Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [90]
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