Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
GWENNA
Over the next thirty-six hours, I get the crash course in fencing I never thought I’d need.
Kai’s given me a drill down on all the different types of weapon: saber (his), epee (Callahan’s), and foil (Kingston’s).
Lanz has given me the rundown on the general shape of the meet—both what I already knew from watching one, and all the intricacies that happen offstage.
And Callahan’s showed me the armories of the safety gear they wear, the jackets with metal thread to record touches, the knee-length trousers—“technically, they’re called knickers,” he says, a smile pulling at his lips—and, of course, the masks, covered in mesh and colored to match the Caliburn red.
“You look like beekeepers,” I say. “Besides, I thought you weren’t trying to hurt people, anyway? What happens if you just don’t wear the mask?”
Lanz and Callahan exchange a look.
“I’ll tell you what,” Kai says, grinning up at me from his crouch. “This.” He claps a hand over one eye and squints. “Remind you of anyone?”
Lanz gives me a tight smile. “That…doesn’t happen much an ymore. In terms of injuries, modern fencing comes behind golf and synchronized swimming.”
Callahan lifts an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Not if you’re doing it right,” Kai grumbles.
In the late afternoon, it’s a dark, blue-purple kind of atmosphere, and the gym is packed. I don’t enter with the rest of the spectators this time, but with the team, sitting off to the side on one of the benches, as everyone around us buzzes with tense, excited energy.
When I’m not carrying in bags, surprisingly light for all the metal inside, I’m scanning the stands for Morgan. Finally, I see her, smack in the middle, wearing a bright red sweater with a heart-shaped windowpane right above her boobs.
“Let’s go, Knights,” she cheers, using her hand as a megaphone.
I bite back a laugh. It’s funny to see her turn into a sudden sports enthusiast.
The only one I haven’t talked to, of course, is Kingston.
Emrys has given us another assignment, but ever since Kingston dismissed me summarily from class on Monday, we haven’t spoken more than two words to each other, which is impressive considering we live in the same house and share an intensive class together.
Maybe it’s for focus, I tell myself, same as last time. He can’t deal with anything schoolwork related until after we’re done, and that would make sense because tonight the banners hanging above are for Caliburn and a school I know only by reputation, the St. Ignaty Seminary.
“They’ve been here for over a week,” Callahan mutters. “Getting over the time change, or so they claim.”
“What, you think they’re spying on us?” Lanz says, smiling, as he buckles on his jacket.
“Yeah, like flying little Sputniks overhead or something?” Kai cracks his neck and traces an imaginary satellite path through the air. “Be for fucking real.” He jump squats and rolls his shoulders out. “I’m gonna turn them into goulash.”
“Goulash is Hungarian,” Callahan says. “Not Russian.”
Kai rolls his eyes. “What fucking ever.”
Amid all the chaos and their joking banter, my eyes drift to the other end of the bench, where Kingston sits, alone, straight backed, focused. His eyes are shut, his palms flat on his knees. And not for the first time, I wonder what it takes to be that dedicated to this sport or to anything.
I’m a passionate person, sure, and can arguably go overboard when I care about something, but not with any kind of regularity.
Not with any system, not with a kind of unyielding dedication that neither rain nor sleet nor dark of night can shake me from.
I love a good Latin translation, but I also love sleeping in on Saturdays, and maybe even cutting class on a warm spring day.
Kingston, though…
My train of thought is cut off by the announcement of the officials. We stand again for the usual ceremonies, the acknowledgements, the opening prayer, and then it’s the first round. Sabre.
I open up the case, but Kai beats me to it. He grins like a devil, rolling his lip ring between his teeth.
“Here we fucking go,” he says, and slips on his mask.
He strides onto the piste like he owns it, blade loose in his hand, easy, until the official calls for them to go en garde, and he’s all tense and taut, like a tiger waiting to pounce.
It’s a bloodbath. From the jump, his movements are aggressive, cutting fast. He wins decisively in what feels like no time, and the crowd roars. It feels different from this side, more energizing, more like, even though I had nothing to do with it, something I earned.
And for all I’ve been trying to shrink out of view, to keep to the side and not have anyone look at me, let alone notice I’m there, I can’t help but sit up a little straighter when Kai swaggers back to our side.
“Nicely done,” Kingston says, the first words I’ve heard him utter all day.
He nods at Kai, who nods back, a rare show of brotherly détente.
“Thank you.”
Kai’s breathing heavy, but grinning like the cat that got the canary, and sits heavily at the end of the bench, swigging from a bottle of water.
“Give him hell out there, O’Brian.”
Callahan, of course, says nothing but thank you as he pulls on his own mask and takes the piste.
This time, it’s slower, more methodical. The St. Ignaty fencer is deft, with a good amount of flourish to his movements that seem to propel him rather than waste energy. And it takes Callahan a while to catch up.
They go touch for touch, until finally he finds his rhythm and racks them up three in a row, a little masterclass in control.
The second round of cheering is more invigorating than the first. I nudge to the edge of the bench and clap wildly, thrilled and proud for him as I was for Kai.
Glowing when I see him slap Lanz’s hand as he pulls off his mask, their eyes locking for just a fraction of a second longer than they might otherwise.
A little bit of a secret only I might know about.
And a strange feeling comes over me. Not a bad one, just…one I don’t know how to parse.
I’m proud of both of them. All of them.
I…like them.
All of them.
Not all in the same way—God, not even close—but it’s there. Something. Affection, attraction, in different ways for the different men—pulling at me or cracking me open, lighting me up or calming me down.
And I don’t know what to make of it.
Don’t know if I should make anything of it.
But it’s undeniable, at least on the inside. Sharp Kai, tender Lanz, stalwart Callahan, and…
In front of us, Kingston takes the piste.
He doesn’t loom over his opponent like Callahan did, or size him up as a psych-out like Kai. He simply stands at attention, eerily still, and precise, and that in itself is a kind of mind game.
“Third bout,” calls the official, “foil. Fencing for Caliburn, Pendragon. Fencing for St. Ignaty, Moroslav.”
The opposing fencer walks out in his gray and gold lamé, and in the half second before he pulls his mask down, I catch a glimpse of his face.
“Him,” I whisper.
“What?” Lanz, who’s closest to my side, whispers back without taking his eyes off the piste.
“I know him,” I say. “The guy Kingston’s fencing. He bought me a cup of coffee in town the other day.” It sounds so weird and improbable that I almost doubt myself as I say the words, but there’s no mistaking him. “Alexei.”
Now Lanz looks at me, his blue eyes round with surprise.
“Alexei Moroslav bought you a coffee?” He sucks in a breath. “I hope you didn’t drink it.”
“Actually, I didn’t.” I think back to Morgan’s warning. Good advice in general, not to take beverages from strange men. But…“Who is this guy?”
“He’s…” Lanz considers. “I don’t know. The second best fencer in our league? After Kingston?”
“The Lex Luthor to his Superman,” Kai mutters from Lanz’s other side, cracking a piece of gum between his teeth. “Or the Kryptonite. ”
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I look back on the piste as Kingston and Moroslav take their places. “Has he ever beaten Kingston?”
“In an official match?” Lanz asks and shakes his head no. “But in exhibition?—”
“Showtime,” Kai interrupts, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees just as the official calls for them to take their places.
Then Kingston moves. He looks at us at the bench and, for a moment, I wonder if I was talking too loud, if I was distracting him from the piste, if I blew it and totally fucked up his focus.
But I didn’t. At least it seems I didn’t.
Because his eyes settle on me, that golden, unwavering gaze, and something absolutely shocking happens.
Kingston Pendragon smiles at me.
Suddenly, I don’t care if anyone else can see me, can perceive my presence or even is flat-out staring at me.
All I know is that looking at me makes Kingston Pendragon happy, and that is a kind of lightness I never could have imagined.
He slips on his mask, and?—
“Allez!”
It’s vicious. Moroslav advances immediately, quick on his feet, with sneaky flicks of the blade and shoulder slams that seem to take Kingston by surprise.
It’s so hard to know. Hard because I don’t fully understand the sport.
Hard because both of their faces are shrouded from view.
And hard because Kingston’s about as easy to get through to as a lead blanket over a brick wall.
But I can still sense something.
That Moroslav is out for blood.
Suddenly, I’m very grateful for the masks.
My eyes flick to the sidelines, where Luther Pendragon sits, watching.
The only person more impassive than his stone-faced son.
And in the split second it takes me to look back at the action, they’ve made it to the other side of the piste, and are coming back .
“Come on, King,” Lanz is muttering next to me, his leg bouncing up and down with nervous energy. “Come on, find his tempo.”
I chew my bottom lip, thinking the same thing, with only half a notion of what it means. Find the tempo, Kingston.