Chapter 27
The shadows at the rear of the stadium's entrance hall refused to devour Aemere, even with other contenders having turned up to see the pairings. She felt exposed, and had to suppress her anxiety over who she'd face.
Not because she doubted herself. But she'd signed up before realising Einari was also here. She'd never seen him in daylight, but didn't doubt Thjorn's claim of who'd been hunting them.
Of course, if she couldn't recognise him, he probably wouldn't recognise her. She hoped.
Their fighting styles could be a different matter. They'd faced off in Culvik, and she remembered enough of his moves that she might be able to recognise him in the arena, especially if they fought. She had to assume he could do likewise.
Abandoning the fight after signing up was out, since that would count as a loss and end her plans. Would fighting him and risking recognition and arrest be worse?
If he could prove it had been her. Fighting style wouldn't count as proof, would it? With the power of the Society, it might be all they'd need. It would also save them the embarrassment of someone who refused to use glyphs getting further in the Tournament. She’d already gotten some attention due to that, which irritated her.
Every tile placed on the board made her heart skip. Her attention focussed on the boy sent up the ladders, willing him to make a good pairing, as though it were his choice. Or hers.
Einari's name went up. The second till his competitor's joined it stretched interminably.
It wasn't her. She exhaled deeply, having escaped for the moment. Would he watch other fights? If he did he'd be unlikely to recognise the moves with any degree of certainty over that distance. It wouldn't be worth trying to alter her style for the fight, not with the risk of losing.
Her name went up next to her opponent. She shut her eyes, hoping it would change when they opened. It didn't. It wasn't as bad as facing Einari, but not by much. She hadn't seen his name, stopping scanning when she spotted Einari, and she’d hoped she wouldn’t have to face him.
Aemere couldn’t risk seeing him before she had to. She'd return to the inn and wait until the fight. She'd found a room only five minutes away.
She'd barely crossed the street when she heard the call.
'Aeme!' he bellowed. There was little ignoring him. He'd just run her down.
She turned to face him, in time to be swept off her feet and engulfed in a hug. He laughed as he swung her around, and she felt her feet connect with a few unlucky bystanders. None complained too loudly after getting a look at him.
Almost a foot taller than her, Sigming was around twice as broad, with a personality which made it seem fivefold. Primarily muscle, his build didn’t feel as firm as when last she'd seen him.
After he released her, and after the surroundings stopped spinning, he stood grinning wildly. 'Aeme, it's good to see you. Do you have any idea how worried mother is?'
'She made her feelings on the subject plain,' said Aemere.
He shook his head, the grin put away as he adopted a stern older brother look, or what he imagined it to be. 'What are you doing here?'
'I was headed back to my room. I have a fight to prepare for.'
'I meant what are you doing in the Tournament?'
'Winning.'
'Not yet, you're not,' he said. 'And you're hardly likely to. You made your feelings on glyphs plain.'
She managed not to sigh. It was the same old discussion. He couldn’t think she’d changed her opinion. 'They've lessened the Tournament.'
'Without them you're at a disadvantage. Especially considering your next opponent.' His grin returned briefly. 'And if you carry on without them you could get hurt.'
'With them there'd be no point winning. It'd be worthless.'
'Father did. And won.'
'And the shame killed him.' It came out sharper than she intended, and Sigming flinched.
'Don't say that,' he said.
She regained her composure, but wouldn't back down. 'He gave in to the way things were going, sacrificing his honour for a victory.'
'Don't you...' Sigming stopped himself, his temper threatening to get the better of him. 'The Tournament has rules. He honoured those rules.'
'The Society's rules. It used to be about who was the better fighter. It's become about who can afford the best glyphs.'
'Glyphs only go so far.'
'Yes, they do,' said Aemere. 'Which I intend to prove.'
'Aeme, I don't want to hurt you.'
'Nor I you. Don't worry. I'm good enough that I won't.'
He barked a laugh, shaking his head. 'Will you at least drink with me beforehand?'
'After,' she said. 'Or are you trying to get your opponent drunk?'
He shrugged.
She stayed with him, letting him reminisce, and enduring his futile attempts to have her give up. They returned to the arena together, separating only to don their armour and prepare.
In full armour he was even more imposing. Dull grey, the scars of numerous battles adorned it proudly. It was the armour of someone who loved battle, and wanted his opponents to know it. His sword – their father's sword – looked as she remembered. The hated glyphs which had defaced the blade for a decade made it a symbol of everything wrong with the world.
She'd focus on the sword rather than her brother. The sword was what she needed to beat. What she had to beat.
The fight started, and he wasted no time attacking. He didn’t commit, though. He didn't want to hurt her and that hampered him. She didn't want to win that way.
Even if he'd put his all into the swing she'd have avoided it. She'd watched him train, taking part of his lessons for her own. She knew how he fought, his strengths and weaknesses. But he'd never seen her fight, having been gone when she finally wheedled lessons for herself. She knew she was the better fighter.
He pushed the attack, reversing the swing to come in at her again. He was fast, moving easily in the heavy armour and forcing her to use her shield.
The impact shook her – even without his full strength behind it – and the glyphs released a charge that coursed through her. Even with the shield absorbing some, she felt oddly numb in that arm. It'd be worse on her sword, and made some opponents drop their weapons.
She fell into a defensive stance, prepared to dance him around until she saw an opportunity. He was strong, but frustration would get to him before exhaustion and he'd make a mistake.
All she had to do was survive, which was the problem. He advanced with wide sweeps to force her back, his strength enough to quickly recover the sword before it left him vulnerable.
He eschewed a shield, holding the sword with both hands for greater control. And he did control it. He'd let it act as a shield when she tried probing strikes. Its glyphs activated on impact, so every time he caught a sword on it, it'd do more damage to his opponent. That and his control made him a formidable opponent.
Facing her, his emotions would be affecting his control. As distasteful as that may be it gave her an advantage, which could counter what the glyphs gave him. Or was that rationalization? Not something she had time to consider. She ducked his next slash, darting aside and slashing at his knee as she danced out of range.
He flinched away, more from the vibration than any damage which the glancing blow hadn't caused. He was guarded in his next approach. She accepted the strike on her shield, knocking his sword wide and lunging at his head.
He shifted his grip on the sword to one hand as she knocked it aside. The other hand rose to block her sword before it struck. He might have a bruise, but no serious damage, and it wouldn't slow him.
Before he could grasp his sword firmly in both hands she spun to attack from his right. He blocked as expected, but she pushed his blade down, resisting the charge rushing through her as she forced her blade down to hit his left knee. The continuing clash of the blades maintained the charge coursing from his, travelling through her blade.
She almost dropped her sword from the charg
e. He lost his balance, stumbling to his other knee, his left hand shooting to the ground to steady him.
Her sword arm still numb, Aemere couldn't lose the opportunity. She swung her shield around his sword to collide solidly with his helmet, knocking him back. He fumbled to keep his sword up defensively, letting himself fall on his back.
Discarding her shield to grip her sword in both hands, she was on him before he could scramble away. Her blade was under his chin before he could block it.
Their eyes met and she saw his injured pride as he let his sword fall. She stepped away, victory soured by having to beat him like that. She reminded herself why she was doing this. This was simply the price of doing the right thing.
It didn't make her feel any better.