Page 48 of Court of Vipers (The Lady of Innislee)

“Well, at least you know what you did wrong. You’re not completely hopeless.”

He lowered the sword and offered her a hand up, which she accepted, wincing when she put her full weight on her leg. “If someone asks me why I’m walking funny tomorrow, I’ll leave you to explain it,” she said as she crossed the stage and poured a cup of water from a pitcher she had stolen from the theater’s stores.

Auberon’s grin turned wicked. “Are you certain that’s a wise idea?”

Her flush came back with a vengeance. “By the Creator, forget I said anything.”

He slipped the toe of his boot under Riona’s sword and flipped it into the air, catching it with his free hand. He chuckled when Riona muttered, “Show-off.”

“Sore loser.” Auberon walked over and handed her the prop sword. The emerald-hilted dagger was strapped to her thigh in a sheath he had given her earlier that week, but neither of them trusted her with a real blade yet. “Try again.”

Riona set the cup down and followed him to the center of the stage, pushing the braids that had fallen from her topknot over her shoulder. She lifted her sword and let Auberon attack first. He moved like a phantom, like the wind through the narrow city streets, swift and precise. No mirth in his eyes. No smug, mischievous smile. This was the real Auberon. Not a prince. Not a courtier.

A warrior.

She did her best to block his attacks, her arms shaking with the effort of holding him at bay. Her muscles ached. Not a day passed that she didn’t wake up sore and in pain, her bruises throbbing. But shewasimproving, or so Auberon claimed. Sometimes, she wasn’t certain whether he was telling the truth or trying to spare her feelings—if he were even capable of such a thing.

Riona lunged, driving her sword toward Auberon’s chest at the same time as he swung low. The point of her blade came to rest just over his heart as his sword struck her side.

“A draw,” he said. “We’re both dead. Want to try again?”

She sat on the piano bench and shook her head. “No more. Not tonight.”

“Fine by me.” He tossed his doublet aside and sat next to her. Riona was exhausted, but he was energetic, alive. His cheeks were flushed, and his gray-blue eyes were alight in a way she had never before seen them. Sparring always seemed to help him work off the frustration from the negotiations. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s only been a couple of weeks since you started training. Like I said before, you have a dancer’s instincts. That already aids you more than you realize.”

Riona shifted, grimacing at the bruise forming on her hip. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

Auberon grinned—not one of his practiced court smiles, but a bright, genuine one. “We’ve all felt the pain of swordplay training. Now it’s your turn,aramati.”

“You keep calling me that. What does it mean?”

“Beloved one,” he said with exaggerated sweetness, pressing a hand to his heart. “I told you, your charm and poise have utterly entranced me, my lady. It’s no wonder the heirs to three powerful thrones have come to claim your hand. Minstrels will sing of your unmatched beauty until the end of days.”

What a flirt.“Well, they certainly won’t be singing about my battle prowess.”

“Yes, but I wasn’t going to point that out. At least not while you have a dagger within arm’s reach.”

Auberon rose and pulled on his doublet. As he started to work on the line of buttons along its front, Riona lifted the cover over the piano keys and played the first few notes of the song she had been playing their first night in the theater. Auberon’s back was to her, but she saw the almost imperceptible tightening of his broad shoulders as the melody drifted through the air. He turned toward her as she continued to play, the doublet’s buttons forgotten.

“Sit down,” she said, nodding to the bench beside her.

“Why?”

The word came out little more than a breath, and the expression on his face was almost…startled.

“I know I’ll never be skilled with a sword, but I was helpless as a hostage in Nicholas Comyn’s court, and I will never be that weak again,” she said. “This is my thank you for helping me. You can delight your mother by playing for her when you return to Torch.”

“Whenwego to Torch,” Auberon corrected, but he didn’t move. His eyes were fixed on her hands, her long fingers dancing over the keys. A flicker of emotion passed across his face, there and gone too quickly for her to identify it.

Riona nodded to the bench. “Sit. Please.”

Auberon rounded the piano and sat beside her. She began the song again, playing the first few notes and watching him attempt to replicate her movements. He hesitated between striking the keys, but Riona nodded, repeating the section whenever he faltered. Bit by bit, line by line, the song filled the empty theater. As its haunting, mournful melody wrapped around them, Riona realized why she hadn’t been able to place the expression on his face: for the first time, he had lookedvulnerable.

Auberon turned toward her, and it was only then that she realized the piano had fallen silent; he was waiting for her to continue the song. Instead, she asked, “What happened to your mother? That first night we met here, you spoke about her as if she were dead.”

The prince let out a quiet, humorless laugh as he stood and moved to put away the prop swords. “My mother is very much alive, although sometimes it feels as if she has died. I grew up believing that my mother was a goddess among mortals. But eventually, there comes a day when you realize that the person you worshiped as a child is just as fallible as the rest of us. We have had some difficulties in recent years, she and I.”

Auberon shoved the swords into a crate full of other props, then turned back to her. The candlelight cast his features in sharp lines, emphasizing the angle of his jaw, his high cheekbones, and straight, regal nose. A shock of chestnut hair hung over his brow. The urge to brush it away, to coax another genuine smile to his lips, ignited within Riona. She focused instead on the piano.

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