Fantasy novel | gay romance sub-plot| poc main character.
An heir to a monarchy threatened by a popular revolution forges an alliance with an amnesiac man who could have forgotten links to the rebellion.
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Her...
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1961, Modern Ceri Calendar Year 17 of the 41st Tor
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Heron Her Lomeon |300 years after Rena Dalyr's execution, royal domain of Ceres
"Heron Her Lomeon," the short, slim judge called. He craned his neck up as if to avoid drowning in his heavy black robes. "Formerly known as Heron Ma Servyna. Before adulthood." He scuttled outside of the fighting circle, his robe raking leaves on the ground in his passage.
Heron was stepping inside the redcircle. Still, Master Salmior pushed him. "It will be over in no time," he said, sending him stumbling forward.
He glanced up at the greyness of the sky above. In the east, clouds gathered above the ice-bound peaks of the Cold Range. They grew darker and thicker by the second.
Even if the air remained still in the highlands, where they stood, many shot glances at the mountain range. It would rain, but not fast enough to save him from the embarrassment of the combat.
He was nineteen years old now. One season away from claiming his place in the ruling council of the capital. He couldn't evade enlistment in the military forever. Each start of the solar arc was a reminder. A ticking clock, bringing him closer to Drought season and his trials.
Heron was acutely aware of the presence of dignitaries in the audience. All full of crests and heavy robes, sticking out from the mass of blue guards. Their bored faces were a prelude to what was to come in a few moments-Heron had already lost two of the three battles for the current skirmish campaign. Who expected a surprise this time?
He clutched the hilt of his sword with forced resolve and slid the wooden length out of its scabbard. His hand was stiff against the pommel as if his body refused to be fooled into calmness.
His opponent, Mainor, was a soldier enlisted in the third division of the blue guard. He stood at the opposite edge of the redcircle, adjusting his gambeson and scanning his sword as if looking for rough edges on the wooden length. Acting as if he found no imperfections, he turned to Heron invitingly, holding the weapon with a hand marred with calluses and veins, its tip brushing grass.
Heron could win if he landed the first hit hard enough to disorient Mainor before he could retaliate. But the cruelty of fighting was that knowing things theoretically meant nothing.
Master Salmior had worked his way to the front line of the audience. Looking as proud as ever, he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the brigadier of the blue guard. The scarce light made his red robe a stale brown. He scanned Heron with grey eyes cornered with wrinkles rooted so deeply around his nose Heron could trace them from the battle circle. And Heron could almost hear the old man reciting his mantra of encouragement: the imbalance of skill will push the worst swordsman to his limits enough to progress. Whatever the result, you win something.
