CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
"She's acting like a petulant child," Dorian pulled his shirt from his breeches.
His voice carried through the small antechamber and added strength to his words. Winslow glanced at him from where he sat on the bench. His friend cocked an eyebrow at him and continued with removing his boots. The dressing room resembled a cave, with its curved stone walls and bare furniture. It boasted only the one bench and a table to hold their belongings during their rounds at Tournament.
No armor was permitted in the noble tournament. Breeches and your sword were the only things allowed in the arena. This was a rule that had begun when the Bedim first emerged. The slippery so-called knights were too good at hiding poisons or secondary weapons that were both dishonorable and deadly.
"Funny that," Winslow remarked and unbuttoned his jacket. "From where I'm standing I'd say there was a bit of immaturity on both your accounts."
"It's been over two weeks and she still won't speak to me," Dorian pulled his undershirt over his head and grimaced as winter air assaulted his skin. "We are running out of time."
"Did you ever consider that she might have things well in hand?" Winslow folded his jacket and set it on the table. "She has dealt with this for many years, you know. It's possible that she doesn't need us."
"Of course she needs us!" Dorian glanced at the closed door and lowered his voice a notch, "She's got a country full of Bedim, a Dellidus, and a murderous Vicaress. The odds are stacked against her."
"The Vicaress is Untalented, correct?" Winslow's voice muffled as his head disappeared under his shirt.
Dorian watched as Winslow folded his shirt and set it on top of his jacket. There was a long, crescent-shaped scar across Winslow's side, just below his ribcage that caught Dorian's attention. For a moment he could do nothing but stare at the former wound, trying to decipher what would have made a mark that terrible.
"Fates, Winifred, what in Hades happened to you?"
Winslow glanced at the scar and gave him a crooked smile. "Oh, that," he turned away and moved to the door. "Compliments of your brothers, actually. Three Tournaments ago. Bartholomew had Alois in a corner and Gaetan decided to skewer me. He missed, mostly. Just sliced me open rather than kabobing me."
"If he'd hit his mark you wouldn't have survived."
"Yes, well, he didn't hit his mark. So all is well," Winslow opened the door. "Besides, you're here this year. If we make it to Finals we should both have a chance at some payback."
Dorian followed him out of the dressing room and into the long corridor that led to the arena. It too was much like a cave, arched overhead and made of stone and from the mouth of the hallway came the cacophony of many people cheering. In spite of the trouble that Elsie provided, in spite of the past with Lorelei and Gaetan and Alois, in spite of the loss of Artimus, Dorian felt a surge of anticipation and euphoria. Tournament always did this to him. It got under his skin, pricked at the base of his neck with the promise of excitement.
This was what he was good at.
"Remember," Winslow was saying as they made their way down the corridor, "Gaetan and Alois have won six of seven rounds. If we win this round we will meet them in the Finals."
"We'll win this round," Dorian promised.
They paused at the entrance and held out their left hands. Two Witch-Born bustled up to them, murmuring the binding enchantment that curled around their wrists. It appeared like purple flame, spiraling from their wrists up to their elbows and leaving behind a blackened tattoo that would only come off at the end of the round. To test that the enchantment had worked one of the Talented prodded Winslow's arm with a spike.
Dorian and Winslow grunted in unison as the pain struck them both.
Then they were ushered into the center of the arena and the roar of the crowd was almost dizzying. Fortress Lorant contained three large baileys, the centermost of which was used for noble tournament. It was, by all accounts, the largest bailey of any fortress in Magnellum. Four grand towers rose up in the corners and the engineers of Lorant had managed a sort of tiered seating that allowed those of higher social status to sit apart from the Untalented. The actual arena was a substantial size, allowing for the competing nobles to safely use their magic without harming the onlookers.
At the far end of the arena Lord Bravyn Ibolya and Lord Sasson Clenci entered from their separate dressing rooms. He'd known them both in his youth but only as casual acquaintances. Ibolya was a strong man with a great tolerance for pain, but his endurance left him lacking in speed. Clenci was the opposite, which made them a good match when thinking in tournament terms. Where one lacked the other could take over.
"Right," Winslow wagged his hands in the air, trying to loosen the muscles in preparation for the fight. "Clenci will go for you first."
"What makes you say that?"
"Your sister turned him down for marriage and he's not exactly the type to lose a grudge."
"Lovely."
Winslow grinned at him.
The announcements were made by heralds and Dorian took a deep, steadying breath. His Talent suddenly surged to life and he faltered.
She was here.
His eyes went to the crowd, searching, but the volume of people obscured her. He caught sight of Bartholomew and his sister. Beside Caresse was Leona, who seemed permanently attached to young Callen Beroe. The Hemic Knight was smiling as the two ladies greeted each other. And then he saw Elise trailing behind Callen, Bryva at her side. There was an unreadable quality to her face even when she turned to look at him. And he knew she was looking at him. Her gaze felt like warmth raking across his skin, undeterred by the bite of winter air.
She was wearing a gown of soft ivory, a buttoned jacket-type bodice tight around her chest. It looked fancy even from a distance. For a moment his mind floated back to the boat, to her stateroom, her body curled up against his. Dorian took a slow, sweet breath and smiled.
"Fates," Winslow smiled up at the seats and - Dorian imagined - right at Bryva, "Talk about mounting the pressure, eh?"
Then the call was made for the round to begin.
***
Elsie watched as Dorian swerved to the left, avoiding the thrust of Lord Clenci's sword. Two strikes at Dorian's midsection, both avoided, and then he retaliated, moving around and behind Clenci. He swung at Clenci's closest leg but was blocked.
Leona gasped as Dorian was kicked dead center of his chest and went flying away from Clenci. The Lady had purchased the viewing enchantment, allowing her to see as the Witch-Born did. This was her first time watching the noble competition. Most years Leona preferred to remain near the Hemic tournament grounds and only ventured inside Fortress Lorant for the general balls and activities provided during the months that the Tournament took to complete. But of course this year was different with Caresse Feverrette practically demanding Leona's company.
The center of the arena distorted as two of the combatants began to bend time. Elsie squinted, watching as Winslow made a swift parry of Ibolya's sword and spun, his back against his opponent's, until he came round to slice Ibolya's right calf, just below the knee. Time resettled as Ibolya and Clenci both yelped in pain.
Ibolya hurled his sword at Winslow, sending it end over end, the keened blade hissing through the air, pommel whooshing low and steady in rhythm. The anticipation of the coming blow was thick on the air. Winslow fell backward and allowed the blade to pass him then rolled to the left, searching for his footing. But Ibolya had called his sword back to himself and the blade slid cold and quick through Winslow's shoulder, finding its master's grasp once again
"What ... what just happened?" Leona asked.
Caresse smiled at her, "Oh dear. This really is your first time." The Lady leaned closer to Leona to explain. "Male Witch-Born have several abilities during combat. There is the strength and speed that Magic can add to their movements ... "
Winslow's fight had distracted Elsie from Dorian, who was getting up from another hit. There was blo
od on his shoulder from the wound Winslow had just taken. He propelled himself with his Talent, his fist connecting with Clenci's jaw in a quick uppercut. Clenci was lifted full off his feet with the force of the strike, dropping his sword when his body hit the ground.
"Like that," Caresse gestured toward her brother. "Or they can fight with time. This takes years of practice and even the best of Witch-Born will tell you that you can never perfect it."
"But how do they fight with time?" Leona's brow pinched as she watched the battle.
Clenci was having a hard time getting up and Ibolya had been distracted enough by the sudden blow that he'd been unable to block the thrust of Winslow's sword. He withdrew it now from the man's left arm and waited. Just as Dorian waited, giving the two men an honorable chance to regain their footing before the match was called.
"Well ... they can bend it," Caresse glanced at Bartholomew, who took up the explanation.
"Bending time consists of either speeding it up or slowing it down," he said. "We cannot leap into the future or step back into the past ... those rights are reserved for the Fates alone. Bending time in the middle of tournament can be dangerous, though. I'm surprised Winslow did it."
"Why is it dangerous?" Bryva asked.
"Well, you have to estimate what your opponent is going to do. If you bend time to slow it down and your opponent speeds it up, you're literally a sitting duck. Likewise, if you both speed it up at the same time you can crash into each other." Bartholomew made a humming noise of disapproval at the center of the arena. "He must be showing off for someone."
Clenci and Ibolya struggled to their feet.
"Why do they not heal themselves?" Leona asked. "I know they can do that."
"Healing is not permitted in the middle of a round," Caresse said. "Otherwise these rounds could last for days and we would never have a winner."
Elsie saw Winslow and Dorian exchange a look. Then everything distorted again as Ibolya bent time, rushing at Winslow. Clenci made the same move for Winslow and suddenly Elsie felt Bryva grip her forearm. It was not unheard of for a team to focus on one member of the opposition, leaving one man to fight against two. It was also considered a dirty strategy, not exactly illegal in tournament terms but highly frowned up.
The next movement was blurred even to Elsie. One second Dorian was running to Winslow's position and the next he was batting Clenci's sword away, jumping half the arena floor in the space it took her to blink. The sword flung away from Clenci and straight into Ibolya's side, who had been too intent on Winslow to notice the danger.
The crowd jumped to its feet, Elsie with it, gasps of mingled amazement and horror rising through the bailey.
"Fates preserve us," Caresse held a hand to her throat.
"Was that normal?" Leona asked, casting an uncertain look at Callen.
The round was called. Winslow and Dorian were the victors though both had moved to aid Ibolya, combining efforts to heal the man. It wasn't until Ibolya got to his feet, waving his hand to the crowd to assure them all that he had survived, that Bartholomew turned to answer Leona.
"No," he said.
"Did Lord Feverrette do something wrong?" Leona clung to Callen's arm. "Because I can assure you that he is a kind, honorable man ... "
"There's no doubt about that, dear," Caresse heaved a troubled sigh. "It's just ... "
"It was too fast," Bartholomew was no longer looking at Leona. Elsie felt the hair on her neck stand up when she recognized that he was staring at her. "No Witch-Born has ever moved that fast before."
"They're going to the dressing room again," Bryva whispered in her ear. "I want to check on Winslow."
Elsie nodded to her.
"Come with me?" she asked.
With an inward wince Elsie agreed, preferring to deal with Dorian Feverrette than the puzzled look she was getting from Bartholomew. Bryva grabbed her arm and half dragged her through the slowly dispersing crowd. There were a couple of curious glances sent their way as they ducked into the corridor leading to the dressing room but Elsie really didn't care anymore. Dorian had moved from Delgora House to the Agoston House and she'd spent the last three weeks in utter misery.
The taste of companionship she had shared with Dorian haunted her and she no longer felt whole without him, which was absurd since he was annoying, arrogant and too stubborn for his own good. Bryva knocked on the door twice and waited. She straightened her clothing, tucked her hair behind her ear and let go of a nervous breath that immediately alarmed Elsie.
"Bryva," she whispered. It took a moment for Bryva to look at her. "Tell me you are not in love with this man."
A wicked gleam caught in the girl's eyes and she winked at her, "Role reversal?"
Winslow opened the door, his face brightening visibly upon sight of Bryva, who launched herself into his arms. He caught her up with a laugh and kissed her in such a way that Elsie blushed and turned to focus on the corridor wall.
"Fates, man!" Dorian said from inside the room. "You could wait until I'm out the door before ramming your tongue in her mouth."
Winslow and Bryva both laughed - which was an inappropriate reaction to the reproach in Elsie's opinion. Dorian was right. That sort of affection did not need to be on display. He was standing near the table in his undershirt, both boots in his hands. Elsie saw him move to the bench before he spotted her in the doorway and stopped.
"Come," Bryva murmured to Winslow, ushering him to the door.
Winslow obeyed, padding barefoot past Elsie. A part of her told her to run, to hurry out of the room before she was locked in. In the end her feet simply would not move. The latching of the door made a soft sound that startled her. There was no fire here and the winter cold seemed to ebb through the stone walls. Hugging herself against the cold she noticed that he was still barefoot and knew that his feet had to feel the chill.
"You should put your boots on," she said.
He smirked at her but sat on the bench. "Did you come of your own accord?"
"In a way, Bryva wished to see Winslow and Bartholomew was staring at me in an odd sort of way."
"But you had no intention of speaking to me," Dorian surmised.
"No."
"Ever?"
Dorian looked far different from that first moment when she had seen him, standing heroically in the center of Delgora Court. Here, with the light fixtures so dim that most of his body was cast in shadow, he could almost pass for a Bedim. Elsie wasn't certain why she noticed it, but she did, and her mind tried to reconcile what she knew of the man with the pompous manner he'd entered her life. He seemed to have a fathomless supply of arrogance, as evidenced by the way he had shared her secrets without consulting her first. Still, there had been several weeks on board the Brietta, secluded from their troubles by the ocean, where she had grown fond of him.
Intensely fond of him, if she was honest with herself; but that same fondness was shadowed with doubt. How was she to trust him fully, when her Talent had all but shoved her into his arms?
With his question still hanging in the air she looked to her feet and closed her eyes. It wasn't what he knew that bothered her. It wasn't even the fact that he had betrayed her trust, not much anyway. He'd come to Delgora with a mission of his own, and when that was finished he had no plans on where he wanted to go or what he wanted to do. With the Bedim gone he would have his freedom again, and seeing him with Bartholomew and Winslow proved to her that he had a good life prior to Artimus. A life that he would need to return to, if he wanted, and that life did not include Delgora or herself.
"Nessa," he was watching her, his boots on though she couldn't remember seeing him donning them again. "Perhaps I have not known you all of my life, but I do know you. What is going on inside that head of yours?"
"I have plans," Elsie started but that wasn't what she wanted to say. She paused and frowned at her feet.
"And I disrupted them," Dorian remained unmoving on the bench. "I apologize for discussing your problems with Winslow an
d Bart. My intentions were well-meant. I hope you understand that."
"I do."
"Yet you have no desire to let me aid you further?"
She lifted her head and fought to smile, "This is not your fight."
He stood then, that same strength that had pulled her into his arms emanating from him, calling her to trust him again. Urging her to let go and take the step toward him. She knew if she did that, if she took just one step then he would close the gap between them and hold her. Her magic rose, whispering encouragements, longing to meld with his yet she kept her body strictly where it was.
"I have chosen to make it my fight," Dorian said at last.
Elsie closed her eyes, struggling not to weep. There was more here, she knew. Things she was too frightened to acknowledge. It was in the way her Talent rose every time she saw him and the secret smile she had when thinking about their time on the Brietta, cramped away in her little stateroom. It was the sincere longing for his presence and the sudden realization that for a blip of a moment she had found happiness. She'd been blind to it at the time and then he'd botched everything by opening his mouth at Agoston House and now she stood there, unable to move, fighting to maintain emotions. Bryva was right. She didn't have the luxury of loving this man.
"I ... " she started and stopped when she heard the waver in her voice. Swallowing hard she opened her eyes again. He'd moved closer but was still too far away. "I cannot permit you to aid me further."
He took a step back, his face clouding with an emotion that she could not name. She hadn't seen him display it before.
"Let us be honest here, Lord Feverrette," she used his formal name to add distance between them. "I saw to it that your contracts were fixed. You are free to pursue the life you had."
"I meant to ask you about that," Dorian tapped his left thigh with his fingers. "Exactly how did you manage it?"
"I am a trained Bedim Knight," Elsie gave him a sad smile. "How do you think?"
"Only the original contractors can remove them. I know. I tried to have them removed quite a while ago."
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