KINGSTON
I cometo the tournament focused.
The only option I have. And with no reason not to be.
It's a bit strange, arriving mid-morning for something I'm used to happening at the end of a day, but that's the nature of the Candlemas tournament. Overhead, the banners of the other schools have been unfurled.
Maroon and white for Mountstuart, light and dark blue for Villa Loyola. I'm not particularly worried about either of them. I've studied their foilists, faced them a few times. Tactical, strong, but nothing I can't handle.
I carry my gear past the spectators, instinctively scanning, and there she is, sitting with Morgan, looking unreadable.
She's all right. That's what matters. If I were to rack my brain, search my moral inventory, I don't know that I've done anything wrong.
I don't want to have done anything wrong. And she trusts me. That's what we need, most of all. I roll my shoulder against an ache across my chest and proceed to the armorer. The table is off to the side where it usually is. The same officials, but twice as many since there are extra fencers on the strip today.
Kai's already there, standing by, tight-lipped and wordless, as the armorer puts the probe into the tip of his saber. The indicator flashes: conductive. The armorer nods, hands it back.
"You're all set."
"Thanks," Kai mutters. He nods at me, barely, as he passes, and I hand over my foils. The routine is reassuring. Everything in working order. All my weapons, conductive, my lame, my body wire, functional, ready, safe. All that remains is for me to use these tools to the best of my ability and for the best of my ability to be the best. Period.
"There you go.” The second armorer folds back my body wire in a loop, hands it to me along with the lame. I gather my foils, nod, and make my way to our staging area.
Kai seems tense. I can feel it in the air between us as much as visually register it. I know better than to say something, however. Sometimes tense is what he needs, that coiled spring action. It's good for saber, an aggressive attack, a quick slash. Get the first touch and establish momentum. He knows what he's doing, and I don't want to interfere.
He glances at me. "All in working order?"
When I answer, he's looking out into the stands at Gwenna. "Just fine," I say, shrugging on my jacket and zipping it up.
"Don't forget to warm up."
"I'm plenty warm," Kai mutters.
Callahan’s already on the strip. Jogging. Grapevining his feet back and forth. I lunge, stretch. Work my way methodically through every muscle group. It's going to be a long day.
I glance to the side, and there they are, not all of them, but what looks like the prior-at-arms, certainly, and three attendants with my father. I bend into a deep lunge and breathe out against the tug on my muscles. They found nothing wrong. Nothing in that meeting that seemed to miss. And they shouldn't have. There is nothing wrong. And yet, when I inadvertently letmy eyes drift to the blank mesh of the prior-at-arms' face, I have to wonder.
What we learned as oblates in France is that they hide their faces as an act of humility, to assume a collective identity rather than a singular ego, submission to God and to the great work. That made sense in the chapel. Even in the chapter house. But when we were training, when we would stand for hours in the dark, motionless, swords extended, arms taut, muscles quaking with effort, eyes blindfolded…
It did occur to me, it did seem like, perhaps, there was an advantage to it. That we could never be sure where they were looking. That they were always watching. Or never.
I shake away the feeling. Focus. I need to win two bouts. Secure our position in the league standings. The White Brothers will leave. We'll be on track to host the final. And Gwenna and I will...
"Kingston." It's Kai. Mask under his arm. He jerks his head towards the center strip. "They want us to get started. Some kind of prayer or something."
"Right," I say. "Of course, I'm coming."
I straighten up, grab my mask, and the foil—I think I'll start with French grip, I want the extra extension, because Shelton, out of Mountstuart, is a head shorter than I am, and short-limbed, so, any leverage I can give to my reach will be an automatic advantage.
Head buzzing with tactics, I take my place in line with the other three. But when the chattering quiets, and Villa Loyola and Mountstuart part ways to let our Master of Ceremonies in, it's not Father Denis. It's the prior-at-arms.
The murmurs start up again. The back of my neck burns. It is strange, too strange, almost, to have them here. Like in their humility, they almost draw too much attention to themselves.But I say nothing. Just straighten, exhale, inhale. Check the stands again. Gwenna is still there. Still safe.
My father gives the standard words of welcome, the prior-at-arms standing silently behind him. And when he steps forward, he says a prayer, completely in Latin. I bow my head. And when I raise it, the white-robed figure is before the four of us.
"You will do us proud," he says. And waits. A pregnant kind of pause.
Reflexively, I sink to one knee. I glance sideways at the other three, and they follow suit. I bow my head, waiting for whatever he's about to bestow.
