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A dozen noble families are seated at banquet tables in the castle’s winter garden. Chatter and laughter fill the courtyard. All are in town for the royal wedding and all are immaculately draped in fur robes. Scores of servants whirl around them, carrying course after course of rare delicacies in a choreographed display of wealth.
This luncheon is nominally in Serinepth’s honor, but she can’t help feeling restricted by her role in the performance. Still, she’s resigned herself to it, as she waits for a moment where she can pull the prince aside and break his heart in private.
But before such a moment can arrive, Phillip Maisel strides across the courtyard, disrupting the flow of the waiters around the banquet tables. The conversation dims to a murmur.
“Is that the Maisel boy?” “The Maisels weren’t invited.” “Who let him in?”
He's wearing full court dress at the highest level of formality: a traditional three piece suit, with wide lapels and enormous shoulder pads out of proportion with his lanky body. A ceremonial saber is buckled to his waist, and under one arm he carries an ornately carved wooden chest.
She could almost laugh at the absurdity of his appearance ( he has no idea how to fight with a saber! ), if she weren't certain that he’s about to do whatever reckless thing he had been threatening. His eyes land on hers momentarily as he scans the crowd. But he doesn’t slow down as he approaches Prince Frederick with an uncharacteristic sense of determination. He slams the wooden chest onto the table next to Frederick. He looks at Serinepth, then Frederick, then the king and queen.
“Your Grace,” he begins, “I present myself here not on behalf of the Maisel family, but on behalf of my own self and my own heart. I am here to challenge your son to a duel for Serinepth Sinderman’s hand in marriage.”
The king stiffens, and sets down his knife and fork. “What are you speaking of, Young Lord Maisel?”
Phillip lifts his chin, and replies, “Your Grace, I am in love with Young Lady Sinderman, and I cannot sit by and watch this marriage go through. It would bring shame to my own family, if I allowed this to proceed without intervening.”
The king’s expression shifts from bemused to polite. “That’s well and good, Young Lord Maisel, however—”
Frederick springs to his feet, hitting his knees against the table in the process and knocking over glasses of champagne. Serinepth stands, defensively, her metal chair screeching against the stone pavement. Whispers of scandalous and unprecedented pass among the nobles.
Frederick stands to his full height, but for once Phillip refuses to be intimidated.
“Young Lord Maisel,” Fred booms, looking down his nose at Phillip, “If you are in love with my betrothed, then it would be dishonorable of me to reject your proposal.”
“No. No!” Serinepth interjects, as she rushes around the table to put herself between them. “There needs to be a discussion. This can be resolved diplomatically.”
But they have already grasped each other’s hands, sealing this folly of a pact.
“Serinepth,” Phillip says, “There’s no discussion that’s going to end this. This is the only way.” He flips open the lid of the ornate wooden box to reveal a pair of matching dueling crossbows and six bolts.
“I’m not going to watch you two shoot each other!”
Frederick turns to Serinepth. “My dearest, honor demands that the duel be completed.”
“Fine. If it has to be this way, I won’t let Phillip stand for me. I’ll stand for myself.” Quiet gasps erupt from the tables around them.
“Serinepth!” There’s fear in Phillip’s voice, fear that wasn’t there a moment before.
Prince Frederick’s posture softens, and he takes a step towards her. “I don’t understand, my love. Please, explain to me what is happening.”
“I wanted to explain this to you in private, but there hasn’t been an opportunity. I don’t know what our parents told you about me, but I’m not the person you think you’ve met.”
“My love?”
“I am not someone who can submit to an arranged marriage.” She unwinds her scarf from around her head, and shakes out her long green hair. She hears more gasps from the nobles, but she maintains eye contact with Fred.
“I am a fighter, and a sorcerer.” She unclasps her cloak and throws it to the ground, exposing the scars on her neck and chest. “And I can’t be your queen.”
“Phillip came to stand for me because he knew this.” She places a hand on Phillip’s shoulder, and he nods in agreement. “And I want to have the future that I know we all deserve to have, and that is to be loved. You deserve to be loved, as Phillip and I deserve to be loved. And I hope that you can understand this, that I want you to find someone in the future, and grow to love them. But that can’t be me.”
Fred pauses, as the implication of her words sinks in. “So this is what the Sindermans are.”
“Unfortunately, yes,” she concedes.
“Liars!” he booms. “Traitors! Perhaps it’s for the best that you stand for yourself after all.” Frederick turns to address the crowd. “Make room, everyone. Servants, please remove the tables from the lawn.”
The courtyard erupts into chaos. A hand lands on Serinepth’s shoulder, and she starts. But it’s just Phillip, staring at her intently with those golden eyes.
“I don’t want to talk to you right now,” she mutters. “You were the one person in this godforsaken castle that I thought would trust me to manage my own life–and then you go and try to kill my betrothed without even telling me first.”
“Serinepth, I didn’t mean for this to–”
“I don’t want to talk to you right now,” she repeats. “I want us both to survive this nonsense that you started, and that means you need to leave.”
Serinepth looks over to the royal family, and sees that her father has approached the king and queen, presumably to attempt to mitigate the consequences of his daughter’s behavior. But whatever Phillip began now can’t be stopped. A space in the lawn has been cleared, and a noblewoman has been chosen to be an impartial judge. She holds the chest with the dueling crossbows in her arms.
“Assemble,” she commands.
Serinepth approaches the prince at the center of the lawn. She curtsies deeply, but he stares back, stone faced, without acknowledging her deference. It’s too late for any more words to have an effect, but she silently hopes that even if her rigorous adherence to ceremony doesn’t save herself, it might earn her family and the Maisels some lenience. Not that she would expect any mercy from Fred; his anger has rapidly turned cold and ruthless. But the king and queen might allow Lord and Lady Maisel, and maybe even Lord and Lady Sinderman, to save face.
“To first blood?” Frederick asks.
“Well, I certainly don’t want us to kill each other,” she says. “So yes, to first blood.”
“Choose your weapons,” the lady instructs.
Serinepth lifts one of the crossbows out of the velvet-lined chest. The craftsmanship is remarkable. Each crossbow is carved from glossy dark wood, with gilded mechanics and ivory inlay on the stocks. She takes a bolt from the row of six. It’s also carved from walnut, with decorative red feather fletches and the flared golden tip of a hunting arrow. They’re beautiful, but it’s almost grotesque to see such beauty on an item designed to kill in one shot. She wraps her hand around the grip and feels something sharp prick into the pad of her thumb–probably just an unfinished bit of metal or a broken bit of ivory.
Although she’s used a crossbow before, she’s never really practiced with any regularity. But she’s a good shot with spells cast at a distance, she reminds herself, and it’s only twenty paces. If she aims for his lower leg, she can draw blood and end the duel without killing the prince. If she’s lucky, she’ll survive.
“Backs together,” the lady says.
Serinepth places herself back-to-back with Frederick. She inhales deeply to steady her nerves, and she notices the warm, woodsy scent of Fred’s cologne. This is the closest she’s physically been to him since the gala, she realizes. But this is a different kind of synchronized dance.
The judge begins to call out their paces.
“One.” As Serinepth takes her first step forward, she visualizes the bolt grazing Fred’s leg. She can do this.
“Two.” Lift, aim, and shoot. Simple enough.
“Three.” Her thumb begins to tingle where it grips the crossbow.
“Four.” The pins and needles spread up her arm.
“Five.” Her fingers begin to go numb.
“Six.” This isn’t normal.
“Seven.” Her legs begin to sway, and it takes everything in her to stay upright.
“Eight.” Goddammit, what did Phillip do?
“Nine.” Is this happening to Fred, too?
“Ten.” She spins, and she shoots.
She feels a thud in her arm, and then the pain blossoms outward, and she pitches forward, but she catches herself before she tumbles to the ground.
She realizes that the crossbow has fallen from her hands. That a bolt has ripped a hole in her shoulder.
Half the nobles rush to the prince, who lies motionless on the grass. None rush to her, except Phillip. Why is he still here? He slides his thin frame underneath her uninjured arm, and wraps his own arm around her waist to keep her upright.
“Numbfish venom,” Phillip whispers into her ear, as though that explains why he risked his own life, and her life, and Frederick’s life. “At low doses, after a minute or two, your limbs start to go numb and your reflexes slow down.”
“I can see that,” she observes.
“So you can’t shoot accurately,” he continues. “But in high doses-–in high doses it damages your brain, and your whole body stops moving, and you die. And since Fred–” His voice breaks.
“And since Fred is twice my size, this is an extremely high dose.”
“Yeah. It is.”
He grips her hand, but she barely feels it, and she can’t seem to grip it back.
“Do you have antitoxin?”
He shakes his head. “I took some beforehand. Didn’t seem like a good idea to have any on me. Plausible deniability. You know.”
“I take it that’s also why you didn’t tell me your plan,” she says, or rather tries to say, because she can no longer feel her tongue.
“Yeah.”
“You need to go.”
“I can’t just leave you like this.”
“You have to.” She tries to pull away from him, but her legs won’t obey. She sways, but he catches her before she falls again. She blinks.
“I love you, Serinepth.” He pulls her to his chest and lifts his face to kiss her lips, but she turns her head away. Confusion crosses his face. “Ser?”
“I didn’t want this,” she spits. “Just… just go.”
He lowers her to her knees, and runs.
Serinepth watches blood seep into her silk dress, but her arms won’t obey. She can’t staunch the bleeding.