by Elise Kova
“If you win!”
Raylynn now had double the incentive in the fight—not that she would have given less than her best if the circumstances didn’t involve—she did a quick mental calculation—enough gold to see her roomed and fed for the next two months, easy. If there was one thing that would make her mother come back from the Father’s halls and slay her, it would be approaching a fight with anything less than perfect intentions to win.
The shifting of bodies beyond the ring, the cheers, the murmurs, the jolly chatter all faded to a mellow bass-rhythm. It thrummed against her eardrums and melted away like winter frost. All Raylynn listened for was the clang of the bell.
It cracked through her mind with precision, and Raylynn sprung forward before the large man even had a chance to realize what was happening. The oaf barely had time to bring up his weighty sword and deflect her strike. She huffed in frustration that the fight wouldn’t be over in mere moments.
Her sword rang from the parry. It hummed with a frequency that told her to swing the blade up and over—to strike wide. The man’s steel sung in a dissonant harmony, less affected by her thinner weapon. Her sword didn’t like the feeling of his edge on her, and Raylynn took heed.
She half-jumped backward, shifting her grip just slightly to disengage the man’s attack with a u-shape dip of her sword point. She knew that by leaning into the lunge and allowing the momentum to carry her, she could gain the advantage of a side swipe.
The brute shuffled, seeing her ploy; his feet ground warnings against the packed earth of the ring that echoed loudly in her ears. Raylynn tried to right herself, but he caught her sword arm. The man gave her a tug, thinking he could bring her to him and his blade.
Raylynn knew she couldn’t out-strong the man—which meant she had to use his strength against him. So she allowed herself to be pulled, twirling inward and bringing her opposite elbow up and into his jaw. It cracked, and the snap made room for a chorus of cheers to enter back into her mind.
The crowd was loving the fight. She always made for a good show, the mysterious underdog who foolishly pitted herself against the favorite and then put up a challenge. More than put up a challenge—she won.
Reeling, the man relinquished his hold on her, and Raylynn rolled onto the balls of her feet, half dancing away. The movement allowed her to take a quick reassessment of the situation and how it had evolved. She flipped her sword once, whacking his hand with the flat of the blade. A cock of her wrist, and the edge barely bit into his flesh.
The oaf was stubborn and proud. He had the labored breathing of a man determined, but a man who wasn’t about to get what he wanted. Raylynn inhaled through her nose, exhaling through her mouth in a counter beat. If he was high, she would be low. They would sing in different registers until she drowned him out.
He swung, a little too wide, frustration at his missing blows making him clumsy. Raylynn dodged easily. The song was beginning to sing for her and only for her. It was too late to try to stop it.
Another clumsy attack. Another deft parry. They matched blow for blow, strike for strike.
Raylynn let it carry on just long enough that he was goaded into making the mistake she was waiting for. She stepped in, using their height differences to her advantage. He couldn’t navigate her proximity fast enough, and Raylynn pressed the point of her blade into his neck.
“Not your day.” She grinned, holding the position just long enough for the bell to chime once more.
Panting, Raylynn stepped back, running a hand through her sweat-slicked hair. She invited the room back into her, the noise filling her mind with information. Viewers seemed to be split between excitement at the newcomer besting the favorite and those bemoaning having bet way too much on what was “certain to be a sure thing.”
She started for the edge of the ring, her job finished.
“Wait, wait!” The betting master held up his hands, barring her exit. “You-you didn’t represent yourself properly. You cheated. I can’t be expected to pay out.”
“I told you I had experience with the sword and that I fought in rings for money.” She sheathed her blade. It was tiresome, but it was not the first time she’d had this particular discussion about her qualifications before and after stepping into the ring. It always happened during an upset.
The betting master chewed it over, handling the truth better than most. “Then how about double or nothing? Prove it’s not a fluke.”
That brought a chuckle to her lips. “Who did you have in mind?” It wasn’t in her nature to refuse basically free gold.
“Allon, would you care to fight the lady?” the betting master called to who Raylynn could only presume was another prized fighter.
The man shook his head, not shouting to broadcast his refusal to the room.
“Limmin?”
“Did you see her fight?” the other man smartly declined.
“Seems like you don’t have anyone to take this wager.” Raylynn shrugged. She had made enough as it was. Especially if she was taking a cut of the prince’s winnings.
“I’ll challenge her,” that same prince called suddenly.
Raylynn put a hand on her hip, looking dully at the royal, already hoisting his muscled frame into the ring.
“My prince—”
She held up a hand, silencing the gambling master. Raylynn drew her sword, switching it through the air with a flick of her wrist. The motion carved a grin from the prince’s lips.
“If I win, you owe me all your winnings from the last fight.”
“And if I win, you join my personal guard.”
Raylynn arched her eyebrows. The words struck a cord with her, beyond the fact that it was hardly a fair exchange. A handful or three of gold did not equal a life of service to the crown. She knew that better than anyone. It was a fool’s wager.
“I accept.” Knowing the foolishness of the bet didn’t make it any more difficult to accept it. There was no way she’d lose.
3. Baldair
This woman got more interesting by the moment. She moved like water and stood like steel. She was graceful, but nothing about her seemed delicate. This Lady R would outshine any of the actual formal ladies of the Southern Court with the same ease she was brushing off his challenge. Of that, Baldair had no doubt.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Erion half-leaned over the railing to hiss his endless worrying. “I do not think it is quite appro—”
“Aren’t I the prince?” Baldair grinned at him.
“Yes, but—”
Erion scowled as much at Baldair’s patronizing look as he did at being interrupted a second time. “Then I think I get to decide what is and isn’t appropriate.”
“Now, now, Erion, let’s not get in the way of our prince when he so clearly wants to sink his sword into the lass.”
Baldair roared with laughter. Jax was always good for levity in any situation, even when it was utterly uncalled for. Which, in truth, made his inappropriate jokes all the more amusing.
“Are you boys quite done?” the swordswoman drawled. There wasn’t the slightest offense in her voice at the not so subtly lewd jest. “Don’t let me get in the way,” she continued when she had their attention. “I don’t want to make either of you lads jealous because your prince wants to play swords with me instead.”
This woman would fit in with their lot quite well, Baldair deemed. He could think of no one he would want to bring to war with him more than a lovely lass with a sharp tongue and sharper sword. Even better was that she knew how to use both.
“Well, should we assume the position?” Baldair motioned toward the center of the ring where the two duelists usually began.
“At your leisure.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever operated at a man’s leisure in your life.” Baldair had met countless women over the years, and they all had one thing in commo
n: he could have them begging for more without giving them anything to begin with. This woman was clearly different. She was making him work for every look, and the effort was a new delight.
“I let them think I do.”
“I doubt that as well.” The comment earned a smirk. Baldair turned to the ringmaster. “Any time.”
The man clearly had reservations. Baldair tried to stand as tall as he could, squaring his shoulders. He ignored the snicker he could swear he heard from under Lady R’s breath at the sight.
Despite having hit a growth spurt that promised him nearly Jax’s height and twice Erion’s muscle, Baldair still felt like a child wearing his father’s shoes. He was growing into his frame and his voice had always mustered the ability to echo throughout rooms. But he still fought to hide the unease that the idea of commanding people, truly commanding them over something important, still brought him.
The ringmaster, obedient and begrudging, turned to the bell.
Baldair refocused his attention on the woman before him, and the way he saw her shifted like a mirage in the desert. Where he had seen a vision of beauty, the promise of talent, an amusement to fill his evening, now stood a swordswoman. The ring fell away, one person at a time, until all that existed was him and her.
He watched the tension coil in her muscles, the slow sink of her knees, the transfer of weight toward the balls of her feet. She moved slowly to him, his eyes trained on every fiber-twitch of her muscles. Baldair didn’t even hear the bell ring. He knew it had been rung by the way the tendons in her wrist protruded suddenly, her grip tightening, telling him she was about to strike.
Baldair met her attack—a dropped slash pulled into a forward jab—with a well-placed parry. Using the way her sword bounced off his to predict her flow of momentum, he side-stepped, nearly flanking her. The lady ducked under his attack, scrambling away with a palm on the ground.
A lot of theories on swordplay had been espoused to him over the years, but no words lived up to what Baldair saw. No amount of footwork could prepare him for the unique blend of experiences and techniques that lived in every opponent he faced. The only thing that could was keeping both eyes open, seeing through the person into the will that drove their sword.
So long as he did that, he could see every movement before it happened.
They fell into step. A flurry of blades, a series of jabs, feet and arms and bodies that almost touched in twists and turns and close calls that gave the appearance of a more significant danger than either were actually in. In actuality, the two of them had an extraordinary amount of control—one of the few areas Baldair could boast control in.
He wouldn’t so much as nick her, not even with the heft of his blade, unless he chose to. She was clearly a woman of precision with years of practice, so he felt assured in much the same. It was rare for him to meet so well-matched an opponent—to engage a partner not holding back out of false obligation to him as the prince, or one so clumsy that it was nearly distracting.
It was a welcome change.
Baldair caught a glimpse of her face in a turn. Sweat beaded off her cheeks and shimmered at her brow. Her ocean-colored eyes were alight, her dusky lips parted in a pant, curling in something that looked like pleasure.
The prince’s lips pulled upward in a smile of his own, a shared secret they kept between them. Her gaze held his, and by the time he recognized the feeling of her palm sliding up his forearm, the damage had been done.
She’d stolen his eyes and with it his mind.
The point of her sword pressed under his jaw, right by the dimple of his chin. Baldair swallowed, entranced all the more at the sudden realization that she’d bested him. The room was inked back into existence with broad strokes of his consciousness as he took in the sight around him once more.
Lady R eased away, sheathing her sword. The only sound was the dirt that ground under her boots as she strolled over to the point at which she’d entered the ring.
Baldair rubbed his neck with a wild grin. He broke the silence by bringing his hands together, clapping furiously.
“Well done!” he roused the room to join him from their stunned and uncertain silence at the prospect of cheering for someone who bested an Imperial prince. “To the victor this evening, well done.”
The woman gave one more sly look, a tuck of her hair behind her ear, a mocking bow of her head, and then collected her pouch of earnings and disappeared without further word.
4. Baldair
He continued to stare at the space she had just vacated. It took him a leisurely few seconds of distraction to leave the ring and return to where his friends stood. She had utterly disarmed him in every literal and metaphorical meaning of the word.
Baldair accepted his flagon back from Erion or Jax or whoever handed it to him. He rested his elbows on the wall around the ring, continuing to stare, wishing she was there again.
Where had she gone off to? Where did a fighter like that live? Where did she train? How had she learned what she knew?
The questions rattled around in his mind, making up for the lack of rattling in his coin purse after he had lost most of his gold for the evening. He rolled the flagon back and forth in his hands, utterly uninterested in its now-warm contents. If he pursued, would he find her again? Or had he missed his chance? Had he found a swordswoman like that only to lose her to the same grand and perhaps cruel mystery that had brought her into his life?
Baldair finally took a sip of the lukewarm ale, finding himself just distracted enough for it to be palatable. The woman had certainly done a number on him if he was being so philosophical.
A hand waved itself in front of his eyes. “Baldair, Baldair… Erion, I fear we’ve lost him.”
“Then leave him be, I am hungry.” His friends’ words slowly filtered back to him.
“Come now, our lovestruck puppy, even you need chow.” Jax wrapped an arm around his shoulders, which Baldair promptly shrugged off.
“I’m not lovestruck.” He laughed at the idea. She was entrancing, certainly. But love? That was an emotion he had never quite indulged in any form. There was too much to experience, too many people to meet. Love meant being tied down, and stripping your future of all there was to learn from the people—and specifically, the women—of the world.
“Lust-struck, then?” Jax clarified with a chuckle of his own.
That Baldair couldn’t outright deny.
“Could you be growing up, my prince?” Erion used the appropriate titling, but nothing about it sounded respectful. “To be—how did you put it, Jax? Lust-struck? And not be chasing after the skirt? I am quite proud.”
“And perhaps a little preemptive,” Baldair corrected with a smug grin. He had been thinking about it, but hearing Erion voice the words made the idea sound all the better.
“Baldair—”
“It’ll just take a moment!” he called, already breaking away from his friends and working his way outside.
It was more than just a moment, all told. Baldair asked three different fighters, the owner of the establishment, and the betting master, but none of them seemed to have any idea who Lady R was or where she came from. Worse yet, it seemed the woman had not been seen in the Crossroads prior to this duel; most chalked it up to her being a drifter of some variety. Likely even an outlaw.
Dejected, Baldair returned to Jax to find Erion inexplicably vanished.
“He was hungry and went on ahead,” Jax explained, pushing away from the wall he’d been leaning on.
“Ahead to where?” Baldair asked, burying his hands in his pockets.
“Over there.” Jax pointed to a small stand on the outside of a humble establishment down the road from the dueling ring. “I take it no leads on your Lady R?”
“She’s not mine.” Yet, Baldair added mentally.
“Yet.” Jax didn’t miss a beat, making the prince wonder if
he had spoken aloud.
Baldair shook his head in amusement. The man had been with him going on four years, after Baldair had agreed to help Erion bail out his friend from execution. Technically owned by the crown, there was always an edge to Jax that Baldair couldn’t quite dull, despite his best efforts. But they had made headway into something more like “friends” than “master and servant” or “forced allies”. Baldair was patient with the process, but unwavering in it. He wouldn’t accept forced loyalty from any man or woman. It was willingness or nothing.
“I doubt she ever will be. Who knows where she went off to? It’s not like I have much to go on…”
“You could try another dueling ring?” Jax suggested.
Baldair shook his head. There was no point. A woman like that was calculated. She knew what she was fighting for and had likely achieved it several times over. If she was careful and didn’t risk the ire of the gambling rings, she could make a good living on skills like that.
“I see you have no Lady R in tow,” Erion observed, a spoon of rice hovering over a bowl in the aura of the food cart’s lighting.
“Gone, a mystery forever,” Baldair lamented, pouring on the drama in an effort to hide how much the fact truly disappointed him.
“For the best.” Erion continued with his food, speaking between bites and chewing. His upbringing clearly didn’t permit him to speak and chew at the same time. It was proper etiquette, but seeing it in such a humble place made Erion stand out all the more. As if his rigid posture and carefully formed words weren’t enough. The man never failed to amuse Baldair with his mere existence. “A woman like that is not one you want to be involved with.”
“A woman like that is precisely who we need at the front,” Baldair insisted.
“You do not really know who or what we need at the front, yet.”
Erion wasn’t trying to jab, but the remark pricked Baldair squarely between the ribs. It was true; he had no idea what he needed to do to prepare for war—real war—people-dying-and-depending-on-him war. He had only killed two people in his life, and the feeling of his sword in their guts still haunted him some nights.
