“I suppose you think you’re the most genteel?” Dresden asked.
Caleb bowed with a flourish of his hand. “Obviously.”
“I don’t know.” Regulus scratched his chin. “Drez should get some gentility points for his well-kept beard alone.”
Caleb made a sound of protest, his mouth agape. “Now that’s just cruel.” He rubbed the stubble on his jawline with the back of his fingers. “It’s not my fault my beard grows out all scraggly. Besides, the ladies love a little five o’clock shadow.”
“Ladies love a full, soft, closely trimmed beard,” Dresden said.
“Says the two single men.” Perceval harrumphed. “You think I’m clean shaven because I enjoy shaving? Hm? I prefer kisses from my wife, thank you.”
“You have a beard like a porcupine, it doesn’t count.” Dresden stroked his beard.
Regulus shook his head as they arrived at the tents. “All right, enough!”
After lunch, Harold helped Regulus into his armor, and Drez tied Adelaide’s token to his arm, tucking the knot under the pauldron to ensure it wouldn’t come off. The plain armor emphasized strength and maneuverability over looks. Lots of curves to help blows glance off.
Compared to the bulk of the Black Knight armor, this felt like heavy clothes, so he had to be extra careful to control his strength. Plus, he carried his own sword. A standard broadsword, it was considerably lighter than the massive black sword hidden with the chest of armor in his tent. Although he prayed the sorcerer would not call on him during the tournament, he had no way of knowing when he would next feel his mark burn.
But he couldn’t think about that, not now. He intended, for the first time in over two years, to act like his own man. For the tournament, he would forget about the sorcerer’s threats looming over him, ignore his recklessness, and be present in the moment and enjoy it. Fight for sport instead of for his life. Love a spectacular woman. Today, he would ignore the darkness. Today, nothing would bring him down. Because today, he wore his heart on his sleeve as literally as possible.
His men accompanied him to the sword-fighting arena. Perceval and Caleb were still bickering about something, while Estevan occasionally interjected, stoking the flames. Harold and Jerrick seemed to be placing bets on whether Perceval would punch Caleb.
“I need to concentrate!” Regulus snapped as they approached the fence surrounding the arena. Waiting competitors and their attendants crowded about. “What in creation are you two fighting about now?”
“Perce thinks he’s high and mighty because he got kicked out of university,” Caleb said.
“Captain, you think they’ll let me and Cal borrow the sword-fighting arena for a minute?” Perceval crossed his arms. The man had about the most intimidating scowl Regulus had ever seen, but Caleb just snickered.
Dresden smacked the back of Perceval’s head. “Hey, you’re distracting Reg.”
“My, my, your men have the decorum of peasant children.” Carrick leaned back against the fence, looking at Regulus and his men with clear disdain. “But then, that’s presumably what they are. Just like their false lord.”
Perceval moved forward. Regulus blocked him with his arm. His blood boiled, but he wouldn’t give Carrick the satisfaction of a reaction.
Carrick looked across the arena at the crowds filing into the wood stadium seating. He jutted his chin toward the spectators. “Oh, excellent. Adelaide is here.”
Regulus looked where Carrick had indicated as Adelaide took a seat in a box near the center of the arena with the Drummonds.
“She will have an excellent view when you’re flat on your back with me standing over you.” Carrick smiled viciously.
Keep calm. Regulus took a deep breath and smiled back. “Or perhaps the other way around.” He held out his hand. Never let them see they’re getting to you. “Good luck, Sir Carrick.”
Carrick’s top lip curled. But then he took Regulus’ hand and squeezed harder than necessary as he smiled again. Regulus summoned every ounce of self-control to not just break his hand.
“May the best man win, mercenary.” Carrick dropped Regulus’ hand and sauntered over to the herald overseeing the event.
“See?” Perceval jabbed his finger in the air. “This. This is why I don’t compete. I’d cut that”—he said a few choice words describing Carrick—“head clean off.”
“And this is why you’re the least genteel,” Caleb said.
“Contestants to the field!” the herald called. “All contestants competing in the sword, please enter the arena!”
“I’d recommend not cutting his head off,” Dresden said solemnly.
“I’ll try to keep that in mind.” Regulus kept his tone light and jocular, but he knew Dresden was right. The way Carrick got under his skin... He would have to be careful.
The herald welcomed the contestants and spectators and explained the event. Pairs had been pre-chosen for the first round. Winners would compete in new pairs in the next round, and so on until only two knights remained. One loser picked by Baron Carrick, who sat in a large box centered in the middle of the arena, would compete in the second round to ensure an even number of competitors. There would be five rounds total. Five rounds, five opponents between him and victory.
The herald announced the pairs. Regulus would go eleventh, fighting against Sir Morris MacCombe. Regulus had met Baron MacComb’s eldest before. A polite man in his early thirties with a reputation for chivalry and some skill with a sword. The combatants bowed to the spectators and filed out of the arena, except the first two combatants—Lord Thorne, one of Baron MacComb’s vassals, and Carrick. Regulus found it suspicious that Carrick dueled first, but it provided a good opportunity to study him, should they end up facing each other. He hoped they would.
Lord Thorne was a short, stocky man with a steely gaze, muscles that protruded from his thick neck, a stubbly gray beard, and long gray hair tied back at the nape of his neck. He had fought in the Trade Wars and had a reputation for smashing in skulls with a war-hammer. It would be interesting to see how he fared with a sword.
The men shook hands then put on their helms. Flaxen horsehair formed a plume on Carrick’s. Let’s see if your skill matches your flair, Carrick. The men drew their swords and circled each other. Regulus leaned on the fence, eyes narrowed.
Thorne attacked with the force of a charging wild boar—all strength and speed, but little finesse. Rather than attempt to block the blow, Carrick sidestepped and parried Thorne’s sword from the side. Begrudgingly, Regulus nodded. The force of a blow like that could shatter an arm if taken directly. Despite the force of his swing, Thorne adjusted, attacking from the side before Carrick had a chance to counter. Carrick blocked, moving back to absorb the impact of the blow. Thorne stepped forward, pressing his advantage.
Carrick gave way, backing up here, sidestepping there. Parrying rather than blocking whenever possible. He was letting Thorne wear himself down.
Thorne had a distinct advantage over Carrick in mass and muscle. But Carrick made the smallest movements possible, conserving his energy. Thorne brought a weaker strike from the left, and Regulus had seen enough fights to know Carrick was about to make his move. Carrick stepped into the strike, holding the flat of his blade up to block. With a resounding clang, Thorne’s sword pushed Carrick’s to the side. Carrick stumbled, and several people gasped. But Regulus noted the careful placement of Carrick’s feet as he stumbled, how he adjusted his grip on his sword. A feint. Emboldened, Thorne raised his sword, preparing for a mighty downward swing. Carrick prepared to block the blow. Thorne swung.
Carrick spun to the side and Thorne’s sword tore through empty air and slammed into the ground, sending up chunks of dirt. Carrick moved to the offensive, driving Thorne back. Caught unprepared, Thorne had difficulty getting his stance corrected. He moved backward off-balance, his energy lagging. Carrick, on the other hand, unleashed his speed and strength.
The crowd cheered as Carrick landed repeat blows on Thorne’s b
reastplate. Thorne tried to counter, to turn back to the offensive. Carrick let him, just for a moment, then parried, knocking Thorne’s sword aside. He kicked the back of Thorne’s knee, and the older man stumbled forward. A blow to his back, and Thorne fell to his knees. Carrick swung, bringing his sword to a stop just before Thorne’s neck. Thorne dropped his sword. The crowd applauded and hollered. Carrick would continue to the second round.
Chapter 22
ADELAIDE SIGHED AS Carrick jabbed his sword into the air, celebrating his victory. Part of her had expected him to be all style and no substance, despite William Carrick’s advice not to bet against him. When Lord Thorne appeared to have the upper hand, she felt smug. But once Nolan moved to the offensive, she realized he had always been in control. He had a plan from the beginning, and it worked. Reluctantly, she applauded as he removed his helm. Nolan had his faults, but he had apologized. He had not approached her since the afternoon prior. And based on his congenial handshake with Regulus before the contestants entered the field, they must have worked out their differences. It made her dislike him a little less.
Carrick looked directly at her as he bowed. He flashed a charming smile and mouthed something that looked like “for you.” She clenched her jaw as he turned and swaggered out of the arena. Never mind. Some might find his determined pursuit attractive, but she found it annoying. What was his goal, wear her down until she was so tired of saying no, she said yes? How unromantic.
Regulus leaned against the fence, a deep, thoughtful frown on his face. He looked toward her, and Adelaide smiled. His expression softened, and his hand strayed to the strip of fabric fastened to his arm. Minerva poked her side.
“The next competitors have entered the field, in case you missed it while making love eyes at Lord Hargreaves.”
Adelaide scowled. “You’re ridiculous. What even are love eyes?”
“The look you were just giving Regulus Hargreaves.” Min laughed as Adelaide rolled her eyes.
“How convenient and vague a definition.” She looked back at Regulus, but he had turned his attention to the new combatants.
Nobles from as young as seventeen to as old as fifty took their turns in the arena. Most fights ended quickly. Others had her on the edge of her seat as evenly matched opponents went back and forth, gaining and losing the upper-hand at staggering speed. Between each match she looked to Regulus, and he always met her gaze before turning his attention back to the combat.
Finally, Regulus entered the field. Her pulse quickened. Regulus nodded at Adelaide before he turned to his opponent. Regulus was taller Sir Morris MacCombe, but they had similar muscular builds and the same air of resolve as they shook hands. She remembered liking Sir MacCombe at the Carrick’s dance, but she hoped Regulus beat him. A loss wouldn’t change her feelings, but she wanted Carrick to see Regulus win. And she didn’t care to see the disappointed expression Regulus had after he lost the archery contest again.
Regulus pulled on his helm and took up his stance. Feet planted, knees bent. Chin tucked in as he looked through his visor. Adelaide leaned forward and wrapped her fingers around the edge of the wooden bench.
MacCombe shifted to his right, and Regulus did the same, moving his feet in a fluid movement close to the ground. The men circled for a moment, sizing each other up. Both moved at the same time. Their swords met with a ringing clang. Their blades parted as they both carried through their momentum and stepped back. MacCombe swung. Adelaide gripped the bench harder.
Regulus parried, pushing MacCombe’s blade aside. As MacCombe adjusted, Regulus attacked, but MacCombe blocked then pushed back. Regulus retreated but kept his guard up and his stance forward. They ranged back and forth, a flurry of attacks, parries, and blocks. Adelaide scarcely blinked.
“Lord Hargreaves is good, isn’t he?” Minerva murmured.
“Indeed,” Gaius said. “I’d heard he was, but...my word. He’s impressive. Did you see how—”
“Shush!” Adelaide released her iron grip on the bench to wave in Gaius’ direction.
Minerva giggled. “Are we not allowed to talk about your suitor?”
Adelaide pursed her lips but didn’t take her eyes off the duel. “You’re distracting me from the sparring.”
Gaius chuckled and whispered something to Minerva that made her laugh and hold her belly. Adelaide ignored them, focused on Regulus’ every movement.
Regulus moved with ease and controlled awareness. She knew what control looked like. It took control to throw knives quickly with accuracy. A subconscious awareness of your body, of each miniscule movement of your arm from your shoulder to the tips of your fingers. Honed control of the rotation of your shoulder, the straightening of your elbow, even your breathing. Practice until control and awareness became second nature, the movement reflexive, the knives an extension of your hand. That was how Regulus moved. With precision. But there was something else.
He was holding back.
She couldn’t pinpoint how she knew. Something about the ease with which he swung his sword. The way he pressed into an attack, but not as far as he could. A forceful parry where he seemed to stop short. It was miniscule. But there was an energy there she knew all too well. A pent-up power that tried to push itself out of every limb. The constrained feeling of keeping her magic caged when it coursed through her and she wanted to let it out, to release the power trapped inside. Something in her gut told her Regulus had strength he wasn’t letting out. She just couldn’t understand why.
She pushed her confusion away, taking in every strike, every swing. Every crash of metal-on-metal vibrated in her chest. MacCombe landed a glancing blow on Regulus’ shoulder. Her fingers hurt from clenching the bench, so she grabbed fistfuls of her skirt instead. Regulus fell back, on the defensive. MacCombe swung. Regulus thrust his sword forward. MacCombe quickly countered, batting away Regulus’ blade, but now he was off balance. Regulus let the force of MacCombe’s counter do most of the work as he swung his sword up and around. MacCombe’s sword was too far to his right as Regulus brought his blade around on the side of MacCombe’s head.
Regulus didn’t pause, landing blow after blow. MacCombe’s sword slipped out of his fingers and fell on the dirt as he raised his hands. Regulus pulled back. Adelaide leapt to her feet, cheering with the rest of the crowd. Regulus sheathed his sword and offered his hand to MacCombe. MacCombe accepted the handshake, then retrieved his sword. Regulus turned toward the spectators and removed his helm, bowing toward Baron Carrick. As he straightened, he looked at her and the scarred corner of his mouth turned up in a slight smile. He did not swagger as he walked off the field, as Nolan had, but he held his head up and his shoulders back.
The last four pairs of swordsmen fought, and Baron Carrick called a break while he decided pairs for the next round—and which loser would get a chance at redemption. Adelaide left her sister and the Drummonds and made her way to the waiting competitors.
Regulus grinned as she approached, his silver-gray eyes sparkling. Despite the rivulets of sweat on his skin, making his slicked-down hair stick to his face, he still looked good. Her heart leapt. Behind Regulus, Dresden stood with four other knights.
Estevan, the knife-thrower. A muscular knight with a crooked nose and short brown hair. One knight had longer, dark blond hair and a stubbly beard that made quite a contrast with Dresden’s thick, short beard. The fourth had dark skin and black, short hair in tight curls. They all looked at her as she curtsied.
Regulus smiled. “Do we need such formality?”
“Do we ever need formality?” Adelaide grinned. “Formality is demanded by societal ideas of politeness, not necessity.”
Crooked Nose chuckled. “Oh, I like her, Captain.”
“Captain?” She hadn’t meant to voice her confusion aloud, but she couldn’t help it.
Regulus shrugged. “I’ve told him repeatedly we’re not mercenaries anymore. I’m not his captain. But he’s stubborn and foolhardy and will never change.”
“See?” St
ubble said. “Regulus agrees with me. You’re an idiot.”
“Charming.” Dresden rolled his eyes. “I thought you were the genteel one. This is why you don’t have a woman.”
“I’d contradict you but there’s a lady present.”
Regulus rubbed the side of his head then gestured to Stubble. “Adelaide, this is Sir Caleb Rathburn.”
Rathburn bowed with a flourish of his hand and a toothy grin. “A pleasure to finally meet you, my lady.”
“You know Estevan,” Regulus said. Estevan bowed. “This is Sir Jerrick Faras.” The dark-skinned man bowed with a smile. “And this charming individual,” Regulus gestured to Crooked Nose, “is Sir Perceval Williamson.”
Williamson gave a stiff half bow but smiled warmly. “Be gentle with the Captain, my lady.”
Adelaide cocked an eyebrow. “You’re worried I’ll hurt him?”
“No. But he’s been hurt enough.”
Regulus cleared his throat. “Have you been enjoying the tournament so far?”
“Oh, yes. I—”
A trumpet sounded, indicating that the competition would recommence. Adelaide adjusted her token on his arm. Not that it needed adjusting. She just needed the excuse to be close to him.
“Good luck,” she whispered. She headed back for her seat.
As Adelaide picked her way between spectators, she caught some of them staring. Others glanced her way furtively. She listened closer to the muddled cacophony of voices and latched onto snippets that seemed to be about her or Regulus.
“...matches Belanger’s dress.”
“Wasn’t he a mercenary?”
“...heard her mother’s a Khastallander freewoman. Not even noble.” Adelaide clenched her jaw.
“...no-good bastard.”
“I can’t imagine Lord Belanger approves.”
“I thought she was courting Nolan Carrick?”
“She’s a flirt.”
Adelaide ducked her head and made her way to her seat as quickly as she could.
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