The Stolen Prince (Blood for Blood Book 1) by Tom Wright, K.L. Gee

up?” Skeet said between mouthfuls of food.
    “Too dangerous. You would probably get stuck in a wall.”
    “I’m a better vanisher than that.”
    Hakon agreed. He didn’t understand how Skeet was able to vanish into a place he couldn’t see. That was what gave zippers such an advantage over vanishers—they could always sense where they were going and how much space they needed. Porting by any means was dangerous. Material did not move for a porter. If you misplaced your port, you could end up dead or maimed. Any fool could end up losing his foot inside the earth or tree or wall. How Skeet vanished without even seeing where he was going was one of the great secrets kept among vanishers.
    “Good thing the duel is fair.” Skeet said.
    Hakon nodded. A fair duel involved no porting, zipping or vanishing. It was merely a test of strength. Hakon preferred to fight that way. He didn’t want the Terra to find any other reason to distrust him, and having the advantage of an air zipper in a fight would only remind them of their enemy.
    Hakon nodded. “Are you upset it came to a duel?”
    “Honestly, no. I can’t wait to see you beat one of the Winds. They deserve to be humbled.”
    “You think I’ll win?” Hakon was confident in his fighting, but he was nervous. The wound from the tiger was still tender, and the constant drumming would be a considerable distraction.
    Skeet nodded, as if it were obvious. “You had better.” He swallowed the rest of his food and got to his feet, turning to Hakon. “I think you had better practice.” Skeet turned to the rest of the boys gathered around where their tribe was eating. “Don’t you think, Kaldin?”
    Hakon’s fellow hunters hooted and stood to their feet. Hakon smiled—the sparring would be a good distraction.
    Hakon got to his feet and faced Skeet, crouching. If Hakon wasn’t against a serious opponent, he might have laughed. Skeet looked like a wildcat before it pounced. They were taught that way, to imitate their surroundings. They were a people hardened by their environment, made from it, carved from it like wood. A deep swelling of love overcame Hakon for the Terra, but it was accompanied by a type of festering—a bitterness that sprung from the feeling of being used. They had never kept it secret from him, and it had never really angered him. Not until now.
    Hakon made the first advance. He never liked waiting. Skeet dodged him, grabbed his left arm quickly, and spun Hakon, throwing him over his back and onto his feet. Hakon relaxed, letting Skeet flip him, but as he spun, he pulled his legs underneath himself and pushed Skeet’s knees out. Skeet was now on the ground, and Hakon let him recover rather than let the fight end as quickly as that. Skeet laughed as the wind returned to his lungs. “Knocked the wind out of me! Get it? Knock the Winds… the Three Winds?”
    “Hilarious, Skeet.”
    Skeet got to his feet and tagged in another boy. Hakon fell into meditation as opponent after opponent advanced. He managed to block any attacks aimed at his wounded leg, and the meditation helped him ignore the drumbeat throbbing inside his head. Finally, the number of groaning wounded was greater than attackers. Hakon could feel his confidence growing.
    Winning reminded him of his own abilities. He felt powerful, like the royalty he was marked to be. He could hold onto this power, even though he was uncertain about everything else the future might bring.
    Skeet returned to fight him one more time. He was all laughs and grins as he cheated and vanished away from Hakon’s advances.
    “You’re cheating,” Hakon noted.
    “I wouldn’t put Bavol past cheating.”
    Hakon paused, watching Skeet closely. He knew Skeet’s tremors well—the small uncontrollable twitch a person makes before they port. It didn’t matter if they were a vanisher or zipper; everyone had their own unique signature. Hakon watched, saw Skeet twist his right foot ever so slightly. Hakon leapt at