The Boy with the Porcelain Blade Read Free

now, lurking in his shoulders and at the backs of his knees. That was to be expected. He remained standing, kept breathing. The doors to the training chamber opened, yawning wide, creaking on ancient hinges.
    ‘Are you ready to be received?’ said a deep voice. Lucien raised his face, eyes hard.
    ‘I am ready to be received.’
    Lucien stepped into the chamber beyond, chin pulled in tightly, staring out from under his brow. His fingertips rested on the hilt of his blade. Two final diversions raced across his mind before the testing began. The first was of gloves for his icy fingers, the second was of Rafaela.

2
    Ancient Tales
HOUSE CONTADINO
– Settembre 306
    It was a day of many firsts, but Lucien always looked back on it with a feeling of disquiet. The soft innocence of childhood had been snatched from him that day; things would never be the same again.
    He’d started his physical training just after his eighth birthday. The Majordomo had taken to visiting his rooms once a week. The small talk was strained, sparse from the boy, dry from Demesne’s warden. The seasons were on the change, ushering in winter with the shrieks of night-time storms. The days were an endless susurrus of leaves caught in autumnal winds. Lucien wondered if the castle would ever be warm again. He’d have happily stayed in bed until spring, nestled among sheepskins with the fire banked up. He’d not thought it strange to have his own apartment back then. It was all he had ever known.
    The Majordomo entered the sitting room without knocking, as he always did. Lucien glowered at him, setting aside the oversized book of fairy tales. He’d been roused from his bed early that day, taken from sleep by nightmares. The book had been a comfort in the early hours of the new day. The armchair was a small fortress about him. He slunk from it like a reluctant hound, immediately wishing he hadn’t. The Domo was tall in a way that was uncanny in Demesne, perhaps seven feet of ashen robes. His deeply lined face remained hidden under a heavy cowl, only his great chin jutted out, like some work of masonry. A purple rope served as a belt, holding together the many folds of fabric that comprised his attire. Skeletal hands extended from voluminous sleeves, the skin on them stained parchment, busying themselves attending to the fire. Lucien stood rooted to the spot, unsure of etiquette, dread seeping into him for no discernible reason.
    The Majordomo was the voice of the king, that shadowy recluse lurking at the centre of Demesne like a spider in its web. The four houses, and all of the houses minor, paled into insignificance when placed alongside the power and influence of the Domo. And here he was, banking the fire with desiccated hands, nails dirty and cracked. He spoke in a tired drone, like the buzzing of insects, enquiring about Lucien’s studies. He looked ridiculous, hunched down at the hearth – the quality of his robes marked him out as beggar, certainly not anyone of substance. Lucien answered in single stunted syllables, chewed his lip, folded his arms.
    ‘And Professore Virmyre is teaching you well, I trust?’
    ‘Yes, and Maestro Cherubini too.’ Who was far easier to talk to than the stern and unreadable Virmyre.
    ‘And Maestro di Spada D’arzenta speaks very highly of you.’ Just for a second there was the shadow of inflection. Lucien wondered if this was some slight or sarcasm.
    ‘That’s good,’ he breathed, willing the gaunt collection of rags out of his apartment.
    The hooded official finally left, staff beating out a slow percussion on the corridors. Lucien wasted no time finding himself a blanket to nestle under, snug again in the high-backed armchair. The life of an Orfano was a lonely one; he’d nearly finished the book of fairy stories when the next visitor arrived.
    She leaned on the doorway, arms folded across her chest. Her hair was untied, thick corkscrews of rich dark brown falling about a heart-shaped face. Her hazel