Prophecy of the Flame - Book One

Chapter Seventeen

Prophecy of the Flame - Copyright 2011 by Lynn Hardy

Chapter Seventeen

I reenter the castle from a new direction, confident I can either make my way to my chambers or ask for directions. Turning left as soon as my eyes adjust to the dim interior, I see a staircase leading upward. The distinct ringing sound of metal on metal reaches my ears. I freeze in place with my foot on the first step.

Combat instincts come alive, senses heightening with the anticipation of trouble. I gather magical energy around me. Muttering, I begin the spell I created for the Renaissance Games.

 “Life is precious and the danger apparent,

So saying ‘cloak’ will make me transparent.

To once again make myself seen,

Using ‘uncloak’ will sound so keen.”

Sweat springs to my brow. Even though the enchantment is a minor one, I feel the drain on my powers. The misenchantment has cost me in more ways than one. A tingling sensation spreads through me. I whisper, “Cloak.” I hope this medieval world can comprehended the Trekkie reference to the Klingons’ main form of defense! A devil’s grin spreads across my face as I look at the floor where my feet should be.

Nimble as a cat, I edge my way past the stairs. On tiptoe, I sneak around the corner. The wall to my left has narrow gaps stretching from floor to ceiling. Closer now to the sounds of battle, I distinguish two tones in the grunts accompanying the noise.

In the cavernous room, five high-set windows let in a good amount of sunlight. One figure towers over another figure by more than a foot. The odd pair, covered in white, padded outfits, square off in what is obviously practice.

A son of a noble receiving instruction in the sword? I am about to release the invisibility spell when an all-too-familiar voice rings out.

“Now I know you can do better than that. I thought you, at least, would not treat me like an invalid!” teases Prince Alex.

“Your Highness,” begins a voice that I can’t quite place, “a mere servant. . . would not dare. . .” It continues, pausing in between swings, “to judge the health. . . of the crown prince.”

Intrigued, I remain hidden.

“‘Your Highness is it now?”

“Of course, Your Highness. . . a friend would not. . . keep a friend waiting. . . for over a mark. . . without even an apology.” Is he sparring with a woman?

“My punctuality has never troubled you before.” Alex parries his attacker’s efforts. Not in the least winded, he continues to address his opponent, even managing to shrug while doing it. “I am sorry. It could not be helped.” He gibes, “A romantic tryst with the archmage was a necessity.”

Not a wise move if she is anything like the kind of “friend” you want me to be. You may be a prince, but you still make the typical mistakes only a man can make!

The swordswoman reaches to her mask. In a flourish, she flings the covering to the floor. Andrayia swings her sword around in a hard slash at Alex’s arm. A flurry of attacks follows, proving she is a true expert with the sword. The prince manages to parry the enthusiastic charge, but his breathing is no longer quite so relaxed.

“It is about time! I thought we would. . . never get to. . . some real practicing.” He reaches up to remove his helmet.

“Is that what I am to you now? Practice? And after barely two days. . .” His mistress steps back. Her dull practice sword clatters across the floor as she flings it from her. When she continues, I sense tears in her voice. “Well, you can get the archmage to be your sparring partner, as well as your wife!”