Page 8 of The Ballad of a Bard

“Begin!” The announcer called and hastily exited before he became part of the show.

The man across from her grinned wickedly, as if he expected this to be over and done within a matter of seconds and to emerge the victor. He was right on one count, the first.

Itwouldbe over in a couple seconds.

Buthewouldn’t be the victor.

Crimson reflected it, adding her own edge of rabid viciousness back at him. He flinched, his head angling towards the side in confusion as she struck as fast as an almost invisible wasp. The crowd cheered and she had him down on his fat knees in five moves.

One, angle her first dagger towards his chest while hersecond found his thick neck. Two, kick at his leg, near the weak spot that he tried to hide by not limping. A previous wound from his last fight, if she had to guess. Three, shove her force behind the blades as he tried to struggle against her hold. Four, gently caress his arm and utter a suggestive command that had his hands slackening on his weapon.

Five, win.

Crimson never felt bad for her victims, because she only took on the worst of the worst. The kind that preyed on young children such as her brother. The kind that took things without asking, and the kind that the world would be better off without. This was why she hand picked her opponents.

An extra gold coin to the announcer, a caress to his cherub cheek paid with a flirtatious blush of a pretty maiden and he whispered all sorts of secrets to her about which to take on. She wasn’t entirely sure how her powers worked, only that she had them. How to use them with the wiley ways of women, the flirtatious flaunts of females and the gracious grabs of girls. Men saw, heard and felt what they wanted. It was all too easy to change their minds, influence their hearts. To suggest something entirely different to them in order to get her way.

Cobalt showed no sign of powers, even if he was only eight. Crimson wished for all the world and beyond, that he never gained any. The life of a Saint, even a lesser one, was a lonely existence.

She raised her chin towards the audience, dragging the show out for longer than necessary, as they expected her to do. As she always did. But as Crimson met almost every single face that yelled at her in excitement, she found a new pair of eyes. One that never appeared before, one that struck her as dumbfounded for the sheer night skies she found within them.

Midnight, the darkest sort without any of the shadows thatfollowed, shade colours such as it. There was no white, no ivory iris’s to be found. Gold, instead, speckled in them like the night with all its infinite, ineffable stars.

She was looking athim.

West gripped the stone railing hard until he was beyond white-knuckled. “Did you see that?”

It would have been impossible to miss, especially to the well-trained eye of the son of a well-known Saint.

The girl, she’d touched the huge warrior in the barest of places and won the round in a minute flat. Four touches, if he counted right. A brush of her gloved finger against his hand, a flash of her lashes towards his eyes as she edged closer. A dash of her arm against his neck and her lips moved against the cowl in silent declaration.

The man almost sighed in delight as he sank to the ground, unnoticeable to anyone but an immortal, or half of one. He waited, kneeling on the gritty ground with delirious desire, as if she’d promised him something in exchange for his surrender.

“Now you understand why I brought you with me tonight.” Altivar bobbed his head, stroking at his upper lip. “I wondered if I was seeing things or if he-she,was doing what I thought.”

West inhaled, “She’s a lesser Saint.”

“That’s what I suspected. I assume you know which sired her, as well?”

“With the power of suggestion, she could be a product of the Imp, but they haven’t been known to tangle in the sheets. Which leaves the illusive Heartache.” He rubbed at his scalp, itching a certain spotat the nape of his neck.

“You were curious as to his rather mysterious disappearance. I think I’ve found out why.” Altivar said. “She has a brother, eight years old. Just around the-”

“Around the time that Heartache returned to us.” West finished for him. “She’s his child, at least one of them.”

He nodded. “Which makes me wonder why the pain-in-the-ass vagabond isn’t here, tending to his children.” He pointed towards the arena, towards the ill fated match as it came to an end.

Red Lyric drew her steel and painted with the colour of life, ending the opponent with a sharp slice.

“You’re searching for him?”

“I am. I require his services, and I thought recruiting hisdaughterwould lure him out of hiding.” Altivar elucidated his plan, one small detail at a time. There was still an unnerving amount of secret wrapped around his silken words, but it was enough to ask another question.

West’s brow furrowed in concern as he asked, “Why? Why are you looking for him?”

The Prince turned away from the fight as the guards came back out to clean up the arena before the next fight. He let his fingers drop, hand falling back to his side. With a velvet voice that sent chills down West’s spine; and not the good sort, he said, “Isn’t it obvious,Westley?”

It was rare for the Prince to leave his taunts behind in the dust, let alone use his full name that he gave to the mortals of Hisaith. Which meant that Altivar was entirely serious.

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