A Fistful of Fire: Chronicles of Marsdenfel #1

Year 247 of the Bynding

There’s a pause, revealing William’s surprise that I’d know that little of the courtyard setup. “East.”

I nod and pick up the embroidery from another failed lesson.

“Oh, Nallé.” I wait for what he wants to say. “Watch out for stray weapons.”

I flinch, knowing full well that he’s only telling me that for fear of my natural clumsiness. “Thanks.” But I think he means it nicely, so I soften my sarcasm with a nervous smile.

I quickly return my embroidery things to the sewing room and grab Prince Aidan’s jerkin from the pile of completed mending. I pick up my knitting bag from near the door; it’s easier to take with me than sewing.

Thus armed, I head for the men’s courtyard. I wonder if King Aldrik would let Prince Aidan’s command stand if he knew of it.

Well, that’s a moot point, now.

Near the entrance to the men’s west courtyard are a few young women of poor repute. I keep my knitting bag and the prince’s requested jerkin over my arm and walk quickly, even as I search for His Highness. I sidestep the young noblemen as I search, unlike the hussies.

The hussies pause, flirt, curtsy with skirts raised far too high and chests dipped far too low, and try to catch the eyes of men they, uh, like. I don’t. You would think that particular detail would make it obvious that I don’t want what those girls do.

“Sweetheart,” one particularly false-looking man croons. To me.

“No, m’lordship.”

“I’m sorry?” he asks.

“I am not ‘Sweetheart’, m’lordship. You must have me confused with someone else.” Before the laughter can grow beyond its faint beginnings, I quickly ask, “Where is the prince? I am told he is in this courtyard.”

“Well!” The man feigns offense to hide the actual offense he feels and struts around his circle of friends; they laugh. “Perhaps we are told that he has no wish to see you, my dear…What did you say your name was?”

They think I’m here to proposition the prince?! Enough of this. “I didn’t. Prince Aidan sent for his jerkin, and you will tell me where he is, that I may deliver it to him.”

“I will tell you? Else what, fair ‘maiden’?”

I don’t respond to that insult other than to raise my chin and intensify my glare. “Guess,” I say coldly, easily—too easily—drawing life from a nearby flower patch to form purple magic-fueled fire behind the leech. His friends gasp and draw back before he turns to see it, and when he does, he takes a few quick steps away while cursing more harshly than he ought in front of a subadult girl.

“Who are you?” the man demands.

A mage, obviously. I let myself smile faintly, swallowing back the disquiet that this must be how Father feels, how Grandfather and Father and Carling all seek power by the strength of their magic. It’s easy to make others heed you when you terrify them.

“Prince Aidan?” I ask again. If this nobleman doesn’t already know of me, then my identity is none of his business.

“’Kory!” comes the voice of Prince Aidan himself. I immediately release the fire; it vanishes. “It’s your turn! Come, now; you’re not afraid of a little spar—” He enters the ring, sees me, and stops, shifting his grip on the sword he carries. “Hickory, Attare of Richden,” he says in a low, warning tone. “What’s this?”

“This wench is threatening me with—” He turns to point at the fire, notices that it’s gone, and turns back to His Highness. “I was doing nothing that she didn’t ask for by coming here, and there was a fire, right here—”