by Unknown
She took a half step toward one of the chairs before freezing. It would probably be more prudent to wait for whoever else was presumably joining her. She doubted very much that they had laid food out for just her.
Instead of staying awkwardly in the center of the room, Daelan crossed and stood to the side of one of the chairs, trying to put some of her weight on it discreetly. Now that the adrenaline had started to fade, her legs were feeling watery, knees unsure as they resisted buckling. Her arms trembled, and she found herself suddenly aware of aches that she was sure hadn't existed moments ago.
She jumped when the door opened again, realizing with a start that she had begun to nod off still standing. With a jerk she straightened, trying to appear as alert as she was able, though her eyelids felt heavy as lead.
It probably shouldn't have surprised her when Lord Cutler stepped into the room, but she felt her eyebrows climb all the same. He turned to wave off the guards who tried to follow him in, murmuring something too softly for Daelan to catch. As he turned around, she relinquished the chair, wobbling forward and trying to coax her knees into bending. It wouldn't even have to be much, just enough to pass for a curtsy.
Lord Cutler's eyes widened when he saw her standing. Quickly he crossed to her, pulling up short of touching her. "Sit down, for pity's sake. You look as though you are about to fall over."
With a groan she couldn't quite stifle, Daelan sank gratefully into the chair that had been her support. She tried to look properly grateful because she couldn't seem to find the words. If Beatrice were here she'd be able to find Daelan's words, but on her own, Daelan would simply have to hope Beatrice's uncle would be able to do the same.
For long moments, silence reigned, broken only when Lord Cutler took a small plate of the offered food before nudging the platter in Daelan's direction, the slant of his heavy eyebrows making it more than clear that demurring in the name of propriety would be frowned upon. In no mood to argue, especially as her stomach gurgled quietly, Daelan reached forward and served herself. She nibbled in silence, eyes focused on the ground as she waited for whatever Lord Cutler had to say.
It was time to discuss repayment. She owed Lord Cutler her life now. She wouldn't argue it, or try to evade it. He had helped her with no more reason than the pleading of his niece, for he certainly didn't owe Daelan a thing. Whatever Lord Cutler thought a fitting price for that now she would pay it, and try to do so with the guise of easy willingness, even if it wasn't exactly the truth.
He wasn't an old man, she noted. Certainly there had been women in the village who had talked of his good looks, the way he had aged well. She supposed she could see that, the dignified arch of his nose, the clarity of his gray eyes. So different from Beatrice's in color but certainly not in cunning.
Hastily, she pushed thoughts of Beatrice from her mind. Now was not the time to dwell on that.
Daelan wondered if the grime from the arena and the cells hid her flush as she fumbled a cracker, looking up through her lashes to see if Lord Cutler had noticed. That didn't help anything, his sharp gaze fixed on her with an intensity she'd never yet been subjected to. The scrutiny itched, like maybe he could see everything she'd been thinking, wondering if he was the type to take a blacksmith's daughter to bed in payment for her life.
No, she wouldn't turn him down if he asked. Couldn't even find it in herself to disapprove, though she thought it wouldn't be hard for him to find better. Certainly, it must be easier to find higher status ladies. More experienced ones too. It wasn't really for her to say, in the end. The only noble she'd ever known was Beatrice.
A groan nearly tore itself out of her whens she realized she'd let her mind wander back to Beatrice again. What was it that had so firmly lodged her in Daelan's mind?
Just as she reached to take a sip from the goblet of water Lord Cutler had pushed towards her, he abruptly cleared his throat. Daelan was forced to swallow quickly or risk dribbling water everywhere, throat going tight as she fought not to choke. Lord Cutler eyed her in apparent concern for a moment before crossing his legs and settling his hands in his lap. His eyelids drooped, but that didn't make him look any less threatening. His eyes were still too sharp to be truly relaxed, whatever he might play at.
"You and my niece, Beatrice, have been companions since you were young, yes?" Though worded as a question, Daelan didn't really think it was one. Of course he had known of their friendship, would likely have been unable to avoid knowing it—Beatrice was reticent and shy about very little. She raised a brow at him, wondering what would prompt him to ask a question he well knew the answer to. For lack of anything to say, Daelan nodded and placed the goblet down gingerly. Unconsciously, she toyed with the mace still on her belt.
Across from her, Lord Cutler looked privately amused by something, and it lightened his eyes into something a little less severe. "You are aware by this point, I am sure, that Beatrice and I acted as your patron during the Games in the hopes that it would help you survive them." At her slow nod, he continued. "Most times, an arrangement would be reached if the player were to remain alive to repay that debt, often through labor or a similar service."
He paused, and Daelan fought the urge to fidget under his heavy and contemplative gaze. "If you are amenable, I had thought we might reach a different sort of arrangement."
Her throat felt tight, her skin suddenly too small for her, but she forced out, "I am in your lordship's debt. I will repay that debt in whatever manner you see fit, m'lord."
She could see a small pinch of confusion between his eyebrows before his expression smoothed again. "What I have in mind is not something I would ask of you if you would not do it willingly. It will be much better carried out by someone who wishes to be there."
Daelan could find nothing to say to that, too unsure of where she stood or what the consequences of turning him down would be. Instead, she tried to meet his eyes with something that looked like confidence.
He sighed heavily, leaning back. "You are free to decline this offer. I only want what is best for my niece, and having you in her guard would achieve that, I believe."
By now she should have been used to the world tipping underneath her, but Daelan found herself glad that she was already sitting. "You would have me guard your niece?" She was suddenly—embarrassingly—aware of the picture she presented: hair lank and grimy, blood caked under her fingernails, and claw marks down her arms. Her shoulders were uncovered and her legs were plainly visible through several large holes in her leggings. She was too shocked to realize she'd left off his honorific.
Lord Cutler tipped his head thoughtfully, a smile playing at the edges of his lips. "Even after having attended school, my niece remains spirited and… willful. She has made a habit of slipping her guard whenever she sees fit, and I know it has been with the intent of seeing you on at least one such occasion. Perhaps, if you were in her guard, she would not feel the need to do so."
Daelan's mouth was hanging open, but she couldn't seem to remember how to close it. "You think I am capable? Or even suitable?" After a beat, she hastily added, "M'lord."
"You have brought yourself through the Games," he mused, eyes never leaving hers. "I would say that proves you are capable enough, though certainly there would be more training provided if you accept. It would be best if you learned to defend yourself with a minimum of effort expended on your part." He leaned back then, propping his chin in his hand as he leaned against the table. "As for suitability, the manner in which my niece speaks of you is approval enough. If you would serve, I would place her life in your hands."
Her mouth was moving before her brain had quite caught up. "I would be honored to serve in your niece's guard, m'lord."
A real smile spread across his face for the first time, and it was a struggle to remember why she had thought him intimidating. This, then, must be the uncle Beatrice held so dear. "I believe I shall take my leave now. Beatrice has been waiting outside most impatiently, I am sure. I think I shall allow you to be t
he one to tell her you shall be in her guard after this." The look in his eye was eerily reminiscent of Beatrice when she was up to some mischief, but before she could even think of rising to curtsy him out, Lord Cutler was throwing the door open.
"Yes, Beatrice, you may see her now," filtered in through the open doorway. Then Lord Cutler was being shoved aside unceremoniously as Beatrice forced her way into the room, slamming the door shut behind her and just leaning against it for a moment. Then she was striding across the room, that same rosemary scent hitting Daelan before Beatrice was even halfway. This time, Daelan managed to get her arms open before Beatrice was pulling her into an embrace.
Her face was pressed to Beatrice's stomach, the lady's fingers gentle as they petted over her shoulders. "I barely dared to hope that that meeting would not be our last," she murmured, not moving away.
Daelan found herself equally reluctant to withdraw. "Your uncle offered me a position," she mumbled instead.
Beatrice's fingers didn't falter as she hummed thoughtfully. "Did he convince you to be his personal smith?"
With only the barest pause, Daelan blurted, "He wishes me to serve in your guard." More quietly, she continued, "I have accepted the offer."
For just a moment, Beatrice stiffened against her, slowly letting the tension go again though her fingers drifted to a halt. "I see." Daelan thought the words sounded sad, but when she leaned back to meet her eyes, Beatrice was smiling softly down at her. "I suppose this changes matters."
Daelan's shoulders drooped. "Are you unhappy? Would you rather I not join your guard?"
"No! I—no. That's not it," Beatrice rushed. Then she was pushing closer to Daelan until she could sit in her lap, heedless of the state of Daelan's wardrobe or the fact that her own dress was likely being ruined. "I am certain you would make a wonderful guard. It is only my own selfishness that makes me say that."
Daelan couldn't see her face from this angle, tucked under Beatrice's chin, but she could hear her heartbeat, could hear the slight uptick caused by apprehension. Those nerves were unlike Beatrice, who was brash and bright and confident. Daelan's arms tightened for a moment before subsiding. "What sort of selfishness?" she asked.
The beat beneath her ear kicked up faster, but Beatrice's voice betrayed none of it. "Well, it seems like there might be something improper…" She trailed off, fingers tangled in the back of Daelan's jerkin. It took a long moment and a deep breath Daelan could feel more than hear for Beatrice to continue. "It might be improper for a lady to suggest that her feelings toward one of her guard might be more than strictly friendly."
Daelan tried not to hold herself too tightly, afraid of giving herself away too early. "One of your guard…?"
She could hear the smile in Beatrice's answer. "Well, soon-to-be guard, anyway."
Beatrice's hands worked themselves free as Daelan leaned back so they were facing each other properly, nearly nose to nose at this distance. "Would it be equally improper for a blacksmith turned lady's guard to suggest that her feelings toward her charge might also be more than strictly friendly?"
"Her charge…?" Beatrice teased back. Her smile curled up in the way that Daelan had secretly loved since the first spring before Beatrice had gone off to school.
Her answering grin was probably visibly smitten, but she wasn't sure she particularly cared now. "Well, soon-to-be charge." She meant to throw in a wink because she was sure it would make Beatrice giggle, but her breath caught as delicate hands moved to frame her face, soft thumbs stroking over her cheeks.
Warm honey eyes held hers as Beatrice tipped Daelan's chin up, gaze flicking down to her lips for a moment before coming back to meet hers. "I want to kiss you," she whispered into the air between them, breath warm on Daelan's lips, "if you want to kiss me back."
Daelan's eyelids felt like they were blinking through molasses. "I would very much like to kiss you back."
Then it didn't matter that she couldn't seem to blink her eyes open properly because they were sliding shut at the barest touch of lips brushing over hers as Beatrice leaned in. There was a single beat, though she wasn't sure whose heart it was anymore, before Beatrice was pressing in all the way, lips warm and soft over hers, hands cradling her head gently as the rest of her body melted under Beatrice.
There was a warm cloud of rosemary surrounding them and Daelan thought nothing had ever been so perfect.
There was laughter in Beatrice's voice when she whispered, "Shall we get away from here now?"
Daelan was content with being wrong. Just this once.
ROUND ELEVEN
FEINT OF HEART
FREDDIE MILANO
"Again."
Cal's eyes stung as sweat poured into them, but he didn't so much as raise a hand to wipe his brow. He could feel Sir Taren Veretti's eyes on him and he refused to look weak. So he blinked the sweat away as rapidly as he could, took his stance, and lunged again.
Once again his thrust was easily parried, but this time Taren slapped the blade further to the right, slid into close range, and smacked the flat of the blade against Cal's stomach. "Hit. Were I an enemy, Cal Caison, you would be dead."
Cal gave in and shoved both his hair and a river of sweat from his eyes, but he didn't dare use stinging eyes and perspiration as an excuse. He'd seen Sir Taren fight with injuries that would have crippled a squire and probably even a handful of Queen Selvia's other veteran knights. If he wanted to be half as good at Sir Taren, he had to be able to fight through discomfort.
Taren's expression was carefully blank, like it always was during their training sessions. It made him impossible to read. Well, Cal grumbled to himself as he spun his blade and resettled into a fighting stance, more unreadable than usual.
Sir Taren was generally well-liked. He was polite, genial, and often charming. He was a perfect gentleman when in court, but with Cal he was guarded and distanced, as if he strove to keep their relationship as professional as possible.
As well he should. Cal was Taren's squire, which meant he was charged with training Cal into knighthood. Cal had been training with Taren for over six years already, which meant he was soon approaching his twenty-first year, and more importantly, his own impending knighthood.
"Cal." Taren's voice was quiet, but it snapped Cal out of his reverie just as it was intended to. When Taren saw that he had his squire's attention once more, he nodded. "Let's continue, unless you're tired?"
Cal grinned. "I'm not falling for that. Even if I were too tired to continue, you'd tell me I must find my limits and seek to extend them daily," Cal returned, watching as Taren's stance shifted.
"Good. You've learned something at least." There was no smile on Taren's face then, but Cal almost heard it in his voice.
"Only took me six years," Cal quipped and lunged, seeking an opening.
He didn't find it. Taren parried easily, and Cal let his momentum carry him around, following up with a quick whip of his arm that Taren seemed almost late to block. What little thrill Cal got at that was quickly squelched when Taren's riposte came. It was strong and Cal lost ground. Taren was larger, stronger, with endurance that came from years of practice, but Cal was dextrous, light on his feet, and full of energy. It meant their sparring matches could last hours with short breaks in between.
Sometimes, after the clashing of swords, when he was just as likely to pour water over himself as down his throat, Cal's mind would wander to how Taren's endurance extended to other pursuits.
"Hit," Taren said suddenly, his blade slapping Cal's arm. "Your mind's wandering again. You cannot lose focus in the middle of a duel. It could easily get you killed."
Cal flushed but didn't respond. Instead he lunged forward again, taking a series of moves Taren had taught him and, instead of following them to their usual conclusion, used his quick reflexes to turn what should have been one strong powerhouse swing into a lightning-quick set of cuts.
The very last one caught Taren's well-protected arm, and Cal grinned in triumph. A hit! If
the expression on Taren's face was any indication, he was impressed.
Unfortunately for Cal, he took too long to be pleased about finally surprising Taren. Taren's riposte came quickly enough to knock Cal off his feet. Down on the ground, Cal tried to roll, but it was already too late; Taren's sword was at his neck.
Cal swallowed back a curse and glanced up, surprised to see that expression was still on Taren's face. "Well done, Cal," he said in his low voice and removed his sword only to offer Cal his hand instead. Cal took it gratefully and let Taren help him to his feet. "I think we're finished for the day," Taren added, his large hand warm around Cal's smaller one. "I'll see you same time tomorrow," he added, a statement and not a question.
It didn't need to be. Their schedule had shifted into a comfortable routine after less than a year and stayed little changed in the ones that followed.
Cal nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak. His hand felt hot in Taren's, and he stared down at it, then up at Taren's face. Taren's expression was still careful, guarded. It remained that way despite the warmth in his voice when he said, "That was a very clever move you did. Keep being creative. It keeps others on their toes, and they won't know what to expect from you."
Cal slowly withdrew his hand. His withdrawal from the room was much swifter. He had to leave before he made a fool of himself.
He hurried across the courtyard, cutting through the gardens. It was a quicker way back to his rooms than through the halls around the courtyard. His hand still felt warm; he could still see that almost pleased expression in Taren's eyes, the deep warmth in them. Okay, maybe he was imagining the last part, but his mind often ran wild when he thought of Taren. Usually though, it was when he was alone at night, his hand curled around himself as he tried to keep quiet while the other squires slept.
