Authors: Jacqueline Carey

Tags: #High Fantasy

Kushiel's Scion (33 page)

BOOK: Kushiel's Scion

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Betimes I wondered who the Queen wished to see victorious.

A date for our bout was fixed. It was to take place on the Palace grounds, followed by a picnic on the greensward. I found myself hoping for rain, but no; the day dawned fair and bright, promising a hint of warmth. There would be no delay.

For the first time since Balm House, dread made a lump in my belly. I curried the Bastard myself that morning. He was in high spirits, eager and restless. On the ride to the Palace, the lump in my belly made its way to my throat. "I'm sorry," I whispered, leaning forward in the saddle. His spotted ears flicked backward in response. "I'm so sorry."

Phèdre glanced at me and shook her head.

There was a considerable crowd assembled on the greensward; almost all the young gentry, and the Queen and Cruarch themselves. The grounds had been made festive, with a dais and chairs for select guests. Cheers greeted us as I rode the Bastard onto the field, where he would be held as my stake in the wager. He pricked his ears and pranced as though on parade.

"Cousin!" Mavros Shahrizai hailed me. He crossed over to us with his easy feline grace and put one hand on the Bastard's bridle, a glint of amusement in his dark blue gaze. "As a kinsman, I'd be honored to hold him for you."

"My thanks," I said glumly, dismounting.

"Not at all." He looked curiously at me. "Any chance you'll win?"

"A very slight one." I eyed him. "Did you place a wager on me?"

He pursed his lips. "Not exactly."

"Thanks," I said. "I appreciate the nod of confidence."

Mavros shrugged. "Look, Imri, I've seen you spar with Joscelin and I'd back you against Bertran or Julien or any of that lot. But you're not a real Cassiline, and the Dalriada learn to fight as soon as they're weaned." He glanced over at Eamonn, who was conversing animatedly with Marguerite Grosmaine. "He's already killed two men, did you know? Some tribal spat or other."

"I killed a man, once," I said.

"You did?" Mavros shot me a startled look. "When?"

"When I was ten." It was true, too; or almost. I stabbed Fadil Chouma, the Menekhetan slaver who bought me from the Carthaginians, in the thigh with a carving knife. Phèdre told me in the zenana that the wound took septic later, and he died of it. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. We're using wooden blades, not real ones."

"Yes," Mavros said thoughtfully. "Prince Eamonn was most disappointed."

Indeed, he greeted me with it.

"Prince Imriel!" Eamonn called in his Eiran lilt. "I thought we were to have a bout!" He glanced at the wooden sword in his hand, coppery brows knitting in perplexity. "These are children's toys. How are we to have a proper fight?"

"I'm already risking my horse!" I said in exasperation. "Do you want to take my head as well?"

"Ah, no!" His eyes widened. "Not on purpose."

In the end, Drustan intervened, explaining to Eamonn in the Eiran tongue—which I nearly understood, it being a dialect of Cruithne—that Queen Ysandre did not take kindly to the notion of either her kinsman's or her guest's blood being shed for sport.

Resigned, Eamonn shrugged. "Well, then," he said, removing his gold tore and giving it unto Drustan's keeping. "I will honor my wager with children's toys."

It was, I thought, an unfair assessment. A fine pair of practice-blades had been commissioned for the occasion, carved of solid walnut with gilt inlay on the carved hilts. A pair of wooden bucklers had been provided, too. Eamonn's was painted green and bore the device of a white horse; mine was blue, with the silver swan of House Courcel. He slid his left forearm through his shields straps, testing the heft of it. I ignored mine.

"No shield?" His brows arched pointedly.

I shook my head, checking the buckles of my vambraces. They weren't real ones, but were made of boiled leather, thick and sturdy. I wore them when Joscelin and I sparred, and the leather was scuffed and scarred.

"Ah." Eamonn glanced over at Joscelin, comprehension dawning. "He has trained you, your foster-father? Perhaps this will be fun after all!"

It took some time before everyone was settled to their satisfaction; members of the royal family, their kin and valued friends seated, others grouped around in a loose circle, jostling for the best view. Mavros stood off to one side, holding the Bastard's reins. He jingled his purse and pointed at me with a meaningful look. I could see my other friends laughing and conferring, caring only for the spectacle.

I did not dare look at Phèdre, knowing she thought this was a foolish endeavor; nor at Joscelin, for fear I would let him down. On the dais, Ysandre looked calm and resigned. Drustan, having taken custody of Eamonn's tore, appeared to take a lively interest in the proceedings. Sidonie, seated at her mother's side, seemed bored. Only Alais, knotting her hands under the wolfhound Celeste's collar, watched me with a worried, anxious look.

I smiled to reassure her, blowing her a kiss.

"The little princess." Beside me, Eamonn chuckled. "She's… what is the word? Clever. I like her very much."

I bristled. "Let her be! She's only a child."

"Dagda Mor!" He blinked at me. "Of course. She's like one of my little sisters. What did you think I meant?"

"Nothing," I muttered. "Never mind."

"You D'Angelines are strange," Eamonn commented. "I'll tell you, though, her older sister's a right bitch."

I bit my lip to keep from laughing.

"What is it?" Eamonn asked. "Is that not the word?"

"Oh, no," I said. "It is, most assuredly."

We had already agreed on the proceedings. Drustan nodded at an attendant, who struck the bronze gong he held. Eamonn and I stepped back and faced one another.

The world shrank, dwindling to hold just the two of us. I watched him settle on the balls of his feet, moving lightly, and thought I may have underestimated his speed. He brought his buckler up, guarding his vital parts. He held his wooden sword in a deceptively gentle grip. I was clutching mine with both hands, too tight, my palms already sweating. We gazed into one another's eyes, each trying to read the other.

The gong sounded again.

Eamonn burst forward at me with a wild shout, shield high and sword low. Only my Cassiline-trained reflexes saved me; and just barely, at that. I chopped down hard and away, deflecting his blade, but the upper edge of his buckler caught me on the chin. It knocked me off balance and it was all I could do to absorb the blow, letting myself fall and somersault backward, coming to a crouch and launching a sweeping strike at his shins.

He dodged away from it, laughing. I got to my feet, sword angled before me.

"Are we fighting or dancing?" Eamonn asked.

"You tell me," I said, going on the offensive.

Within moments, I realized I should have spent my practice sparring with an opponent other than Joscelin. In truth, Cassiline sword-play was like dancing. The steps of the forms were intricate, one flowing into the other. "Telling the hours," they called it, each motion designed to defend or attack a segment of a sphere, even as the gnomon's shadow sweeps around the face of a sundial. I knew the twelve basic forms well enough, and the strokes that accompanied them.

Eamonn didn't.

And I couldn't predict his reactions; I had gotten too accustomed to the Cassiline style. In earlier days, I had spent time sparring with Ti-Philippe and Hugues that I might learn to handle myself against conventional opponents, but in the past year I had spent most of my time with Joscelin. And this was very different.

The buckler was the worst of it. Given his reach, I couldn't figure out how to get past it. After his initial onslaught, Eamonn settled into a surprisingly patient defense. I circled around him to the left, flickering quick blows at him. He turned in a slow circle, deflecting them with the shield, letting me tire myself and grinning at me all the while. Every now and then he would surprise me with a parry, and there was so much force behind it, it nearly tore the wooden blade from my hands. There was no question I was outmatched in sheer strength.

At first, the watchers cheered and shouted at each exchange, but as our bout wore on and on, their interest waned. The sun stood high overhead and the day was growing warmer. I began to grow hot and tired and careless, recovering slowly and leaving myself open.

And Eamonn began to press me.

There was no finesse to it. He merely hacked at me. But he had the advantage of height and reach and strength, and as I parried blow after blow, my arms became leaden.

"Had enough?" he asked cheerfully.

I shook my head. Sweat dripped into my eyes. I swiped one forearm over my brow, and barely parried in time as Eamonn lunged forward. I disengaged, spinning away from him.

"No," I said, panting. "You?"

He beat the flat of his wooden blade on his shield, then spread his arms wide. "Come and get me, D'Angeline!"

I glanced over at the Bastard, his spotted hide vivid against the greensward. And then I looked at the dais, and for the first time, at Phèdre. She was watching intently, chin in her hand, her expression unreadable. I thought about how many times she had defied her adversaries' expectations; refusing to acquiesce, refusing to surrender to despair.

That which yields is not always weak.

For the first time in our bout, I began to think.

I launched a blistering attack on Eamonn, forcing him to block me high and low. He grunted as he caught the strokes on his buckler. It had to have taken a toll on him, that long, patient defense. And then I let myself sag, lowering my guard. When he gathered himself to hack at me, I began a slow, careful retreat.

It went on for a long time. I feigned stumbles and offered false openings, recovering in the nick of time. I parried with the merest flick of the wrists I could manage, hoarding my strength. Step by step, I lead Eamonn mac Grainne on a dull, wearying dance back and forth across the greensward, and I watched his grin fade, replaced by exhausted frustration. He grew slow to raising his buckler, and I began to attack him once more.

How long it lasted, I could not say. It felt like hours.

Our audience jeered and made catcalls and eventually lost interest altogether, except perhaps for a few. Locked together in a private world, Eamonn and I continued to trade blows, sweat-drenched, moving as slowly as one does in a dream.

In the end, I got inside his guard, beating his sword aside; but once I had gotten there, I lacked the strength to regroup. Keeping his sword-arm pinned low and outside, I leaned against his shield, breathing hard. Both of us were swaying on our feet, nearly holding each other upright.

"Truce?" Eamonn said hoarsely.

"Truce," I agreed.

With a groan, he dropped onto the grass and sprawled on his back. I dropped beside him, staring at the blue sky, my chest heaving. I could not remember being more exhausted, not even after helping clear the new pasture in Montrève.

"Imri?" Alais' face appeared in my field of vision, disconcertingly inverted. "Is it a draw, then?"

Too weary to speak, I nodded.

"Oh, good!" Her upside-down face vanished, and I heard Drustan proclaim the match a draw to a fresh round of jeers. I was too tired to even consider rising.

Beside me, Eamonn began to chuckle. "Good bout," he said.

I turned my head toward him. "Not bad."

Lying on the grass, too weary to move, both of us laughed like idiots. Phèdre was right, it was a foolish and unnecessary thing we had done; but it was a glorious one, too. And somehow in the process, we had become friends.

Chapter Nineteen