by DAVID B. COE
"He wouldn't do that."
"I know. But still, it gave him a respite from your attack. It changed everything about the match."
"I can only imagine what they're saying about him," Tirnya said, her voice low.
"I don't think he could care less what anyone other than his father is saying."
She frowned. "I imagine his father had quite a lot to say."
Jenoe grinned. "Yes, well be thankful your father is such a kind, reasonable man. Because a more exacting teacher might want to know what you were thinking in your third match, when you fought with your sword in your off hand, and the dagger in your right."
"It worked, didn't it? Craevis had probably never seen anyone do such a thing before."
"You might well have lost, taking such a risk."
Tirnya shook her head. "Not to him. You saw how easily I won. Admit it, Father: It was a fine idea, and it worked perfectly."
Her father laughed and shook his head. "He did look confused, didn't he?"
"By the time he understood what I had done, and why all my attacks seemed so different, he was already bleeding."
"Speaking of bleeding," Jenoe said, his brow creasing as he examined her wound.
Tirnya pulled away. "I'm fine."
"I'm sure you are. It looks like a clean cut. The healer saw you?"
"Yes, Father."
"Fine, then. I won't mention it again. You're going to the Swift Water?"
She'd forgotten. Each year, after the tournament ended, the lord governor hosted a supper at the largest tavern in the city, the Swift Water Inn. Nearly all the combatants went-it wasn't often that anyone offered free food and ale for as long as one could eat and drink-and usually Maisaak himself put in an appearance. As one of the lord governor's captains, Tirnya was expected to attend; as one who had fought in the final match, her absence would have been conspicuous. She wanted only to go home and sleep, but that would have to wait.
"Yes," she said, the word coming out as a sigh. "I'm going." After a brief hesitation, she asked, "Are you?"
Tirnya knew the answer already. Jenoe hadn't gone to the supper since his last year as champion, although as a marshal in the army and a former winner of the tournament he had every right to attend. Others of lower rank-men who had never set foot in the ring-showed up every year and drank themselves into a stupor. But Maisaak hated him, and Jenoe knew it. The lord governor tolerated him as marshal because he and every other person in Qalsyn understood that no one in the city, perhaps in all the land, was more suited to command than Jenoe. But this was another matter.
"No," he said, his smile fleeting and forced. "I should be getting home to your mother. She'll want to hear all about your matches."
Tirnya looked away. "Then she should come herself."
"She doesn't like to watch you fight," he said. "You know that. It frightens her."
"It doesn't frighten you."
"I don't love you as much." He grinned, to soften the gibe. Not that it was necessary; they both knew it wasn't true. "I've been through enough tournaments," he said a moment later. "I understand the risks and the strategies. To your mother it just looks… dangerous. But she would have been proud of you today. She will be, when I tell her about it."
"All right," Tirnya said, not wanting to talk about this. "I'll see you later."
Before she could walk away, Jenoe caught her hand and raised it to his lips. "I'm proud of you," he told her. "You should be proud, too."
She smiled. "Thank you, Father." She kissed his cheek, and walked away.
By the time she reached the Swift Water, the sun had almost set, and long black shadows stretched across the city streets, darkening the stone facades of homes and shops. The door to the tavern was open, and raucous laughter from within spilled out into the lane, along with the scent of roasting meat and musty ale. Tirnya wouldn't be the only woman there-a few had entered the tournament this year, though she was the only one to have gotten beyond the sixth set of matches. But in all ways that mattered, she would be awash in a sea of loud, arrogant men. Her mother would have laughed had she known how much Tirnya dreaded this. "You see?" Zira would have said. "If you had listened to me, and concerned yourself less with swordplay and more with the finer crafts, you'd be home now, resting comfortably with a cup of wine." Too late for that, by more years than she cared to count.
Steeling herself with a long breath, Tirnya stepped inside.
As soon as she entered the tavern, the other warriors began to stare at her, turning one by one as they realized who had come. Gradually conversations stopped, the din fading toward the back of the tavern like a receding tide. Maisaak stood near the bar, a slight smile on his face, as if he were enjoying her obvious discomfort. Enly stood near him, with the Aelean and several other warriors. His expression was far more difficult to gauge than his father's. Concern, embarrassment, even a touch of resentment: Tirnya saw all of these in his pale grey eyes, in the lines around his mouth. Enly resembled his father superficially. Both men had light eyes and black hair. Both were blandly handsome, though Enly had broken his nose as a boy and its crookedness made his face more interesting than his father's. But Maisaak always seemed to be scowling, and on those rare occasions when his expression softened there remained a touch of contempt and condescension, so that even his kindest smile seemed mocking. Enly was more open, kinder, softer, and thus, in his father's view, weaker. Today's victory couldn't have been easy for either of them.
After a silence that lasted for what seemed an eternity, Enly began to clap, stepping forward and raising his hands so that others could see him. Others began to applaud as well, until the sound grew so loud that it compelled even the lord governor to join in. After a few moments, Maisaak stepped forward, raising his hands to silence the throng. For once, Tirnya was deeply grateful to him.
"Yes, yes," the lord governor said, nodding as the applause died down. "She deserves no less." He faced her, the smile on his face appearing genuine. "Welcome, Captain Onjaef. We were starting to fear that you might not come at all, and thus deny us the opportunity to congratulate you on your fine performance today."
Tirnya bowed to him. "Thank you, Your Lordship, and forgive me for being late. Unlike my opponent in the final match, I had to spend some time with the healer afterwards."
That drew a laugh from all, and an approving nod from Maisaak. "Well, you're here now. And I hope you'll enjoy yourself."
"I will, Your Lordship. I intend to avail myself of as much of your free ale as time will allow."
More laughter followed, and slowly the other discussions resumed, leaving Tirnya in the uncomfortable position of having to make conversation with the lord governor.
"You handled that very well, Captain," he said quietly. "Someone with less courage and grace would have stayed away entirely."
It was a rare courtesy from the man, and she didn't bother to hide her surprise. "Thank you, Your Lordship. You're most kind."
"Not really. I'm just not the monster your father has made me out to be."
And there it was: the hidden knife slipped between exposed ribs. No matter the circumstance, Maisaak and Jenoe were both incapable of putting aside their animosity, even for an evening.
"Yes, Your Lordship."
Fortunately, Enly chose that moment to join them.
"She said she wanted an ale, Father. And you know she's too polite to get one so long as you're talking to her. Leave the woman alone."
A brittle smile touched His Lordship's lips. "Yes. I think I understand. I'll leave the two of you."
He walked away, joining a knot of soldiers near the back of the inn, and leaving Enly and Tirnya alone, or at least as alone as two people could be in a tavern so crowded.
"Thank you for that greeting," Tirnya said after a brief, strained silence. "It's not often that people applaud when I step into a tavern."
"Really?" Enly said. "I would have thought it happens all the time." She raised an eyebrow.
He sipped his ale
, shrugged. "It was nothing." He looked away, taking another pull of ale.
She frowned slightly. It wasn't like him to be so diffident. Stepping past him to the bar, she ordered an ale, then turned to face him again. He was already watching her.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked.
He looked away again and drank more. "I'm not looking at you in any particular way."
She smiled. "You beat me, Enly. It's as simple as that. You should be used to it by now. You should he gloating, as you do every other year."
"Oh, I am used to beating you," he said, with a hint of his usual swagger.
"But I'm not used to winning this way."
"And what way is that?"
He started to drink again, but stopped himself. After a moment he met her gaze, though it seemed to take some effort on his part. "By accident. By sheer, dumb luck."
"It was a good strike," she said, unsure of why she was being so generous. "You cut me cleanly."
"That's not what I mean and you know it. I was losing. If I hadn't fallen down when I did, you would have bloodied me, probably with your next attack."
"Did you fall on purpose?" she asked.
He frowned. "I'm not that clever, Tirnya."
She laughed. "No, I don't suppose you are."
Enly's expression didn't change. If anything, he looked more and more troubled by the moment. "Everybody here knows that you should have won," he said. "My men know it. Yours know it. Certainly my father knows it."
"Good," she said. "Maybe next year a few people in the boxes will wager their gold on me."
He regarded her sourly.
"What is it you want me to say, Enly? That I'm sorry I almost beat you? That I didn't mean to fight so well?"
"That's not…" He stopped, shaking his head.
"Then what?"
He stood still for several moments, the muscles in his jaw bunched.
When he faced her again anger and wounded pride burned in his eyes. "Why didn't you bloody me when you had the chance?"
"You mean when you were down."
"Yes, when I was down! The match was yours! You should have ended it then and there!"
All around them, conversations ceased and people began to stare. Tirnya felt her face growing hot. She grabbed Enly by the arm and dragged him out into the street. The sky overhead had turned to a soft indigo, and the first bright stars shone down on the city. She could hear people singing in another tavern and two men staggered past, both of them drunk, both of them laughing at something. This was a night of celebration in Qalsyn, and not only for those who had fought in the tournament. The Harvest had begun, and this year's crops promised to be bountiful. Tirnya, Enly, and Maisaak might well have been the only unhappy people in the entire city.
"You were saying?" she asked wearily, making herself meet his glare.
"Why didn't you end our match when you had the chance?" He sounded calmer now, but there could be no masking the intensity of that look.
"An Onjaef doesn't strike at a defenseless opponent. My father wouldn't have done it, and neither would I."
"So it's all about pride. Stupid Onjaef pride."
She threw her arms wide. "Of course it is! And so are these questions of yours! You know very well that I couldn't win that way. You know what people would be saying about me. You won, Enly! The crystal dagger is yours again. The only reason we're even having this conversation is that I wounded your pride when I let you get up. Well, that's too damn bad!"
He blinked, then looked away. "This is…" He shook his head, looking very young. "It's our fathers, isn't it? This is all about them."
"Not entirely. I'd want to beat you even if your father was a cloth peddler."
"You know what I mean."
"I'm not having this discussion again, Enly."
"We have to-"
"Don't!" she said, shaking her head.
"We have to marry. You know it just as I do. It's the only way to end their feud and all the rest of this foolishness."
"You just don't want to have to fight me again next year." She smiled. He didn't. After a moment she shook her head. "That was supposed to be a joke."
"I'm serious, Tirnya."
"We've talked about this."
A small smile touched his lips. "We've done more than talk about it."
"Yes, and we saw how that turned out, didn't we?"
He gave her a coy look. "Was it really all that bad?"
"It didn't work, Enly. And I have no interest in being any man's wife. Not even yours. You'd expect me to give up my command, to have children, to be the dutiful wife of the lord heir."
"It wouldn't be that terrible, would it?"
She gestured at the mail coat she still wore and at the weapons hanging from her belt. "Look at me, Enly. Do I look like the marrying kind?"
They were about the same height, and now their eyes met. It was only for an instant-she quickly made herself look away-but she saw enough to know that he meant what he was saying. He might well have loved her.
"I'd marry you in a heartbeat," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.
She made herself look at him again. He deserved that much from her. "No." she said. "I'm sorry, Enly, but the answer is still no."
He held her gaze for a moment longer before shaking his head. He smiled again, but it looked pained. "Onjaef pride," he said.
"Call it what you will."
"You'll change your mind someday."
Tirnya shrugged, far less certain of this than he seemed to be. "Maybe."
"By then it might be too late."
She straightened. "I suppose that's the risk I'm taking."
They stood in silence for several moments. Enly continued to eye her, but Tirnya refused to meet his gaze again. Finally, he took a long breath. "All right, then." He held out a hand to her, somehow managing a smile. "Shall we go back in?"
Tirnya had to laugh. However disappointed he might have been, he recovered quickly, or at least hid his pain well. By midnight he'd be in bed with some barmaid or one of the other swordswomen.
"All right," she said. She took his hand, and together they reentered the tavern. Once inside, he released her hand and joined some of his men, leaving Tirnya to reclaim her ale from the bar. She didn't much feel like drinking it. In fact, she would have preferred to leave, but after the way the others had welcomed her, and after her exchange with Enly, which so many had overheard, she didn't feel that she could. Not yet, at least.
"Captain!"
Tirnya turned and searched the tavern, wondering if this was someone calling for her.
"Captain Onjaef!"
She saw a man near the back of the Swift Water wave a hand over his head. After a moment she recognized Oliban Hert, one of her lead riders. His shirt was stained red on the sleeve, from a wound she had dealt him today in the seventh match. Still, he was smiling. She waved in return, picked up her ale, and walked back to where he was standing. When she reached him, she realized that several of her riders were there. They raised their glasses in salute and she drained hers, the proper response under the circumstances. The men cheered, and immediately one of them rose and hurried to the bar to get her another.
"Ya made us proud today, Captain," Oliban said with a grin. "I only wish ya'd been as gentle with me as ya were with th' lord heir." Immediately his face fell. "Wh-what I meant was-"
She patted his shoulder. "It's all right, Oliban. I know what you meant." But her throat had tightened. People in Qalsyn would be speaking of what she had done for a long time. It might well become a lasting part of Harvest Tournament lore, like Stri's first competition, or the year when Enly's older brother, Berris, won the final match, only to fall to the ground dead a few moments after, the victim, the healers said, of a defective heart. She'd be remembered, too: the woman who had her chance to defeat the lord heir, only to squander it.
The rider returned with Tirnya's ale and handed it to her. She drank a bit, taking the opportunity to compose he
rself.
"Ya did what ya had to, Captain," Oliban said, eyeing her. "All of us knows it."
The other men nodded their agreement.
"Ya showed ya was th' best, an' ya showed ya have honor." Oliban raised his cup. "T' th' captain!" he said.
"Hear, hear!"
Tirnya grinned and sipped her ale as the others drank. "Thank you," she said. They cleared room for her at their table, and she sat.
All of them, including Oliban, started to ask her questions about her matches. How had she beaten the Aelean? What weapons had she used? Who was quicker, Enly or the Tordjanni swordsman she fought in her eighth match? She answered as many of their questions as she could before finally raising a hand to forestall the next one.
"Actually," she said, smiling to soften the words, "I really don't want to talk about the matches anymore. It's been a… a long day."
Oliban glanced around the table at the others. "Our apologies, Captain. Maybe we should leave ya alone."
Tirnya shook her head. "No. I don't want that." She looked at them each in turn. "You can't tell me that the tournament is the only thing you know how to talk about."
They laughed, but it sounded forced, a response intended to please their commander. And she understood. It wasn't all they knew to talk about, but it was certainly all they wanted to talk about. Every other conversation in the Swift Water was about the day's events; why shouldn't theirs be as well? They could speak of more mundane matters every other day of the year. But today…
Tirnya smiled again, this time at her own foolishness.
"Enly's quicker," she said. "Although the Tordjanni isn't bad. His off hand is only average-Oliban here is quicker on the left. But his sword…" She shook her head, and the men all leaned in, waiting, eager. "His sword is fast. Lightning quick." Tirnya grinned. "Not as fast as mine, of course, and no match for Enly's. But very quick."
They wound up talking for hours. Once Tirnya forced herself past her self-pity, she understood that talking about her matches and those of her men was just what she needed. Before she knew it, most of the other combatants had left the Swift Water, though Enly and his father were still there, talking to separate groups of soldiers, trying to ignore each other.