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Clink! Clack!” the sound of swords clacking together rhythmically echoed through the hall, ringing in my ears, a weird and twisted high-pitched laughter. I walked down the bleachers, down to the practice floor level. The wooden floor was glossy, however scratched from years of scuffling feet, sword strikes and tumbles it may be. My reflection stared at me over and over again from each of the mirrors lining the room, and while I don’t look bad, that many of me was not a great idea. Who knows what could happen.
On the lowest row of benches, a young man sat. His padded white doublet was flung on the bench beside him, and sweat poured down his bare, hairless chest. His dark hair stuck out at all angles, and his face was still red.
“Hello, I don’t believe I’ve met you before,” the young man said turning around to face me, not unwelcomingly. His narrow face sported a strong brow line, narrow nose, and high cheekbones like many of the courtiers I’d seen wandering through the halls. “Christopher Adley, Lord Arenwood, at your service.” A bow to complete the ensemble, and I was golden. The youth across from me smiled and brought his arm up. I clasped his forearm, while he introduced himself. “Myrene.” I sat down next to him and pointed at his gear, and then to the two men currently dueling in front of us. “Did you win?” He shook his head. “No, I didn’t, but that’s nothing new. I’m probably the worst swordsman in the whole country. I’m surprised I held out as long as I did.” He pointed to another figure sitting on the bench nearer the other side of the room. “That was my opponent, Prince Gylen. He’s a decent swordsman as far as they go, especially compared to me, but he’s a fly against some of the other men here.” He looked back at me, his face noticeably less reddened. His eyes flickered to my sword hilt. “How about you? Are you any good at the dance all men should be a master of?” I shrugged. “I’m alright. I’m no virtuoso with a sword, but I can hold my own.” He nodded, seeming satisfied.
The rest of the match passed in relative silence, punctuated by gasps or shouts from the audience, when one of the fighters gained an advantage or lost ground. It ended when one man’s sword went flying out behind him, and, finding his opponent’s sword tip at his throat, called the match. The entire room erupted in applause. The winner was apparently a favourite.
Myrene grunted beside me. “Dorran always wins. No one stands a chance against him.” I thought his technique was sloppy and full of holes, but I didn’t mention that. He stood up, picked up his sweaty gear, and dumped it into a basket at the far end of the room, presumably to be laundered. He returned to where I was sitting, and motioned me to come with him. We walked out of the fencing hall and out into the bustling main courtyard of the castle. Myrene looked completely out of place in his fencing whites, against the dark drab of the surrounding area, but he seemed to take no notice. He wandered around, nodding to a man holding the reins of a horse, who nodded back. He picked up a child and swung her around in the air, giggling and kicking the whole while. From the looks of the people around the courtyard, I could tell that he was a regular show here, and that he was always like this. You would never guess he was the son and heir to one of the cruelest men this world has ever seen. You could tell the people loved their crown prince, and that they were counting down the days until he would assume the throne and turn everything around for them.