Two hits on the lower portion of the blade, then one higher, forced Brit’s defenses to crumble. Thren feinted, and amid the gap left by her attempt to block, he thrust his right hand straight forward. His sword struck her square in the chest, quick and brutal. She let out a cry of pain and staggered backward. He suspected he’d broken one of her ribs. If the tip were sharpened, and her chain shirt poorly made, it would have pierced her heart.

  Boris declared victory, and the crowd responded far more negatively than it had for Erin. Brit rested her sword across her shoulders and spat blood. True to her word, she was not upset in the slightest, and offered him her other hand. When he shook it, she pulled him close so she could speak only to him.

  “What is it?” she asked. “What awakens you now?”

  He glanced over his shoulder, toward the little shaded section the Gemcroft family was seated in. Brit saw and immediately recognized Erin in the stands.

  “I see,” she said. “But what is she to you?”

  “My business is my own,” Thren said, and pulled away from her. “I pray you enjoyed our fight.”

  “Indeed I did,” she said, and offered one last wave to the crowd. “I look forward to our rematch.”

  “I may not enter next year,” he said.

  Brit winked at him before leaving the arena. “When did I ever say it would be in a tournament?”

  6

  ERIN

  The crowd was on her side, Erin knew that for sure. They clapped and cheered at her name, and when Boris called for her opponent, the hooded soldier Gray, they jeered with matching enthusiasm.

  “You’re not too beloved around here,” Erin said as she bounced on her toes.

  Gray grinned back at her. “I am used to it.”

  Her hops grew a bit wider, her weight shifting back and forth from foot to foot to warm up her muscles and get her blood pumping. She’d watched enough of Gray’s fights to know the man was ruthless. Rao’s warning would not leave her mind.

  Beware the man whose name is a lie, he had whispered to her. He is here, not for victory, but for you.

  That the man whose sole name was ‘Gray’ used an alias was no surprise. The implications of Rao’s warning, however, left her uncertain and confused. Though his face was hooded, she could see more than enough of him to know she had never encountered the man before. He was a stranger to her, so why then did he pose such a threat to her specifically?

  Erin clanged her swords together, appreciating the ringing metal in her ears. Perhaps he was an enemy of the Gemcroft family. Accidents did happen in tournaments, and killing Erin in full view of the city would be a particularly cruel way to hurt her mother. The unconscious state in which he’d left his first two opponents was enough to warrant caution.

  Boris stepped between them, and with his pre-fight theatrics finished, he lifted his arm high up.

  “Give them a show, would you?” he asked, his attention focused on Gray.

  “He won’t knock me out in the opening moments, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Erin said. “At the least, I’ll make him work for it.”

  “I was worried you’d knock the old man unconscious, actually,” Boris said, and he winked her way. Erin laughed, and her nerves eased the tiniest bit. Perhaps Rao was leaping at ghosts, or merely hoping to unnerve her to his own advantage. She settled into her stance, elbows and knees bent, muscles tensed and ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.

  Gray shifted only a little, and at first she thought him disrespecting her, but then she studied him further. His arms were relaxed to his sides, but his grip on his swords was tight, and the angles of his wrists bent slightly so he could thrust or slash, depending on the movements of his arms. His right leg was back behind his left by a step, the heel turned slightly inward. Braced against an attack, yet also ready to lunge.

  The man looked calm and bored, and yet he could explode into violence within the blink of an eye. She imagined him standing similarly, not in an arena where a duel was expected, but in some secluded street or darkened building. How might he be misread? How unprepared would his foes be?

  Beware the man whose name is a lie, indeed.

  “Begin!”

  Erin decided to test her theory with a quick hop forward, her body bending at the waist and her arms thrusting to add the most possible distance to her dual thrusts. He didn’t move. Her swords would not reach, and he knew it. Erin pulled back, her face flushing. She’d thought he’d parry them, or meet her thrust. Instead he stood there, watching, as a few people in the crowd snickered.

  “Do better,” Gray said.

  She thrust again, this time with proper reach so that if he did not block she would strike his chest. He batted it aside and countered with his off hand. Erin blocked, and so began their dance. Their weapons bounced off one another, filling the arena with the sound of steel on steel. Erin’s nerves settled. She knew he was a skilled opponent, and a ruthless one. His first two bouts proved as much. Yet this was the interplay she understood, and she started to gain confidence in how she correctly read each and every one of his reactions.

  Sweat trickled down her face and neck as she heightened her intensity, her swords battering Gray with four quick slashes in a row, testing his defenses. No opening was found, but she did force her foe to retreat a step.

  “Interesting,” he said.

  He went fully on the defensive, and Erin was all too happy to keep him reeling. She weaved side to side, thrusting for his stomach, and when that was blocked, slashing high for his neck. That, too, he blocked, and with almost maddening ease. Was he trying to exhaust her, perhaps? It made her grin. Good luck with that. She was young, and her mother had put her through grueling trials to build up her stamina. So many late nights racing the setting sun, pausing only to vomit as the miles passed in sweat and agony. Strike after strike, each one meant to guide an opponent’s hands and, over time, force them out of position so that her killing strike could not be stopped. Every feint, every swing, worked to that end, and she knew from experience how overwhelming such an assault could be. When her mother cut and weaved with her daggers during her training, Erin could feel the way she was being manipulated, while simultaneously struggling to break the masterful control.

  Gray appeared to wilt under that same pressure. His hands went where she steered them, and at last she found the opening she sought. Her saber lunged forward to tap against his chest, earning her a point. The crowd cheered, but Erin’s joy was measured. Something about the small victory felt too easy, and there was a look in her foe’s eye she disliked. When they separated, he shook his head at her.

  “I’ve seen enough.”

  When the next bout began, it felt like she faced a brand new opponent. He did not surrender the offensive, nor did he seem content to let her control the pace of the battle. What had been a smooth flow of swords, a rhythm between them, turned into a panicked retreat as her every swing was countered. She parried as best she could, hesitant to block against such newfound aggression. He was bigger than her, stronger. She needed speed, she needed surprise.

  Erin slashed at an angle, attempting to force his hands out of position, yet he never even tried to block. Instead he tilted his head an inch to the side, easily avoiding the hit. When he countered, she retreated, her swords lashing out in a futile attempt to hold him at bay.

  “What happens if I do not fear your swings?” he asked her, yet again ignoring the swipe that passed in front of his chest, hitting nothing. “What use then are your feints? What hope have you of intimidation?”

  Nothing about her foe made sense. None of his moves matched what Zusa had taught her to face, and she had faced so many varied tactics and weaponry. It was maddening. It felt like he could read her as easily as one read a book, and whatever reaction she chose, it was one he had already predicted. She thrusted, he parried. She swung, he blocked, so casually, so dismissively. It stung her pride.

  Why do you care about your damn pride? she thought. Was it the crowd? Was it knowing Zusa and Nathaniel were watching? Or was it how Gray kept getting under her skin with his every spoken word? She closed the space between them, her feet a blur beneath her. She had to take advantage of the curve of her sabers and her smaller stature. She twisted, avoiding his counter that nearly impaled her, and then came out swinging in return with his other blade.

  Hers struck first, her saber clipping the interior of his arm, and then his own hit her collarbone hard enough she cried out in pain.

  “Unbelievable,” Boris hollered, clapping with his hands high above his head. “That’s two for the little surprise of the day!”

  Thren did not pull away his sword. His icy blue eyes held her in place.

  “A cut to the elbow,” he said, glancing at where her own saber rest against him. “Whereas I have split you in half. You may have hit first, but I would have hit last.” He withdrew his sword and stepped back two paces. “You keep fighting to win sanctioned duels, Felhorn girl. It is not good enough.”

  Ignore him, Erin told herself. She had faced the very best by training with her mother. Zusa had been a silent blade of Karak, and she fought the most fearsome foes of Veldaren’s underworld and survived. None were faster. None were more skilled. Erin relied on that training, on the instincts her mother had instilled within her, and pressed forward.

  Her swords weaved in a specific pattern, two hits with her right saber, a thrust with her left, and then a sudden lunge forward, her weight shifting, her body turning to avoid a potential counter while extending her reach. It was quick, and sudden. Few foes would expect it, her mother had told her, and fewer still would react quickly enough to avoid being impaled.

  Gray’s swords were improperly positioned to block, and so he didn’t. He hopped forward, meeting her thrust while lifting his arm and turning his own body sideways akin to hers. Her sword passed just underneath his armpit, the tip harmlessly cutting a tiny hole in the fabric of Gray’s shirt.

  Erin tried to turn her sword and swing inward in a panic, but Gray was faster. His upraised arm dropped, and at the last moment twisted at the wrist so the flat edge of his sword struck her square in the forehead. She let out a cry as the pain rocked through her, momentarily blurring her vision.

  “At last, the soldier scores his first!” Boris shouted.

  Erin glared at Gray as she rubbed her forehead. Something about the look in his eye twisted her insides. The way he carried himself as he separated from her. The little shake of his head. The dismissive look in his eye. It was as though he found her unworthy of facing off against him, and the insult hardened her concentration. Whoever this old soldier was, she could beat him. She would beat him. She only needed one more hit.

  When Boris called for them to begin anew, she weaved back and forth, occasionally lashing out with her swords. She was trying to get Gray to react, to fall into a sort of rhythm she could learn and anticipate, yet he barely even moved. His legs remained firm, one sword held back, his other slapping and parrying each and every probing strike. If his look was dismissive, the defense was doubly so, and it only heightened her frustration.

  “You forget the purpose of your blades,” Gray said, carefully watching her. “You wish to dance. You want our swords to play at combat, to strike and parry in rhythm and rule so all your training makes sense.” He clanged his swords together. “You swing in hope I block or parry so you can continue the game you’ve built in your head.”

  She charged at him, aware her self-control was compromised but unable to do anything about it. The man was infuriating in a way her mother could never be. Zusa cared for her, and no matter how much they bickered or how brutal their training became, she knew her mother would not dare seriously hurt her. This man, though? With every word, she felt herself that much smaller, like an ant beneath the boot of a giant.

  “Then how should I fight?” she asked as she swung, her body moving through stances meant to guide the weapons of her opponent. Each time, Gray countered them in a way she did not expect. He sidestepped when it made sense to block, or parried when doing so would nearly leave him impaled if he had been the tiniest bit slower. It made her transitions awkward, weakened her strikes.

  “There is only one way,” Gray said, and it seemed he became a totally new man. His retreat became an attack. Her thrusts were batted away like nothing. Her swords felt clumsy in her grip. “To kill.”

  She stumbled back a step, then panicked as his swords chopped for her face. Her sabers crossed before her, a jarring, painful block that made her arms ache. He slammed against her twice more, mocking her, making her defenses crumble. All the while, he berated her failings.

  “Every movement.” He batted aside a frantic counter. “Every block. Every thrust. Not to win. Not to play.” His heel struck her knee, and when she buckled he bodied her with his shoulder. She stumbled, only her excellent balance kept her on her feet.

  “To kill,” he said, and though the volume of his voice had not raised since the fight begin, the intensity of it, the overwhelming certainty, left her shook. “To survive. Break your opponent, little Erin. Shatter their will. End their life. Anything else is playing games with death.”

  Why was he so intent on lecturing her so? Why did he care? This man was a stranger, yet he seemed determined to worm his way into her mind. Was it meant only to undermine her confidence? No, that didn’t feel right. The way he focused on her, the way he spoke…there was something here she was missing, some connection invisible to her.

  She charged back at him, hoping to surprise him while he spoke. A vain hope. He crossed his swords, then looped them outward in opposite directions, parting her swords and leaving her vulnerable. Both their weapons continued their circling, but his were faster. By the time she skidded to a halt to end her momentum, his swords pressed to her chest.

  “And that’s two for Gray!” Boris shouted.

  Erin clenched her jaw to hold back a curse. There it was again, that look in her opponent’s eye. She understood it this time, though it did nothing to ease her confusion. He wasn’t dismissive of her, nor attempting to insult her with such a glare.

  He was disappointed in her, in allowing him so easy a hit.

  “Fine,” she muttered. “You want everything, I’ll give everything.”

  Though the score was even, she felt she were losing badly. That meant holding nothing back. If this was to be her last bout, then she would go out attempting her very best.

  Erin had practiced it a thousand times, but never used it against an opponent, only the imaginary recreations of history. It was the epitome of her father’s abilities, the fighting style he had developed across his brutal lifetime to survive battle against any number of foes. The stuff one could only read about in stories…unless your mother had lived through it, and could offer a first-hand retelling.

  Her fingers tightened around the hilts of her sabers. She slid her arms back, allowing her cloak to fall forward, split in three for exactly this purpose. Each portion could be guided independent of the others. With her every twist and step, she could flip and shift them in a flourish.

  Haern’s gift. The cloak dance of the Watcher.

  Vigor flowed through her nerves, electric and strong. She always practiced this in secret, hiding it even from her mother, but now she would reveal it to an entire crowd. Would she make a fool of herself? Or would she find victory, as her father always had?

  “Begin!” shouted Boris.

  Her feet spun beneath her.

  Dance, she told herself. Let yourself dance.

  Her arms lifted and dropped as her hips twisted. Her cloaks billowed about her, whipping through the air. She coupled each rotation with a lash of her swords, ensuring with every rotation she was a deadly tornado of gray cloth. The first of her swings hit Gray’s swords, and the ringing of metal was comforting. It was battle resumed, and each subsequent hit proved her foe remained defensive against the display.

  Faster, she urged herself. Make the cloak dance bewildering. Turn her entire body into a blur. The collisions of their blades grew louder, and her steps wilder, vaulting her back and forth as she turned so nothing about her remained in place. Her excitement grew. Gray still only blocked, his feet planted firm, and then one of his swords flew from his hand at the next collision.

  Even faster. Her lungs burned in her chest, and her stomach protested the constant motion, but victory was so close, her opponent bewildered by the maneuver. One more rotation, and her swords were swinging aim, aiming for his chest.

  His lone sword blocked them both, and suddenly Gray was so close he filled her vision. His block jarred her arms, her foe so strong, his sword angled so perfectly it put a complete halt to her rotation. Her feet pushed anyway, trying to dance, trying to turn, but his free hand shot forward faster than an arrow. His fingers closed about her throat, shockingly tight so she could not draw a breath.

  His hand may have been what held her, but his eyes kept her prisoner. The intensity in them terrified her more than the lack of breath.

  “The purpose of such a dance is not to overwhelm, or impress with your speed,” he said. “It is to confuse, and to disguise the motions of your hands and feet. You might have been a blur, Erin, but you were still predictable, and that is why you would be dead if we battled true.”

  He let go, and she dropped to her knees, gagging.

  “How?” she asked, her throat raw. “How would you know?”

  Points and duels no longer mattered. Whoever this stranger was, he knew too much. He crouched before her, his sword casually resting across his knees. The ice in his eyes was warm compared to the tone in his voice.

  “I have faced the one whom you imitate,” he said. “I have seen the dance of a master, and compared to him, you are a child at play.”

  Fury pushed her into motion. Its fire drowned out her questions, and her wounded pride demanded she act. Though all she could hear was the blood pounding in her ears, she imagined the hundreds in the crowd watching her, and laughing. Laughing at her failures. Laughing as the old soldier proved that she never actually belonged in this tournament.