Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
KINGSTON
I come to the tournament focused.
The only option I have. And with no reason not to be.
It's a bit strange, arriving mid-morning for something I'm used to happening at the end of a day, but that's the nature of the Candlemas tournament. Overhead, the banners of the other schools have been unfurled.
Maroon and white for Mountstuart, light and dark blue for Villa Loyola. I'm not particularly worried about either of them. I've studied their foilists, faced them a few times. Tactical, strong, but nothing I can't handle.
I carry my gear past the spectators, instinctively scanning, and there she is, sitting with Morgan, looking unreadable.
She's all right. That's what matters. If I were to rack my brain, search my moral inventory, I don't know that I've done anything wrong.
I don't want to have done anything wrong.
And she trusts me. That's what we need, most of all.
I roll my shoulder against an ache across my chest and proceed to the armorer.
The table is off to the side where it usually is.
The same officials, but twice as many since there are extra fencers on the strip today.
Kai's already there, standing by, tight-lipped and wordless, as the armorer puts the probe into the tip of his saber. The indicator flashes: conductive. The armorer nods, hands it back.
"You're all set."
"Thanks," Kai mutters. He nods at me, barely, as he passes, and I hand over my foils.
The routine is reassuring. Everything in working order.
All my weapons, conductive, my lame, my body wire, functional, ready, safe.
All that remains is for me to use these tools to the best of my ability and for the best of my ability to be the best. Period.
"There you go.” The second armorer folds back my body wire in a loop, hands it to me along with the lame. I gather my foils, nod, and make my way to our staging area.
Kai seems tense. I can feel it in the air between us as much as visually register it.
I know better than to say something, however.
Sometimes tense is what he needs, that coiled spring action.
It's good for saber, an aggressive attack, a quick slash.
Get the first touch and establish momentum.
He knows what he's doing, and I don't want to interfere.
He glances at me. "All in working order?"
When I answer, he's looking out into the stands at Gwenna. "Just fine," I say, shrugging on my jacket and zipping it up.
"Don't forget to warm up."
"I'm plenty warm," Kai mutters.
Callahan’s already on the strip. Jogging. Grapevining his feet back and forth. I lunge, stretch. Work my way methodically through every muscle group. It's going to be a long day.
I glance to the side, and there they are, not all of them, but what looks like the prior-at-arms, certainly, and three attendants with my father.
I bend into a deep lunge and breathe out against the tug on my muscles.
They found nothing wrong. Nothing in that meeting that seemed to miss.
And they shouldn't have. There is nothing wrong.
And yet, when I inadvertently let my eyes drift to the blank mesh of the prior-at-arms' face, I have to wonder.
What we learned as oblates in France is that they hide their faces as an act of humility, to assume a collective identity rather than a singular ego, submission to God and to the great work.
That made sense in the chapel. Even in the chapter house.
But when we were training, when we would stand for hours in the dark, motionless, swords extended, arms taut, muscles quaking with effort, eyes blindfolded…
It did occur to me, it did seem like, perhaps, there was an advantage to it. That we could never be sure where they were looking. That they were always watching. Or never.
I shake away the feeling. Focus. I need to win two bouts. Secure our position in the league standings. The White Brothers will leave. We'll be on track to host the final. And Gwenna and I will...
"Kingston." It's Kai. Mask under his arm. He jerks his head towards the center strip. "They want us to get started. Some kind of prayer or something."
"Right," I say. "Of course, I'm coming."
I straighten up, grab my mask, and the foil—I think I'll start with French grip, I want the extra extension, because Shelton, out of Mountstuart, is a head shorter than I am, and short-limbed, so, any leverage I can give to my reach will be an automatic advantage.
Head buzzing with tactics, I take my place in line with the other three. But when the chattering quiets, and Villa Loyola and Mountstuart part ways to let our Master of Ceremonies in, it's not Father Denis. It's the prior-at-arms.
The murmurs start up again. The back of my neck burns. It is strange, too strange, almost, to have them here. Like in their humility, they almost draw too much attention to themselves. But I say nothing. Just straighten, exhale, inhale. Check the stands again. Gwenna is still there. Still safe.
My father gives the standard words of welcome, the prior-at-arms standing silently behind him. And when he steps forward, he says a prayer, completely in Latin. I bow my head. And when I raise it, the white-robed figure is before the four of us.
"You will do us proud," he says. And waits. A pregnant kind of pause.
Reflexively, I sink to one knee. I glance sideways at the other three, and they follow suit. I bow my head, waiting for whatever he's about to bestow.
He comes to me first. Takes my foil. Holds the handle in one hand, and the tip, the foible, in the other. “Si deus pro nobis, quis contra nos?”
From a small vial, he administers what I realize is holy oil, anointing the tip.
"Amen," I say, make the sign of the cross, and take it back.
He proceeds down the rest. Callahan, and then Lanz. And then we're up and off. The tournament is chaotic, or feels that way. Multiple bouts going at once. Fencers weaving in between, scores buzzing, and officials shouting.
Shelton’s facing Whitford—the foilist from Villa Loyola—so I’m not up yet. Instead, I sit and watch Kai.
"En garde," the official says.
I size up the opponent. Roughly the same size as Kai. Not someone I knew. A freshman, most likely, for Villa Loyola. Keeps energy in his feet. Rocking gently but swiftly back and forth. Kai doesn't move. Tense to the end.
"Fencers ready?"
"Yes," says the Villa Loyola sabrist.
Kai just nods.
"Allez!"
Kai whips forward in a vicious flèche, sailing above the strip and cleanly striking his opponent on the shoulder just as the other sabre lifts his blade. Only one light flares on the scoreboard. Green for left.
But Kai's on the right.
"Touch right," says the official. “Huang one, Pendragon zero. En garde."
Kai gives his arm a firm shake as he goes back to the guard line, muttering something. Take it easy, Kai, I think. A little frustration is tolerable, but there's a thin line between an acceptable reaction and a yellow card. And if anyone's going to cross, it would be Kai.
"Fencerss ready—”
Two nods.
“—allez!”
Again, Kai's aggressive. Two steps and a leap. Huang’s arm whips out, but Kai buries the tip of his saber in the crook of his elbow as it stretches, the blade flexing, just as Huang’s saber finds Kai's chest.
Again, the green light.
"Touch right."
I breathe out. That doesn't look right. I can't be sure. It happened so fast, and I'm not about to challenge the ref without certainty, but something like this is not going to sit well with Kai.
“Huang two, Pendragon zero. En garde. Fencers ready?”
Now Kai is moving behind the line, practically quaking.
Don't, Kai, I think. Stay focused. They're watching.
Everyone's watching. Without even meaning to, I look at the stands again to Gwenna.
She's fixed on him, too, of course. I wish I knew what she was thinking.
I look back to Kai, praying for a clean hit.
"Allez," calls the ref.
This time it's Huang who tries to flèche, leaping, but Kai's faster. He ducks, bends, thrusts upward with the saber, and lands dead center in his chest, skating off the side under his arm with the blade bent. It should have been a touch, and yet...
The scoreboard is dark. Huang lands hard, backpedals to recover, but Kai is motionless. He looks at the scoreboard, looks at the ref.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" he yells.
My heart sinks. Kai, don't, I think, or maybe I say out loud.
"That's the third time in a fucking row,” he cries. “I got a touch. You can't see that?" The ref's eyes narrow. "Are you blind or just paid off? Because this is actually ridiculous."
From the other side, Huang advances, blade down, tentative. “Hey, man, I—”
Kai shoves him in the chest.
“That's it.” The ref sweeps in, arms wide to separate them. He holds up a black card. "Pendragon, out."
A gasp goes up from the crowd. No one's paying attention to the other bouts now. Just this. I get to my feet, throwing a nervous glance to the box. I can't read my father's expression. Certainly not the prior-at-arms. But my stomach is cold.
"Kai," I say urgently, striding to his side. "What are you doing?"
"As if it fucking matters," Kai says. "This is bullshit."
I turn to the ref, anxiously fast. "Wait. Just—wait. I know he shouldn't have acted like that, but clearly there's something wrong with his equipment. You saw that touch—”
"Fencers may always request a reinspection," the ref says. "An outburst like that is not the way to handle this.” He points at me. “You, off the strip. You”—he points at Kai—“out.”
"Please," I say, "if he could just—"
The ref flips around and holds a yellow card in my face. "This is a warning, Pendragon," he says to me. "Do I make myself clear?"
I'm genuinely taken aback. I fall back on my heel, eyes lowered. “I…yes.”
Damn it. I tense my jaw, look at Kai. His face is contorted.
"Whatever." He stomps off back to our bench.