Page 22 of The Prince's Curse

Haldric dodged to theleft, parrying the sword thrust with practiced ease. He tried to slip past his opponent’s guard, but his steps were too slow on the loosely packed dirt. By the time he’d brought his own sword down in a sweeping blow, his opponent had already danced backward out of reach.

“Almost, Your Highness,” Marshal Fendrel said with a small smile. “Your form is much improved. Now, we just need to work on your speed.”

Haldric answered the head of the royal guard with a grin of his own. Readjusting his grip on his sword, he fell back into a resting stance. “If you’d just allow me to use alittlemagic…”

Fendrel snorted and prowled forward across the training yard, his sword up and at the ready. “If you can’t beat a man nearly twice your age without runeflame as a crutch, then you’re not worthy of carrying on your father’s name.”

The words conjured a familiar swell of self-doubt even as Haldric strove to keep his calm. He’d trained under Fendrel enough by now to recognize the man’s favored tricks.

Sure enough, the marshal moved quick as a viper, hoping to take advantage of Haldric’s distraction.

Haldric was ready for him. Steel clanged against steel, their metal blades flashing in the early morning light as they danced around each other in a flurry of strikes and parries.

A single well-timed spell could’ve ended the duel in a heartbeat, but Haldric knew Fendrel was right: relying too heavily on magic risked it becoming a crutch.

Besides, Fendrel had his own soulflame to draw upon. Though he’d been born with his magic rather than unlocking it the way the fabled warriors trained at the Akkadia once had, it nevertheless made him a formidable fighter, capable of inhuman speed and strength.

There’d be time enough for Haldric to practice enchanting his blade and incorporating battle spells into his fighting style once he’d properly mastered the basics. Better to save his runeflame for his next lesson with Dexil.

Thinking of the Grand Magus reminded Haldric of that impertinent boy from yesterday. Haldric had tried to remain cordial and ignore the boy’s utter lack of decorum, only to have his head bitten off over it.

By the Goddess, the way that boy had behaved, you’d think he was the next coming of King Lyzar himself! Unlike the man who’d once united the city-states scattered across the plains into the kingdom of Ilthabard, however, the only thing that boy would be accomplishing was a quick boot out of the palace.

His pale gray eyeswererather striking, though…

Parrying another of Fendrel’s blows a touch too hard, Haldric tightened his jaw. Striking or not, the boy could turn that judgmental gaze of his upon someone else. No doubt Dexil hadpromptly sent him on his way. The thought brought Haldric some small measure of satisfaction.

Unfortunately, that proved his undoing. He was so focused on the insolent boy that he didn’t notice the groove in the dirt.

His foot caught, forcing him into a stumble. Instead of a clean parry on Fendrel’s next strike, Haldric’s sword scraped off its edge. He tried to recover and twist his blade around, but it was too late. Fendrel swerved his sword past Haldric’s clumsy strike and delivered a nasty blow to Haldric’s gut.

Though his armor blunted the sword’s dulled edge, the force of the blow still sent him sprawling to the dirt. He spat out a wad of blood from a small cut on his lip as he accepted the older man’s offered hand and let him haul him to his feet.

“Nice strike.”

Fendrel shook his head, not looking the least amused. “You were distracted, Your Highness. Had I been an enemy on the battlefield, that mistake might have been fatal.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’re not on the battlefield,” Haldric replied with a strained grin even as guilt curdled his stomach.

He couldn’t afford any mistakes or distractions—not when he was already so far behind in his training. If he wanted the dukes and duchesses that ruled Ilthabard’s other provinces to respect his rule, he had to be stronger, smarter, cleverer. Otherwise, they would eat him alive.

Though the marshal was too polite to say so himself, Haldric read the same warnings on Fendrel’s stern face. All he said, however, was, “Again, Your Highness?”

Forcing any thoughts of that boy and his hostile gray gaze from his mind, Haldric wiped the sweat from his brow and nodded.

The rest of the morning passed in sweat and dirt and battle. Haldric missed lunch, and though his stomach rumbled after his exertions, he knew it would have to wait. There was no time to waste.

Grabbing a quick bath in his quarters, he swapped his practice armor for his favorite leather tunic, a gift from his aunt for his last birthday. Then, he hurried to meet his first tutor. While he spent most mornings training with Marshal Fendrel, his afternoons were filled with lesson after lesson. Geography, history, politics, diplomacy—the list went on and on.

All skills vital for an effective ruler to possess…and all things he’d neglected while growing up. Instead of taking his battle training or political lessons seriously, he’d snuck away every chance he could to read heroic tales in his room or watch the Grand Magus brew a new batch of potions. He’d preferred to leave such boring things as dates and names and family lineages to Melisie—a decision he sorely regretted now.

As always, remembering his elder sister sent a wave of sorrow numbing him. It had been two years since bandits killed her while she was visiting the important trade province of Zaros, but the pain of her loss remained fresh and raw. They’d been inseparable as kids, and though they’d grown apart as they got older and her duties left less time for him, she’d been one of the few people Haldric trusted.

Melisie would have made a great ruler—as great as Father had been in his prime.So much better thanIwill ever be…

Moroseness hung over him like a heavy shroud by the time he returned to his quarters that evening to freshen up for dinner with his father. Knowing what he was about to walk into did little to improve his mood.

Though he’d never have admitted it out loud, he’d come to dread these weekly meals even more than his lessons on politics. To see the man he’d once idolized wasting away, a husk of his former self, was almost more than he could bear.

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