I don’t watch the Beggar Paladin set up her things. I fix my eyes instead on the festivities. The Seer battles the Holy Inquisitor in a mock fight, and though she is blind and half-deaf, she is holding her own, predicting his strikes before they land and miraculously always just a hair out of reach.
He seems to be enjoying himself all the same. Inquisitors are known to prize sparring above almost all else beyond using their gifts to discern souls. They spar amongst themselves three times a day when they are at home. I wonder if the Seer has sparred in this decade. She seems to hardly know where she is.
I lose myself to the flow of their movements, disciplining my mind to watch and catalog how each of my peers fights. It is a good exercise in focus and an excellent way to keep my thoughts governed.
The Engineers decline to spar with the rest, but all the others take a turn at a bout. That’s interesting, isn’t it? They won’t spar. They brought … constructs … to do their heavy lifting. It smacks of laziness. Even old knights should feel that twinge that wants to fight.
Hefertus does not surprise me. He’s all smiles and charm, letting his reach and grace win for him. He beats the High Saint — who takes it poorly and masks his embarrassment with his helm and a sudden need for prayer.
I’ve always thought that the High Saints’ helms are creepy. They encase the entire head in a steel cylinder with a flat top and only a cross in the face by which one might see or speak. The High Saint’s prayers echo within it like a poorly tuned bell.
Hefertus, in turn, loses to the Hand of Justice. No surprise there. In fact, I’m not entirely sure Hefertus didn’t throw the match. He’s clever about politics and no one wants Kodelai Lei Shan Tora as an enemy or even a rival.
Sir Kodelai makes a show of removing his tabard, armor, outer coat, and jerkin, splashing icy water over his scar-laced chest and shoulders and preening under it before donning the jerkin only — unlaced and untucked. He makes an elaborate bow to his next opponent. It’s hard to shed the shell of who you once were, and this one was a king.
His next challenger is the Penitent Paladin, and Kodelai wins in three strokes. No surprise there, either. Owalan Cantor — the Penitent — has deep, knowing eyes, and he sees everything, but his block is weak and his guard shaky in comparison to the master swordsman he faces.
Sir Kodelai has a very fast strike and a quick eye. I do not think I could best him. Though I will certainly try. I could beat the others who have fought, except for Hefertus. I wouldn’t want to go up against my friend in anything other than a friendly game. That long reach and calculating mind are deadly.
The next match is on and even though I watch Sir Kodelai’s every move, I don’t even see the last strike that sends the Majester General to his knees in surrender, or the quick spin that brings a sigh of yielding from the Seer in the match after that.
“Give it a try if you can, Poison,” Sir Kodelai says to me good-naturedly. He’s barely even breathing hard.
I take to my feet, but the moment I do, he chops a hand through the air.
“My apologies, brother. I see you are bearing hurts not your own. Tomorrow. Give yourself a day to recover first.” He’s gracious in his dismissal, like a king granting a boon to a liege-sworn vassal. “There’s no joy in beating the injured, right, Sir Beggar?”
I can’t help it. My eyes shoot to the Vagabond Paladin at his words and I see her jaw clench in annoyance. Does the Hand of Justice use the pejorative intentionally? I don’t know, and it seems that neither does she.
She watches him warily. I hold my breath until I see hers let out. Good. She’s not going to take it as an insult. Yet.
With care for my leg, I settle back onto the stones and pull a strand of dried meat from my pack. Healing always makes me hungry.
“You are correct that I have been healed, Sir Kodelai,” the Vagabond Paladin says carefully, her eyes following the former king a little too long and a little too boldly.
I want to curse. Maybe she’s going to take issue with him after all. That would be terribly unwise. A man like Sir Kodelai will be prickly about his honor.
I clench my jaw and look from face to face. Hefertus shifts subtly in my direction. The Engineers pull together. Surprisingly, the Penitent draws near to the Seer. We’re picking our allies in case things get violent.
And then her gaze rakes up and down him in a way that makes me uncomfortable and makes the Hand of Justice — who was once a king with a dozen wives — blush.
If she is still playing mad, then she is acting her part well. If she is not, then she is a fearsome thing, using every tool she has to throw off her opponent. I’m not entirely sure that I don’t approve.
She braids her long hair as she watches him. It must have come undone during the dog attack. I hadn’t even noticed it then. Now, every strand bewitches me and I must look away. I know it’s not her intention. This is a matter of practicality if she wishes to fight without hair in her eyes. But the way her slender fingers flick through the strands brings back memories too sharp, too vivid, of another set of paler fingers weaving lighter hair.
“If you wish to spar, you can thank the Poisoned Saint for taking my infirmities,” she says lightly. “His sacrifice has left me free for such sport.”
“So he is of some use,” Sir Kodelai says, sending me a mirthful glance to take out the sting.
She is not willing to joke with him. Her brows knit together soberly.
“I am ready.”
Her declaration is punctuated by the whoosh of her sword slicing through the air. A salute.
The Hand of Justice nods sharply. I cannot read why he is suddenly so stiff — unless he suffers from the same problem that I do. Perhaps he, too, killed a woman who looked shockingly like this one. Perhaps he, too, carries the guilt of that forever within the guarding cage of his ribs.
Or perhaps that is only me.
