grace. With a few of her hangers-on, she sipped delicately at her tea as she watched the young men of the Academy hurl themselves into the brutal sport of Marlowe. The match was being played out on the grounds, the late autumn sun glaring down on churned soil and trampled grass. The roar of the crowd rolled over her like surf, while the smell of sweat, crushed turf, and spilled ale mixed in the air. She sat apart from it, yet above it, an island of poise amid the storm of chaos and rough sport.

Named after the Lord Marlowe the Butcher, Marlowe was not a game for the faint of heart. Marlowe demanded blood and pain. Everything was permitted save for the most grotesque mutilations: eye-gouging, biting, and the like. The object was simple—drive the leather ball through the opposing side’s twin posts. As in soccer, the players were forbidden from striking the ball with their arms or hands, though they could employ their feet, knees, shoulders, and heads. Yet unlike soccer, the players themselves were fair game. A man who strayed too close to the ball could expect to be shoved, tripped, tackled, punched, or even kicked to the ground.

Still, recent revisions to the rules sought to contain the savagery; only those within ten paces of the ball could be struck. Before such reforms, the field often devolved into nothing less than a rolling melee—a scrum of bloodied faces and broken bones, more brawl than sport. Even now, however, the matches carried that lingering sense of danger, of violence barely held in check.

The only nod to the players’ safety was that you could wear armor if you chose to, though some eschewed such protection altogether to move faster. A risky proposition.

The boys played with reckless abandon, the violence of youth adding strength and speed to their movements. A cluster of them went down in a heap near the posts, the ball skittering free only to be booted back into the fray. The crowd gasped, then cheered, their cries swelling as one boy, bleeding from a split brow, scrambled to his feet and staggered on, still intent on the prize. Seraphina allowed herself a small smile as she raised her cup to her lips. It was a brutal game, yes, but one could not deny the raw beauty of it.

Like the game before her, there were two sides to this conflict. The battle lines had been drawn, and they fell neatly along class and faith: those who revered the Church as a sacred institution, and those who felt it had begun to meddle too boldly in the secular affairs of the realm. And, the nobility against the commoners. With Eloise de Laney—who had only until recently been of the mercantile class, at her side—Seraphina had come to be seen, ironically enough, as a champion of commoner rights, despite her very privileged birth. Indeed, her informants whispered that many still dreamed she might rise as Seraphina the First.

Not that she lacked noble backing. Great Houses and Minor alike lent her family, if not her directly, their support. Despite the so-called setback, the throne of Aranthia was still well within her reach, and King Elidion knew it. Her father, Anatoli, had raised Elidion to that throne, and Anatoli could just as easily pull him down from it. Even now, she felt sure her mother was pressing her cause with her father, reminding the Anatoli of the insult Velens had dealt their bloodline. And, speaking of bloodline, the de Sariens had the second strongest claim to the throne as Seraphina’s grandfather had been the brother of the previous king. Velens and Seraphina were cousins. When Elidion had accepted his bloody crown, Anatoli had sworn before the Goddess that he would never contest the throne. However, his oath bound only himself—not any of his issue.

Velens’ philandering still stung. No—what rankled Seraphina most was that the blackguard flaunted it before her very eyes, parading his betrayal as if it were some badge of honor.

Her gaze strayed toward Hughes, who stuck out like a sore thumb among the elegant girls of her class. They crowded him shamelessly, and she could not help but compare him to Velens. Hughes was cut from better moral cloth; that much was certain. But by the Saints, how ordinary he seemed. Too ordinary. Neither dull nor remarkable—just maddeningly, vexingly plain. If not for that…

No, Seraphina. Do not think such foolish thoughts, she scolded herself.

Silly what? Cornelia’s drowsy whisper brushed across their bond, her mental voice slurred with sleep.

Nothing important. Go back to sleep, Seraphina sent back firmly.

She turned and smiled at Hughes, the warmth on her lips only half-feigned. “Hughes, would you pass me—”

“Seraphina! There you are!”

The voice came from behind, sharp as a trumpet, and despite herself, Seraphina’s heart betrayed her with a skip. She rose gracefully, as did all the girls around her, skirts rustling as they curtsied.

“Your Highness,” she said sweetly, masking steel with silk. “A good afternoon to you.”

Only Fleur lagged a heartbeat behind the others in rising.

“We were simply watching the match,” Seraphina added lightly. “You are, of course, welcome to join us.”

But Prince Velens did not look at her. His eyes were locked on Hughes, cold as daggers, and his jaw set.

“He is the reason for all of this,” Velens said, pointing an imperious finger at Hughes.

Polite gasps flitted among the ladies, their fans fluttering.

Seraphina glanced down to hide the cruel smile tugging at her mouth. “I believe one needs only look into a mirror to find the guilty party.”

“Yes, your Highness,” Eloise said fiercely, her dark eyes flashing. “Lady Seraphina has been true to you.”

“This is no concern of yours, de Laney,” Velens snapped, his grey eyes a storm. His sneer turned back to Seraphina. “Nor of yours, Lady de Sariens. This is between him and me.”

Seraphina sighed theatrically, tilting her head just so. “Well, Velens, say your piece and be done with it. Can you not see we are watching the match?”

Her classmates tittered, hiding their laughter behind their hands. Eloise gave a dainty giggle, trying in vain to soften the sharpness of her rebuke.

Velens’ cheeks colored, though his voice was regal when he turned back to Hughes. “You. Hughes, or whatever your name is. I challenge you to a duel.”

For all his petulance, Seraphina could not deny that the Crown Prince cut a striking figure in his fury, regal fire blazing in his eyes.

No! she thought to herself. What is wrong with me!?

“On what grounds?” she demanded, stepping forward, positioning herself before Hughes as if to shield him. A part of the young noblewoman enjoyed seeing two people fight over her.

“Seraphina…” Hughes stammered, his helplessness only adding to her vexation. 

One much less strongly than the other, she mused bitterly.

“On the grounds,” Velens thundered, “that he has seduced you!”

A hush fell over the circle of girls. One fan snapped shut, another opened with a flutter, and hands covered mouths that formed wide Os—scandalized, delighted, disbelieving.

“Seduced?” a pretty girl echoed, her voice pitched high with astonishment.

Cheeks were flushed with the thrill of gossip unfolding before their very eyes. Already, whispers slithered outward, carried on the quick tongues of eager witnesses. Students nearby leaned in, craning necks. Even some of the older faculty in the gallery turned their heads toward the commotion. The match of Marlowe between Carnation and Dahlia stumbled into irrelevance; what was a bloody game compared to the sudden theater of princes and betrayals?

Seraphina tilted her chin, emerald eyes fixed unflinchingly on Velens. “Seduced?” she repeated, her tone dripping with honeyed scorn. “Next, I daresay you would claim that he has insulted your honor and that you wish to punish him for it. By that line of thinking, should I have the girls in the brothels you visit whipped? Or perhaps they would like that…”

That earned yet another ripple of laughter from the girls, scandalous and unrestrained.

Hughes, pale as parchment, looked as though he wished the ground would swallow him whole. His lips parted, closed again, then parted once more, but no words came.

Velens, however, burned. His face flushed crimson, his nostrils flaring as he jabbed a finger once more at Hughes. “Coward! Will you deny it? You’ve hidden behind her skirts long enough. Meet me in the yard and prove your honor—if you have any.”

“You dare!” Eloise began hotly, but Seraphina raised one hand, silencing her.

She stepped closer, her skirts brushing the prince’s boots, and lowered her voice until only he could hear, though the others strained to catch the words. “Velens,” she said softly, with the sweetness of venom, “if you insist on making a fool of yourself, at least do it with some dignity. At the very least, you could follow the forms.”

Velens stiffened, but pride forbade retreat. For retreat would be an admission of wrong, and a future king could never be wrong. With a sharp movement, he stripped the glove from his right hand and hurled it to the ground before Hughes’ feet. Gasps rippled through the circle as the leather struck the trampled turf.

Hughes stared at it a moment, blinking. Then, with a nervous air, he bent down, picked it up gingerly between two fingers, and held it out toward Velens. “You dropped this, Your Highness,” he said earnestly, as though returning a mislaid possession.

Now, no one bothered to hide their laughter. Velens’ face darkened to a shade just shy of purple.

“Tomorrow, at first light!” he barked, snatching the glove back with a violent jerk. “We will settle this!”

The words carried like a bell tolling. Already the murmur spread outward, like ripples in a lake where a meteor has just struck. The Crown Prince has issued a challenge. Bets would be laid before the night was over; songs might be written before the week was done.

Seraphina, for her part, was already calculating. Through her newspaper, she would ensure that every ear in Aranthia would hear of this spectacle.

As she was thinking this, Lady Rashana de Lehman—against all reason—rose from her seat and moved toward the unfolding drama. Rashana, whose quill in The Oracle had been the dagger Seraphina herself had wielded, now dared to place herself on the stage.

“Your Majesty,” the olive-skinned girl implored, bowing low, “I beg you to reconsider this course of action. It is unseemly for one of your great stature to issue a challenge against one not of the nobility.”

What is going on here? Seraphina thought darkly, her emerald eyes narrowing. Is she trying to douse the fire—or pour more oil upon it? Still, the opportunity gleamed. If nothing else, this would let her twist the knife and make Velens appear all the more a fool.

Seraphina laughed darkly. “If the matter lies in the Crown Prince Velens de Barbierri lowering himself to issue a challenge against a commoner,” Seraphina stated languidly, yet her voice cut through to everyone present, “then I, on behalf of House de Sariens, will take issue with it. I accept this challenge, for it is my House that has been insulted.”

Inwardly, she laughed as Velens’ face blanched, the color draining until he looked nearly as white as parchment.

“And I name my classmate Hughes as my champion,” the blonde girl added, her lips curling in a smile that was all venom and delight.

Hughes, poor boy, merely blinked in confusion, lost as powers far greater than himself maneuvered around him.

“Very well, Seraphina,” Velens said curtly at last, his voice clipped and cold. He spun on his heel and stormed away.

Seraphina only smiled thinly as she settled once more into her seat. She raised her teacup, sipping as if nothing of consequence had transpired at all. Around her, the girls pressed in, breathless with gossip, eyes shining with scandal.

But Seraphina’s expression remained serene, her every gesture one of languid composure. Only the cruel glimmer in her eyes betrayed her amusement.

For no matter the outcome of this duel, she would be the only winner.