Page 32 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Chapter 17

Duncan

Duncan had seen spectacle before: magnificent balls at Vaelstrom Palace, meticulously planned stately processions for the Three Moons. The Festival of Selvara, however, was something else.

Yesterday’s bouts still replayed in his mind. He despised being in agreement with Oorlon on any topic, but the glima duels, in particular, had indeed caught his soldier’s eye—two short swords and raw strength married to ruthless precision.

Yet it was not their skill but their nature that rattled him most. The fae existed unburdened by the frailties that governed men, and Duncan now understood that he, and all humankind, were only tolerated inhabitants of a continent that had never truly belonged to them.

His wife stepped into the parlor. She wore another of the fae gowns, deep violet silk with silver accents, the fabric falling along her frame in a way that made a sin of her curves.

Duncan inclined his head politely, then looked quickly away. Whatever part of him might have cared for her beauty, he buried it beneath the discipline that had carried him through battlefield, court, and council chamber alike. It was an unreliable thing, best left untouched when duty threatened to overwhelm and so much was uncertain.

Blessedly, Isander arrived at that moment, his presence lightening the mood. They readied themselves and followed a white-robed attendant through the winding stone corridors of Selenar Castle.

The castle felt larger today. Or perhaps it was only the unease born of the Festival’s notions pulling taut in Duncan’s chest, stretching him thin enough to feel every echo.

They were led not to the Norrelian King’s dais, but a few tiers above it—close enough to feel the presence of Oorlon’s court, yet far enough to avoid being pulled directly into its machinations. The blond man from yesterday’s matches rose to greet them. His smile was confident, his bow elegant, his bearing precise. All of it amounted to a near-perfect imitation of a human lord.

But a lord he most certainly was not. At least, he was not the Baron of Netherfen Hallows, and Duncan had known it at once.

Duncan had not seen Pietre derOlpendorf in over a decade. It was possible, he conceded, that years might change a man, that Pietre had found diligence where indulgence had been and honed his skill with the sword to brutal efficiency. But men did not shed twenty years of age in the process. Nor did they acquire a finesse no amount of training could quite produce.

“Your Grace,” the young man said. He looked to be in his mid-twenties. “His Majesty thought you might enjoy watching tonight’s contests in familiar company. We can suffer the festivities together.”

Duncan schooled his expression to mask his thoughts. This development presented both conundrum and complication—and, perhaps, an opportunity. Impersonation of a noble was punishable by death under Vaelclair law. With a single word, he could unravel the charade, conclude Wolmer’s assignment before day’s end, and secure a swift return home.

But where was the true Pietre, and how had this man come to stand in his place? Men did not end up in the wrong skin by accident. Whatever this was, there was more to it.

Duncan chose patience.

He would allow the act to continue until the play revealed its name.

“Indeed,” Duncan said at last with a tight smirk. “Perhaps we might even renew our acquaintance.” He paused, intentionally. “Reminisce.”

Oorlon’s voice rose across the amphitheater, commanding silence. Trumpets blared. Drums rolled. Pairs of silver-haired males moved into the pit, bodies limbering in the dark sand.

The man calling himself Pietre smiled warmly as he gestured toward the seats beside him. “You won’t see me down there tonight,” he said as they sat. “My skill ends where magic begins.” He lifted one hand, palm open, as if to display proof of his limitations.

Duncan offered no reply, but his wife tipped her head, curiosity overriding caution. “Yesterday, at least, victory was clear. One stood, one fell. But tonight, how does one win?”

The imposter’s mouth curved wryly. “At the center of the pit lies a single black diamond. Nearly invisible to the human eye amid the sand.” He nodded toward the arena. “The fae must find it before their opponent, using only power and cunning. No weapons.”

“A mirror opposite to yesterday,” she murmured. Then, after a pause, “And tomorrow?”

The false baron exhaled slowly, as though he had expected the question and hoped it would not come. “There are no contests tomorrow,” he said, keeping his attention on the match beginning in the pit. “Not as you would understand them.” He hesitated, grimaced slightly, then continued, “On the final night of the Festival, the victor earns the rite to mate with Astriyed, the High Priestess of Selvara, in the closing ceremony.”

“Why?” Koraleise nearly gasped.

Duncan smiled despite himself. She never asked idle questions or feared to open doors others preferred sealed.

“The High Priestess,” the man replied, “is believed to be the vessel of Selvara’s magic. The purest female of the Norrelian bloodline.”

“Then the Festival identifies the purest male,” Koraleise concluded. “One who proves himself her equal. The offspring is meant to strengthen the Norrelian bloodline.”

The false Pietre nodded once. “And the fae believe when Selvarath draws closest to Oraith, fertility heightens.”

Duncan’s jaw tightened. To the fae, letting blood dilute was the same as letting power die. Worth flowed from it. Alliances and rivalries sprang from it. They dressed it in devotion and ceremony, but strip that away, and it was only politics and greed.