Page 10 of Lady Dragon
More importantly, she didn’t want Branon to win. Worse than granting Jamsens her favor, who would perhaps value it more than it was worth, would be bestowing it upon Branon, who would value it not at all, or even spit upon it in return and make some horribly snide remark that would embarrass her in front of everyone, as her older brother was wont to do.
Jamsens didn’t look concerned, only eager, as he tested the air with a few swipes of his practice blade. Branon only smiled at him, his eyes flat.
They’d been competing all their lives, it seemed. They’d been the closest thing to brothers that either of them had had, until Jamsens had chosen to be the captain of Samansa’s guard instead of following Branon into military command—chosenherover Branon, or so her brother seemed to think.
Now they would decide who was the loser in that situation. Jamsens would love nothing more than to prove himself, to the princessandthe prince. Branon, to prove him wrong.
At least, whoever was the victor of their round, they would still have to face Tordall in the final match, the most experienced fighter in the queen’s forces. Jamsens was his son and had trained with him since boyhood, just like Branon—not to mention that Branon was second-in-command of the queen’s forces, ranking after only Tordall. Even so, the queen’s first-in-command would surely win against either of them.
Or at least Samansa hoped he would. And yet, both combatants looked in peak form as they took each other’s measure.
After the princess gave her signal, Jamsens swung at Branon first, and Branon blocked him easily, throwing his strike wide. Samansa tried not to think about fire against rock as her brother tossed away Jamsens’s next couple of blows.
But then Jamsens adapted, staying more on his guard and deflecting a few of Branon’s own attacks. They both gripped their swords in two hands, the cross guards glinting in the sunlight as they circled around each other. Jamsens shifted, his foot sliding back through the dirt, his blade coming higher over his body, and Samansa recognized the practiced skill in his stance.
He wouldn’t just gutter out against Branon’s steadiness. He was better than that, and Kirek waswrong.
Branon adjusted his stance in response, his sword coming down low, almost touching the ground. Jamsens swung as he advanced and pivoted, clearly testing Branon’s defenses, feinting first left, then right. The prince barely responded, sword tip weaving, not deigning to treat the feints as real threats.
The message was clear: His opponent was beneath him. Samansa had all too often been on the receiving end of such judgment from her brother, and felt a sympathetic burn of humiliation for her captain.
But then Jamsens darted forward, bringing his blade up in a horizontal slash, and the princess’s breath caught in her throat. Branon countered him with another powerful blow from above, clearly relying on his superior strength to match it, laughter ready on his lips.
Instead, at the last moment, Jamsens let the point of the sword dip, and his hand moved with a speed almost too quick to follow, leaving the hilt to grasp the blade itself, reversing the cross guard and driving the pommel into Branon’s throat.
Shock registered on Branon’s face as he choked, falling to his knees, all laughter and smiles gone, and the crowd gasped collectively at the sudden reversal and display of talent. Pride blossomed in Samansa, enough to nearly lift her to her feet, cheering. But any cry of victory died on her lips, freezing her in her seat.
Because Branon had an answer all his own. He turned his fall into a roll, his features twisting in anger, and he kicked out—his boot connecting directly between Jamsens’s legs.
To any onlookers, it could have been an accident, an unfortunate result of his tumbling flail back to standing. Samansa saw it differently, and she felt gooseflesh rise on her skin in the sun-warmed air.
Her brother was perfectly happy to lose a battle to win the war, and use low blows while he was at it. Her stomach dropped at the realization.
As she thought he might, Branon hissed, “My apologies.”
Jamsens groaned, trying to power through and stay upright, but he faltered to one knee, and Branon, now standing over him, brought his blade up in a sharp, short slap against Jamsens’s own throat.
“Because youlose,” Branon snarled, before managing to school his features into a more confident sneer.
Samansa’s hands strangled each other in her lap, the threat of tears stinging her eyes, as she and the crowd waited for the concession. She refused to look at Kirek, her gaze fixed on the arena below. Jamsens could only nod his assent, red-faced, before Branon withdrew the blade and stepped back.
“It appears as though it’s you versus me, old man,” the prince called, casually now, inspecting his sword and not looking as Jamsens dragged himself up and limped his way off the field.
The princess bit her lip, aching for her captain as she watched him retreat. Jamsens’s pride was likely more wounded than he was, but he probably hurt enough in every capacity that Samansa wouldn’t be seeing him up in the stands soon. As much as she wished to console him, she doubted he would welcome it right now.
“Alas, I’m afraid my old shoulder injury is acting up,” Tordall said from the sidelines, shrugging and rolling his arm in its socket. “I wouldn’t want to aggravate it, as I need it to be in peak condition in case of an actual fight.”
“You mean you forfeit?” Branon said with a raised brow.
Samansa gaped at that—his forfeiting the fight meant her brother had won the tourney. Had Tordall intended this all along, whoever was the victor? If he’d been up against Jamsens, it would have ensured his son earned the princess’s favor that he so desired. And with Branon, what did that mean? Tordall had never backed down from a challenge before.
“Besides,” the older man continued soberly, “I would never wish to face you on the field, only stand alongside you.”
Branon smiled at that—a genuine smile that Samansa had not seen in some time. It raised the hair on the back of her neck.
Or maybe she was once again reading too much into her brother’s actions. Or perhaps, at least, Tordall’s. Branon was nearly as much of a son to him as Jamsens, after all.
And yet, the prince didn’t accept his victory. He nodded at a squire, exchanging his sword for a new one—perhaps deeming that one too nicked after his fight with Jamsens, even with dulled edges. A fresh blade in hand, he turned to the stands.
