Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
AUDREY
“Once the seed is planted, do not jostle the soil around it for half a moon cycle, except to remove the weeds in its immediate vicinity with caution.”
~ Growing Greatness: Common Garden Plants in Arcanloc
L ast year, I’d given my favor to a Ltonan. I hadn’t been allowed out of my rooms until I’d sewn a flag for every holding in Arcanloc. Every. Single. Holding. It had been mid-spring when I was done. My fingers hadn’t healed from it until summer.
But I’d been right, damn it. The Ltonan, a second son of a baron from somewhere east of the Citadel, had damn near had Mikus, until Mikus had tripped him over in an illegal move that no one bothered to correct. The La’Angi crowd liked La’Angi fighters…and blood.
“Your big heart’ll get you killed,” Isolde said two rounds later, as the lists dwindled dramatically. “His shield is tighter.”
It was, and the fact didn’t please me. He could’ve played on it and lured Mikus into an attack. That was his strategy, wasn’t it? Anticipate, then overcome. Still, if this was what he did when he was concentrating, I wasn’t overly impressed.
“It’s not my big heart,” I told her, wanting credit given where it was due. “I want to see their faces when Mikus is beaten by a ’Ban knight.”
Isolde snorted. “If he lives, it’ll be by your grace,” she said bluntly. “Again.”
That was an angle I didn’t dislike. And the memory of him lying helpless beneath me was one I was comfortable with.
He was against a borderlands rapier-wielder when I saw him caught up and unable to lure his opponent. In the extended exchange, his bladework was exquisite, his speed excellent, and his footwork more than good. But he used the shield like it was there only to block when he was threatened. Not that I could’ve done better, but I’d seen better. I’d grown up playing on the castle walls while the guardsmen drilled shield walls and spear work. I knew what it was supposed to look like.
How irritating to have chosen a champion who was middling. Still, he’d listened to me, and wasn’t that a nice change?
He walked off the victor of that bout, and I sipped my cider without tasting it.
By the time Chay and Mikus met for the final, I’d predicted a half-dozen rounds prior, my head was pounding, and my eyes felt like they’d been rolling around in a hearth. I was entirely finished with the noise and the movement, with trying to keep track of faces and competitors, and also not fidgeting.
When he got through to the final, I wished I hadn’t drunk anything at all, so knotted was my belly. I still wanted Mikus to lose, but mostly, I wanted it to be quick. I knew better than to twist my hands or stand and cheer. Plenty of others did, even those in the stands. They cawed like crows.
Mikus had reach, strength, experience and, I was grimly confident, the blessing from my father to do as much damage as he could. My hands ached from holding them so still. If I could just have scrubbed at my poor eyes, mayhap it would be less agonizing. Mikus’ mouth was moving, and I knew he wasn’t murmuring poetry, but if Chay cared, I couldn’t tell. My champion kept him moving, evading swing after lunge, returning only a fraction of the man’s attacks.
“He’s looking for patterns,” Isolde murmured to me, the words low beneath the roar of the crowd.
I could see that much. “Is he finding them?” I asked her, unable to pick any out myself. I just didn’t know enough. I hadn’t practiced enough. The frustration prickled under my skin. Of all the combat skills I’d wanted, it was the one I’d never been able to learn. Isolde was an archer. She’d taught me some knife and grappling, and I knew how to throw a punch now, as well as take one.
In a blur of movement, I saw Mikus get up and under Chay’s shield, and I saw it get shoved away. Chay moved in, and a fragile bubble of pride formed in my chest as I watched him drop his shoulder and avoid that attack. He was in range of the knife I knew Mikus kept in his shield.
I’d seen him use it a time or two. Not always on the field, either.
Chay attacked, but Mikus evaded, and they broke apart, neither with the upper hand. “You made use of your time,” Isolde noted, sipping her juice. “Good advice.”
Pride burned painfully bright in my chest, and I couldn’t help but resettle my weight to shift the way it sat behind my ribs, uncomfortable with its pressure. The pattern resumed—Chay testing, Mikus responding, Chay avoiding. My heart didn’t slow to a normal rhythm, though. I didn’t try to respond to Isolde. The roaring had faded around me, or my focus had narrowed. I could see the drips of sweat on their faces, the strength behind those sword swings.
Once, Mikus let his shield drop a little, feigning exhaustion. But Chay didn’t fall for it—if anything, it made him more wary. And when Mikus toed up dirt Chay just backed up until they weren’t near that place anymore.
Isolde glanced down at her juice as she swirled it in her cup. “Did you?” she asked, idly.
She didn’t care if he lived or died. “Yes.” My tone matched hers almost perfectly. I’d warned him. And I was glad, too. I was glad to see the extended show of skill, swordsmanship, and raw physical prowess. And I quite enjoyed seeing Mikus having to work for his victory.
Mikus’ words had become shouts. Foul things about Chay’s parentage, about sex acts with his horse, about his intelligence and body and honor and heart.
None of it seemed to faze Chay. I wondered what one could say if they wanted to spur his temper. We all had something. Apparently, Chay’s something didn’t include public, high-volume discussions of how much of his horse’s ejaculate he enjoyed slathering on his face.
His bladework never faltered. There was a grace to the sword I’d always appreciated. Even knowing it was ridiculous, I felt my lungs burn with Chay, and my legs ache. I could feel the ground beneath my feet, the weight of the shield, and the stifling heat of the padded gambeson sticking to my back. It made sitting still so much harder. I wanted to move with them as they clashed together, hilt to hilt. Chay almost had him but was pushed back by pure brute force, and Mikus maneuvered him into a position that made my gut twist.
Rather than evade, Chay engaged and took a blow to his shield. The force of it echoed in my head, the crash of metal against wood, the head-splitting crack of sound as the wood gave way. Trying to draw in calm breaths, I questioned whether it was possible that my ears were right. The shield seemed whole. I was getting lost in the give-and-take.
Urgency drummed in my veins, my heart was in my throat, but I stayed still as the crowd erupted around me.
Mikus’ leg collapsed and he went down hard on one knee.
Isolde let out a snort, but the cider in my belly rose. I swallowed both it and my heart as Chay leapt forward and Mikus lunged—not exhausted, but luring Chay in close.
My eyes didn’t close, though my mind skipped ahead to frozen memories of other times Mikus had lured people in.
The glistening spill of intestines. The puff of dust as bodies fell.
But Chay knocked aside the attack and moved inside of Mikus’ guard.
The burst of pride was so huge and sudden it made my eyes water. I locked my jaw as he tagged Mikus.
He was my damned champion. Mine .
Everyone saw it. Everyone knew.
The crowd roared, of course. They always did. They preferred blood to skill, but they’d take anything they could get.
My heart seized in my chest as Mikus got up under Chay’s shield, dropped his sword to grab Chay’s arm, and drove his knee into my champion’s chest.
I was on my feet, a scream locked in my throat, hands fisted helplessly in my skirts.
Chay’s elbow snapped up and out, smashing Mikus in the jaw with enough force to make him stagger back. The scream in my throat blocked my airways. Noise surrounded me, a world of shifting, indecipherable fury and hunger.
I sucked in air and fought the battle with that hot ball of feelings, letting myself rock, just twice, foot to foot, before I sat, hunched over that agonizing lump inside of me. Stewards came forward, their steps hesitant, glancing between one another, Mikus, Chay, and my father. The crowd was screaming for more.
I couldn’t take any more.
It was over. Mikus couldn’t go back in and blame it on momentum or not knowing his own strength—Chay was, very clearly, waiting for him to make another pass, regardless of how obvious it would be.
As I watched, Chay kicked Mikus’ blunted sword behind him.
“Well,” Isolde mused. The word came from far away.
Mikus spat a wad of blood, turned on his heel, and stormed off the field. Only then did Chay let the steward take his arm and raise it.
My head swam. The noise was a physical assault, and I was already flayed raw. I closed my eyes and wished it really was done. The banquets, the dancing, the stress, and socializing.
I’d won. Now I just wanted my bed.
Isolde leaned into me, our hips touching. Her presence was anchoring, and I breathed into her, moving the energy slowly through my body.
I opened my eyes to the brightness of the day, the fashionable clothes attached to fashionable bodies, the movement of the crowd, and the reflection off jewelry. It was all too much.
“Eyes straight,” Isolde murmured.
My body was heavy. I kept my eyes forward and drew from her strength, desperate.
Chay was crossing the field. I recognized the way he held himself, the tight line of his jaw, and the way his mouth had opened to suck in small bits of air. I recognized it all too well, and it made me feel hollow.
“Congratulations on your win, sir Chay of West Grenvale,” my father said, and the crowd fell silent, waiting like dogs beside their master for scraps. “Your prowess today is a great honor to my daughter.”
My stomach rolled. Chay’s eyes cut to me, momentarily. The world seemed far away.
I waited for him to refuse, but he didn’t. He just bowed low to me despite the ribs I was sure were cracked, the movement stiff, his face set and pale. I felt the agony in my own chest and wanted to weep.
“Thanking you, Your Grace, my lady.”
But there was no gratitude in the words.