‘“You’re dragging that foot again, de León,” Greyhand warned.
‘“Oui, Master,” I said, shifting my stance.
‘“And tie those pretty locks back properly, or I’ll shear you like a sheep.”
‘“Your boy moves well, Greyhand,” Alonso muttered. “For a frailblood.”
‘I felt my hackles rise at that, pausing in my bladework to bow. “Merci, Frère. The highblood I kicked the shite out of in Skyefall single-handed certainly thought so.”
‘“Enough of that, de León,” Greyhand growled. “Pride is a sin.”
‘But big Alonso only chuckled as he took another swig. “You’ve spirit too, lad. Nordish fire. Think you’ve enough to best young Fincher here?”
‘I looked to my fellow initiate as Finch paused his practice, staring at me with his mismatched eyes. He was swift and sharp, but shorter than me. He had no reach. And the Voss blood in his veins wouldn’t make a difference to his bladework.
‘“Enough to best Fincher,” I declared. “And every initiate in this Gauntlet besides.”’
Jean-Fran?ois raised an eyebrow. ‘Really, de León?’
‘What can I tell you?’ The silversaint shrugged. ‘I was still feeling a little full of myself after taking down the de Blanchet boy. But more important, I’d worked my arse off in that circle, and I was sick of being treated like shite for the blood in my veins. Especially if I wasn’t a frailblood at all.
‘Greyhand glowered at my boasts, but Alonso roared with laughter.
‘“The balls on this little bastard! Come on then, Finch! In the circle. You lads!” Alonso bellowed to de Coste and de Séverin, holding up a shining coin from his pocket. “We’ll have ourselves a tourney, eh? A gold royale for the victor, I say!”
‘Greyhand frowned darker, but if my mouth was big enough to bury me in shite, he wasn’t the kind to dig me out of it. De Coste and de Séverin made their way across the circle, standing at the edge of the pale sevenstar. Fincher squared up against me, lips pinched thin. Glancing to his master, he spat on the cold stone.
‘“I’ma have to kick yer arse now, Lil Kitty. Nae offence, like.”
‘The boy moved quick as flies, darting forward and slashing at my throat. But swift as spiders, I blocked his strike, skipped sideways, and struck his sword from his hand.
‘Stepping back, I let him retrieve his blade.
‘“None taken.”
‘Fincher scowled, slicing his sword through the air. He came on again, more cautious this time, weaving a blinding strike pattern, head, chest, head, belly. But I knew this song. I’d sung it so often by then, it was burned into my bones. Steel was mother. Steel was father. Steel was friend. And I struck the sword from Fincher’s hand again, and with a savage jab from my elbow, split his lip all the way to his chin, dropped him to the circle floor. Standing over him, I levelled my blade at his throat, heart thrilling at the sight of his blood.
‘“Yield, Brother.”
‘Fincher wiped at his split lip. “Best two ae three?”
‘“Kittens can’t count that high,” I smiled.
‘Finch glanced to his master, then grumbled. “Yield, then.”
‘I offered my hand, helped him up off the ground. Finch winced and rubbed his jaw, but to his credit, he didn’t seem too dark on it. Frère Alonso smacked broad hands together and grinned. “Fine strike, de León. Fincher, it seems we’ve work to do.”
‘“Aye, Master,” the lad muttered, eyes downturned.
‘“De Séverin, you’re next,” Alonso crowed, eyes on the bigger lad. “Let’s test this frailblood’s measure against a Dyvok, eh?”
‘De Séverin glanced to Greyhand as if to seek permission, but again, my master made no move to stop any of this. My mouth, he figured. My trouble. And so, the big nobleson hefted his training blades, smirked to de Coste, and strode onto the star.
‘De Séverin’s tunic was unlaced, and I could see a roaring bear etched across his chest – the sigil of the Blood Dyvok. All palebloods were preternaturally strong, but the Dyvok lads were fucking terrifying. Most wielded two-handed blades with only one, and there was an unspoken rule that they train with wooden swords in the Gauntlet, lest they cut their sparring partners in half.
‘De Séverin lifted blades big as small trees, one in each hand.
‘“Au revoir, frailblood.”
‘The blades boomed as they cut the air, scything just shy of my head. I skipped backwards, eyes wide as de Séverin came on like thunder, no room for quarter. We danced for a time, him swinging with measured fury, me staying out of his range. De Séverin’s blades were six feet in length, his strength fearsome, though truth told, he was mostly brawn, little finesse. But more, and truer still, there’s just no one with more to prove than the boy at the bottom of the pile. You feed a man your table scraps, he grows hungry long before he grows thin. And hunger can turn pups into wolves, and kittens into fucking lions.
‘I sideslipped a strike from de Séverin’s true hand, turned aside a blow from his off and stepped inside his reach. This close, those big swords were too unwieldy, unholy strength or no, and he was too slow to stop me from bringing my pommel up into his jaw, sending him flying backwards in an arc of saliva and brilliant blood. De Séverin struck the stones hard, spitting curses. And standing over him, I lowered my blade to his throat.
‘“I yield,” the boy growled, fangs glinting.
‘Alonso raised a bushy eyebrow at Greyhand. “Scrappy little bastard, this one.”
‘“For a frailblood,” I said, chest heaving.
‘Alonso smiled crooked at that, scar twisting his face. “De Coste. You’re next.”
‘“I think we’ve seen enough,” Greyhand said.
‘“Ah, come now, Brother,” Alonso grinned. “A splash of claret is good for the—”
‘“I said enough,” Greyhand repeated, meeting Alonso’s eyes. Though he was smaller, slighter, my master’s tone brooked no dissent. “These are my apprentices both, Brother. I’ll not have them blooding each other for no good reason.”
‘I had to respect that – the fact Greyhand was ever looking out for us, despite his mask of cold cruelty. But there was still ill feeling between de Coste and me, so thick we could have cut it with our training blades. His beating and threats still burned in my memory. And I could see he was still salty about being overshadowed in Skyefall.
‘“Master,” he said. “I’ll happily teach this—”
‘“I said no, Initiate. And I’ll not say it again.”
‘I stared into Aaron’s eyes, my lip curling. “Angel Fortuna smiles on you, dog.”
‘“… What did you call me, Peasant?”
‘“You threw me a dog punch the other day, and you know it. Come at me straightwise, I’d knock your fucking teeth out of your skull. You’re a coward, de Coste.”
‘And that was all it took. Aaron came at me, hammer-hard and serpent-swift. His handsome face was twisted with rage, and he swung at my throat as if he genuinely wanted to kill me. I knocked aside his blow, but he crashed into me, and like a pair of five-year-olds, we fell to brawling. Aaron grabbed my tunic, buried his elbow in my throat. I mashed my knuckles into his mouth, smiling as I felt his lips split against his fangs.