Thirty-one
The sun was peeping over the horizon when Jonathan walked from the tent. He squinted against the bright light as Menar pushed a cup of warm dark red drink into his hand. A faint floral scent wafted on the steam curling in the morning air.
“You are ready?” Menar asked.
Jonathan shrugged and took a sip. “I haven’t had karkade in years.”
Made from dried hibiscus and tart on the tongue, it chased away the last traces of fatigue, but the boulder in his stomach didn’t budge. He never should have agreed to bring Evangeline on this search. It had been selfish, wanting more time with her before she learned the truth about him.
“Remember your promise,” he said to Menar.
“You will not die. Dakan show mercy, but needs to restore family honor.”
In other words, don’t beat him—if it was even possible. After the warrior’s humiliating loss last night, not only did he want to avenge his brother, he had to restore his standing among the Semkari.
This was a hell of a precarious position, but better Jonathan than Wedmore.
“But if I die, do you promise to escort my wife and her uncle to the mountain pass?”
Menar scowled. “I gave word, but you live.”
A rustling at the tent entrance made them turn. Evangeline and Kiya stepped outside. Evangeline was dressed in her travel clothes. Kiya spoke rapidly to Menar. He dipped his head, a crimson blush staining his cheeks.
Jonathan offered his cup to Evangeline. “Good morning.”
She took it with shaky hands, and he wanted to wrap her in his arms.
“We go now,” Menar said.
“May I have a moment alone with Evangeline?”
Menar’s jaw set stubbornly. Kiya grabbed his forearm and urged him to walk toward the center of the camp. “You meet us there,” she called over her shoulder.
With the sunrise at her back, Evangeline’s curls glowed reddish gold. Her tongue darted across her lips. “You don’t have to do this. We can find another way to free Uncle Charles.”
He stepped closer to cradle her face, his fingers resting against the delicate column of her neck. “This is the only way, and it must be me.”
“I’m sorry.” Tears welled in her beautiful blue eyes. “This is my fault.”
“Stop.” He leaned forward to kiss her cheek. She exhaled and closed her eyes.
When she turned into him, he kissed the corner of her mouth on the opposite side. Her pulse drummed beneath his fingertips, matching his own.
“I truly love you,” he whispered.
“Then don’t leave me.”
He swallowed hard and pressed his lips to her forehead, lingering as he savored her scent. She was everything, and she would be ripped away from him too soon.
“We—” He cleared his throat. “We should go before anyone realizes Menar and Kiya left us alone.”
With a sigh, she set the cup on the ground before taking his hand.
“Menar advised me to let Dakan win,” he said, keeping his voice low as they walked toward the center of the camp. He couldn’t be sure how many of the Semkari understood English.
She stopped in her tracks, pulling him to a halt. “He’s wrong.”
“He knows his own people, love.”
“You must fight to win. Otherwise, everyone will know, and he will be humiliated again. At the end, when he’s tired, give him the victory. Remember what I said about watching his eyes. He was sloppy last night. I don’t think he’s as experienced as some of the others, despite his standing.”
He grimaced. “I understand.”
A large crowd had gathered around the circle where the exhibition fights were held the night prior. Jonathan recognized some of the faces as the musicians who had played with him. The kettle drummer acknowledged him with a brief nod.
The First Matron sat on a throne beneath a canopy with Evangeline’s uncle seated at her feet. Evangeline tensed when she spotted him. Charles Wedmore’s frame was thin, and he looked even frailer than he had the day prior. If he had the strength to walk out of here at the end, it would be a miracle.
Kiya approached them. “Nekara invites you to watch from her tent.”
Turning her back to her uncle, she met Jonathan’s gaze. “Please convey my gratitude for the kind invitation, but I want to stay close to my husband.”
Every time she claimed him, a dull pain throbbed in his chest. The charade would end soon, and he would be alone again.
“Nekara will be pleased,” Kiya said and stayed by her side.
Dakan entered the circle. His stony expression was different from his rage last night, but it simmered below the surface. Jonathan could feel the vibrations in his own body. A tensing of his muscles. The quickening of his breath.
His opponent was younger than he had looked in the firelight. Nineteen or twenty at most. Jonathan would need to pace himself or he would run out of stamina first. He was a few inches taller, though, and had the advantage of a longer reach.
Menar looked at the younger man and scoffed, then handed Jonathan a staff and short sword for the scabbard that was strapped around his waist.
“Not sharp for battle, but draws first blood.”
Jonathan sheathed the sword. “Any last advice?”
“Do not die.” Menar slapped him on the shoulder.
“Brilliant. Thanks.”
Menar laughed and joined the ladies on the sidelines.
An older man stepped into the circle to address the audience.
Menar had explained earlier that one of the elders would state the rules.
When he said Dakan’s name, the warrior threw his head back and roared.
The crowd cheered. Dakan ran around the circle, beating his fist against his chest, riling up the audience even more.
When he stopped in front of Jonathan and spat on his boots, Jonathan didn’t flinch. He might have to lose to this arrogant arse, but Dakan would get the fight he was spoiling to have.
“Well, that was just rude,” Evangeline said, nearly making Jonathan break into a smile.
The elder spoke sharply to Dakan, and he retreated to his side of the ring. A hush descended over the crowd. The elder looked at Jonathan, then turned to Dakan as he raised his fist in the air. The morning chill dissipated. Faces blurred into the background.
“Vahk!”
Dakan bolted toward Jonathan with his staff raised. Jonathan weaved left. The weapon whooshed past his shoulder. He spun and flicked his own staff across the back of the other man’s thighs. The crowd laughed, and Dakan howled in rage.
Jonathan shrugged. “That’s for spitting on my boots.”
Dakan shifted his feet, swinging the staff in an arc. Jonathan dropped to the ground as it whipped over his head. He hopped to his feet in time to block another axing chop. The crack of wood against wood echoed through the air. The crowd murmured their approval.
Dakan glanced at Jonathan’s lower leg a fraction of a second before jabbing the staff at his ankle. Jonathan jumped aside and stomped it. The tip splintered.
Fire flared in Dakan’s eyes. He flung the staff aside and jerked his sword from its sheath. Jonathan leapt back as Evangeline yelled, “Watch out!”
He threw his staff aside and gripped the hilt of his sword. Dakan charged him, but Jonathan moved at the last second. He danced around the circle while Dakan attacked over and over, blocking most swings or ducking.
Beads of sweat ran down Jonathan’s face. He swiped them away with the back of his sleeve. Dakan was breathing hard.
Jonathan attacked, swinging his sword wildly. Dakan stumbled back, but he met every hit. Metal clanged against metal. A low rumble traveled through the crowd.
Dakan’s footwork grew sluggish; his attacks were less powerful. Jonathan’s heart was pounding in his ears. He met Evangeline’s gaze. She inclined her head.
Now.
He retreated, allowing his opponent to go on the offensive. This time when Dakan swung for his middle, Jonathan didn’t jump back far enough. The tip of the blade sliced through his shirt. Fire streaked across his abdomen, and he hissed.
Dakan stooped over, hands resting on his thighs as he panted.
“Jonathan!” Evangeline rushed into the ring.
He looked down. Red was soaking through his dingy shirt, spreading.
Dakan thrust his sword overhead and bellowed in victory. The crowd cheered, surging forward to surround him. When they lifted him on their shoulders and carried him away, Evangeline ran to Jonathan’s side.
“Let me see.”
“It’s nothing,” he said as she grabbed the hem of his shirt and pushed it high on his chest to run her finger parallel to the cut.
“It isn’t too deep, but it could still fester.” She held his hand. “Come with me. Kiya will take us to the healer.”
“No, we should leave quickly.”
“Nekara still has my uncle. We must do as she says and see the healer.”