Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [110]
Sarene wasn’t used to sparring with someone as good as Eondel. Not only was he as tall as she was—negating any advantage she had in reach—he had the reflexes and training of a man who had spent his entire life fighting. The two of them pushed through the crowd, using women, chairs, and other random objects as foils for the other’s attack. Their swords cracked and whipped, lunging out and then snapping back to block.
Eondel was too good for her. She could hold him, but was so busy with defense that she had no time to attack. With sweat streaming down her face, Sarene became acutely aware that everyone in the room was watching her.
At that moment, something changed in Eondel. His stance weakened slightly, and Sarene struck reflexively. Her round tipped blade slipped past his defenses came up against his neck. Eondel smiled slightly.
“I have no choice but to yield, my lady,” Eondel said.
Suddenly, Sarene felt very ashamed for putting Eondel in a situation where he had obviously let her win, lest he make her look bad in front of the others. Eondel bowed, and Sarene was left feeling silly.
They walked back to the side of the room, accepting cups from Lukel, who complimented them on the performance. As Sarene drank, something struck her. She had been treating her time here in Arelon like a contest, as she did with most political endeavors—a complex, yet enjoyable, game.
Arelon was different. Eondel had let her win because he wanted to protect her image. To him, it was no game. Arelon was his nation, his people, and he would make any sacrifice in order to protect them.
This time is different, Sarene. If you fail, you won’t lose a trade contract or building rights. You’ll lose lives. The lives of real people. The thought was sobering.
Eondel regarded his cup, eyebrows raised skeptically. “It’s only water?” he asked, turning to Sarene.
“Water is good for you, my lord.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Eondel said. “Where did you get it?”
“I had it boiled and then poured between two buckets to restore its flavor,” Sarene said. “I wasn’t going to have the women falling over each other in drunken stupors while they tried to practice.”
“Arelish wine isn’t that strong, Cousin,” Lukel pointed out.
“It’s strong enough,” Sarene replied. “Drink up, Lord Eondel. We wouldn’t want you to get dehydrated.”
Eondel complied, though he maintained his look of dissatisfaction.
Sarene turned back toward her students, intending to order them to their practicing—however, their attention had been captured by something else. Lord Shuden stood near the back of the room. His eyes were closed as he moved slowly through a delicate set of motions. His taut muscles rippled as his hands spun in controlled loops, his body flowing in response. Even though his motions were slow and precise, there was sweat glistening on his skin.
It was like a dance. Shuden took long steps, legs rising high in the air, toes pointed, before placing them on the floor. His arms were always moving, his muscles stretched tightly, as if he were struggling against some unseen force. Slowly, Shuden accelerated. As if building in tension, Shuden swept faster and faster, his steps becoming leaps, his arms whipping.
The women watched in silence, their eyes wide, more than one jaw gaping open. The only sounds came from the wind of Shuden’s moves and the thumping of his feet.
He stopped suddenly, landing in a final jump, feet pounding to the ground in unison, arms outspread, hands flat. He folded his arms inward like two heavy gates swinging shut. Then he bowed his head and exhaled deeply.
Sarene let the moment hang before mumbling, “Merciful Domi. Now I’ll never get them to focus.”
Eondel chuckled quietly. “Shuden’s an interesting lad. He complains