The Dragons' Chosen (28 page)

I narrowed my eyes, trying to imagine a demonstration before my father.

Chapter 39

By midafternoon gray clouds glided over us, combining and recombining in darker and darker bundles, heavy with rain. Rauf and James had “changed” and flown into them, returning to say it was only a light rain coming, nothing more.

Hugh and Tristan walked across the ground, each ignoring the other, the air so thick between them that one could almost see it.

They stepped into the circle and faced each other. At a signal from James, they drew their swords and saluted each other, their eyes never wavering. The two men circled, step by wary step. Chris and I leaned against each other. No one breathed, or so it seemed, in the silence that encapsulated this match.

They tested each other, swords conversing, meeting with a metallic tic. Neither was willing to commit to a blow. Cautiously, they each slid sun-wise, step by step around. Tic, tic, tic, again and again the swords tapped. Hugh, confident; Tristan, watching for opportunity.

Hugh leapt forward, his sword thrusting. Tristan danced a breath away even as his sword whipped into action, a quick parry before retreating. The fighting began in earnest; Tristan darted in like a snake with a snap of his sword on Hugh’s. Then Hugh parried, but was pushed back by Tristan’s advance—two steps, then three, though Tristan failed to penetrate Hugh’s guard.

Again they circled, leaping forward with the power and force of long-horned sheep. The resulting clash of steel filled the air. Tristan and Hugh engaged shoulder to shoulder, as if in an embrace, their swords pressing together over their heads, both of them trembling with effort. They pushed apart and the swords were once more free, silver metal pulsing. The whisk of swords clashing so near their heads caused me to shrink away. I heard myself gasp.

Hugh stepped back, and they faced each other, eyes intent. Hugh attacked, advancing so fast that I was unable to discern each thrust, riposte and counterthrust. But Tristan gave no quarter. The silver of their swords flashed over and over. I could see no change until a thin line of blood splotched Hugh’s shirt.

Chris grabbed my hand, whispering, “I think he’s hurt. Did he just get hurt?”

She asked after Hugh, not Tristan. I couldn’t take my eyes off the match to question this. I couldn’t look away. Whose blood was it? Why didn’t they stop? They should have stopped at first blood.

They circled again, leaping back into the fight, parrying and feinting back and forth across the bounded circle, edge to edge. Tic, tic, slash. They separated and with renewed zeal leapt forward again. Tic, tic, slash. And again. Tic, tic, slash.

How long had I been watching? Their movements now slowed, straining with the effort to meet clash with clash.

Both men looked exhausted, the only noise their ragged breathing. Blood now stained both their clothes. I thought there was a small cut on Tristan’s forearm and another on Hugh’s shoulder, but they never were still enough for me to be sure. Hugh attacked, his stance no longer quite as precise. Tristan retreated, his movement fluid still. He’s watching, I thought. Watching and waiting, wearing him down.

James and the others had grown silent as this struggle continued.

Sweat beaded on the warriors’ foreheads, hesitating at their eyebrows before dripping down across their eyes. Blood trickled down both of their arms from the myriad nicks and scratches.

This was unlike any of the other fights, like no tournament I had ever seen. Certainly not like anything at my father’s court. The other men were silent, none of the cheering and joking that had accompanied the previous contests. I should call it off, end this now before one of them was seriously hurt. But I feared any distraction might cause one or the other to be harmed.

They clashed again, close and tight, Hugh grappling against Tristan, swords unable to move. They fell apart, staggered back from one another. Tristan’s shirt slipped downward and a flash of something small, dark and shiny, lay upon his collarbone before it vanished beneath his shirt…a birthmark, a scar? I looked to Chris, but she must not have noticed, her eyes centered on Hugh.

Once more they came together, blades meeting with a jar and sliding off as they recovered. Hugh lunged forward with a powerful thrust, which slid past the guard of Tristan’s sword, and missed piercing Tristan’s side by but a hair’s breadth.

Sweat stuck their shirts to their bodies. Hugh’s sleeve hung loose, ripped above the elbow, Tristan’s shirt torn about the cuff. All around them nothing sounded but their footfalls, the harsh intake of controlled breath and the ever-present snick of metal. Shadows of both dragon and man interwove as they circled, their strength flagging. Eyes burning, smoke slithering out from nostrils, they slowed, each sword parry arduous, their movements labored. Step by step, both men drank in gulps of air, waiting for a break, an unchecked moment when they could leap again, like two dogs fighting for dominance.

As the fight proceeded, the shadows of their dragon shapes grew more substantive, surrounding each. I watched, awed and frightened.

Piers, his voice in a whisper, said, “I’ve never seen anything like this. They both risk losing control. They can’t go much longer. No one could.”

Tristan turned, exposing his flank to Hugh’s blade. But just as Hugh stretched forward with his sword pressing hard, his body slightly off balance, Tristan advanced, and with a backstroke from the flat of his blade, swung, connecting solidly against his brother’s hip. Hugh tried to step away, but his hip seemed unable to bear the weight. He caught himself, but too late. Tristan stood, his sword point at Hugh’s neck, as Hugh, arms down, gulped in deep breaths of air. Hugh’s head lifted as he looked my way, his eyes sliding over to Chris. She held my arm as if to keep herself from rushing forward.

Tristan turned to me, saluted, and then moved to help Hugh off the arena. My heart pounded as if I too had been in that ring.

Chapter 40

After a spate of fitful rain, I walked outside, breathing in the moisture-laden air as I stared off to the west where my family was. I longed to see them again and to comfort them with the knowledge that I was still alive. Puddles of rainwater dotted the ground. The trees drooped with moisture not yet removed by the sun or wind. I too felt laden.

I missed my companions from our journey here—Lucinda, Michael and all my father’s men. I wondered how they were. The burden of guilt undoubtedly rode them.

I must have been lost in my thoughts as I didn’t hear Chris join me; she wasn’t known for her silence.

She sat quietly, throwing stones into the puddles, watching them splash before they sank. “So now that the first contest is over, has anyone risen to the top of your list?”

Her eyebrows scrunched down. “Tristan’s first with the sword. Is that what you hoped for, or are you still opposed to him?”

I deflected her question. “It will take more than skill with weaponry for me to choose a husband.”

She continued with the roster of names. “So Hugh, Rauf and Piers are still in the race?”

I heard her linger as she spoke Hugh’s name and I couldn’t quite make my eyes meet hers. “It’s not only about who wins. It’s never been about that.”

Chris’s mouth twisted in disbelief.

“At first, it was a way to take back control, to take back my life.”

“And now?”

“It came from a conversation with my parents. Father said he could tell more about men within a few minutes on a battlefield than months of watching them in court, how they fight, how they strategize.”

“My mother added, ‘And how they treat their loved ones.’ The contests are also about how they respond, not solely who wins. It is about how they behave toward each other and to us. So yes, the contests count. But so does every time we speak with them.”

Chris grunted, clearly not impressed with my logic. Something else must have been on her mind.

She continued flipping stones. “Do you think Hugh is okay with this? I mean, he came here planning to marry and all.”

Ah, so that was it—Hugh. I asked the question wanting to see where the wind was blowing. “Are you inclined toward Hugh?”

Chris was silent, staring at a stone that lay quiet in her hand. I felt a tension that stretched out into the desolate landscape below. “No, don’t be silly. I can’t live in a fantasy world forever. My life is in Berkeley. I want to make a difference in the world, to make something of myself.”

“Is that what this is to you, a fantasy world?”

She bit her lip and hurled the stone into the water. It sank, as had all the others.

“No, don’t reply. I don’t wish to hear it. Chris, you’ve made a difference to me. I value you: as a counselor, as a friend, as someone who
has
changed my life.”

She folded her arms over her head. “I don’t know what to think anymore. This all can’t be real, but then it is. I know it is.”

I interlaced my fingers. “Truly, that’s how I have felt since I was chosen and all the way here. That I would wake and it would be but a bad dream.”

She lifted her head. “Dang. I was so hoping it was at first and now…now I’m not sure I want to wake up.”

I nodded. “It’s changed, hasn’t it? Nothing is as it seemed.”

“And Tristan? Is his dragon-stuckness still playing into your decision?”

“Yes, but more than that. Hugh was right; I was raised to be queen, to rule. I’ve been trained since I was two to understand my duty. I can’t throw away what I am.”

“So is that how you’re going to decide, the contests be damned? Are you just going to choose based on a title?”

“No, I feel that this must play out, all of it. But it is a part, something to be considered.”

The stone tossing started up again.

“Do you mean to date any of them as part of the contests?”

My brows furrowed. “Date? As in, ask when they were born?”

“No, date as in spending time with them individually. Maybe a kiss or two, whatever.”

I would have thought my expression of shock would have let her know what I thought of that idea, but she wasn’t watching me. Her eyes had a dreamy, far-off look. I could see her contemplating the idea.

“Wow, dating a dragon! How liberating.” She looked at me with interest. “Prejudice is so old-world, don’t you think?”

I thought back, remembering her earlier comments. Her words were alien, as always, but the meaning was clear.

“Ah, Chris. Remember what you said about dragonette carriers?”

She shook her head dismissively. “Not an issue. I’m on birth control.” She sneaked a look in my direction, perhaps remembering that, save James, they were
all
my suitors. “Not that I would do such a thing, of course. Or that I’m interested or anything. Just an observation, nothing personal.” I watched her face glow as she dissembled.

Chris plodded verbally on, hiding her red face with a turn of her head. “But I’ve been thinking. We need to ask the men some questions, pointed questions. You’ve agreed to marry, but we know little about them, their culture, their country, only what little they tell us. Sure, they implied their women rule. Who knows what that really means? Maybe they shroud their women in black or don’t let them vote or, I don’t know…bind their feet or clip their wings. Most especially, we need to ask about all the chosen princesses.”