Page 107 of Pippa of Lauramore
The small moment is all Lionel needs. He raises his sword and swings. I don’t know what I scream as Archer falls, but I hear my shrill cry echo through the arena.
He’s down.
He’s lost.
Just as my knees are giving out, I see Lionel raise his sword above his head.
He’s going to kill him.
I scream again. “No?—”
“Enough!” Father bellows, rising to his feet. “The victory is yours, Lionel. Lower your sword.”
No one cheers as Lionel slowly lets his sword fall. Archer draws himself up, and there is slow applause from the crowd—but it’s not for Lionel. Archer acknowledges them and then takes the long, painful walk from the arena.
I fall back to my seat, mad calculations in my head. If Rigel wins this next round, Lionel and Galinor will tie with twenty-one points. There will be one more round of hand-to-hand combat to determine the winner.
It’s not over. Archer—Galinor—could still win. I need to go to Archer and reassure him all is not lost.
“Where are you going?” Leonora asks, dabbing hereyes with the tips of her fingers. Her cheeks are overly pink.
“To find Archer.”
“It’s the last match. You have to stay for it.” Her soft brown eyes are wide. I wonder if it’s bad for the baby to have her upset this often?
I sit back down and take her hand again. “All right, I’ll stay.”
She blinks. “You will?”
I nod.
She lets out a watery sigh. “I’m so sorry, Pippa.”
“It may work out yet.”
The fight begins. Where Lionel is heavy-handed, Rigel waits, patiently blocking Lionel’s aggressive swings. When Rigel does attack, he’s fast like a serpent. The match goes on forever, and in his frustration, Lionel rips off his helmet and heaves it to the side, growling like the ogre he’s always reminded me of.
Rigel responds in kind, taking his own helmet and tossing it to the ground. They circle each other again. Lionel’s hair has escaped its tail, and it’s frizzing around his head in a mass of sweaty curls. His face is bright red, and his lips are curled back over his teeth in a snarl. He looks like he’s gone completely mad.
Rigel’s eyes are cold and calm, and if I were forced to choose, I would say his is the look that is deadlier.
With a loud battle cry, Lionel drops his shield, takes his sword in both hands, and raises it over his head, ready to attack. Rigel looks like he’ll easily block the move, but as he raises his shield to defend himself, Lionel steps forward and knees Rigel in the groin. Rigel doubles, mostlikely from shock as much as pain. It’s a cheap, dishonorable tactic. In a few careless, but powerful, moves, Lionel has Rigel down and unarmed.
This is nothing like the horror I felt when Archer fell. There is no pain or surprise. There is only numbness.
Leonora is speaking to me, but I don’t hear her. Father announces Lionel as the winner of the tournament. It vaguely registers that he doesn’t sound happy about it, but even that I don’t really notice.
Lionel’s won, Father says. One of the closest tournaments he can recall, he says. Won by one point, he says.
One of my points—my chosen points.
Mother tells me to stand, so I do. There’s polite applause around us, but even it seems hesitant.
Lionel comes forward, and he stops in front of me, waiting for his victory kiss. He leans down so I can reach his cheek. He smells like sweat and metal. I’m glad I am numb, or I’m sure I would gag.
I stand on tiptoe, refusing to meet his eyes, and barely brush the side of his cheek. My lips tingle in that horrid, crawling way they do when you accidentally get too close to a dog and it licks your face.
I slowly lower myself. Lionel takes my hand and turns toward the audience. Instead of focusing on his wet, sticky palms, I listen to Father.
