Onóra and Taran are sweet, having rooms prepared for all of us immediately. Their barren garden becomes a training area when Senach attempts to drag me out there to practice before Brighthollow’s duel. I come with him the first morning, intent on humoring him as he shoves a sword at me. He swats at me with his own sword as I walk around the garden, and I jump out of his reach each time. Taran and Onóra come out slowly, then bring their breakfast out to a patio to sit and eat as they watch us, and I ask them about the garden as I avoid Senach’s attacks. He grows irritated with me, glaring with his hands on his hips when I abandon my sword to join Taran and Onóra for breakfast. When the afternoon comes and Senach attempts to bring me out to the garden again, I bring a bottle of wine with us and talk at him about plans for our life in Cernna. The next morning, I sit with Taran, Onóra, and Mór to enjoy breakfast while Estrid fights with Senach. He doesn’t bother in the afternoon.
Taran and Onóra try to question me throughout the days, wanting to know what I’ve been trained in and what I’m capable of. I give them inane stories about horseback riding lessons. Onóra gives her husband a little sideways glance, then tells me about different Fair Folk customs relating to duels. To satisfaction, to first blood, to the death—any are welcome, though she suspects Brighthollow will only want satisfaction. The Fair Folk make a party of duels like this, gathering with food and drink to consume before and during the fight, and Blackthorn plans a picnic for us as Onóra oversees the cleaning and opening of the house. Constantín claims one room as his own workplace, and Val is barely seen until the morning we leave for Brighthollow’s ring.
Senach and I ride horses next to the carriage as we leave the city, Taran’s coachman taking us straight to the large mushroom ring on a hill, not far from the old walls that once protected Cernna. Where the wall still stands taller than any man, the Fair Folk cluster under a pavilion together around a long table that holds food and drink as Taran and Onóra promised there would be. Servants step up to us, one opening the carriage door and offering a hand to help everyone exit. Another takes the reins of Senach’s horse and a third does the same for me. Onóra takes my arm as we walk to the pavilion, greeting all of the Fair Folk for us. I accept a glass of wine from someone. Onóra glances at me, then steps away to grab Taran’s arm and pull him along behind her as she makes her way to her father.
Gideon Brighthollow is not amongst the gathered Fair Folk.
Senach is at my side the moment a pretty young woman of the Fair Folk comes up to me. She smiles shyly and curtsies, fluttering her lashes at me as she speaks of the weather. I drink my wine and step around her, walking for the table and the food laid out on it. The woman scoffs, storming off in another direction. Another of the Fair Folk starts to walk towards us, then stops and looks uncertain. His gaze darts to my side, to Senach. I drink my wine as he walks away hurriedly. When I look over, Senach’s wiped the glare from his face and only looks at me mildly.
“Do you think you’re protecting me when you do that?” I ask, eating a slice of pear.
Senach takes the next slice from my hand, shrugging as he eats it. “I’m here to guard you.” He takes my wine from me next, drinking before handing it back.
I take the glass back, drinking the remaining wine quickly. Senach frowns as I set the empty glass aside and pick up a new one, and I smile back before looking at the Fair Folk. Onóra and Taran are still with her father, their conversation looking far more civil than one might expect it to be. Mór, Estrid, Val, and Constantín stand together, all four of them looking uncomfortable when any of the Fair Folk approach them. I smile at the Fair Folk who come to me—lords and ladies, pages delivering messages and invitations for me to sit with some or visit others at a later date. One man sits against the crumbling wall, drinking his wine slowly as he watches me. I meet his gaze once, staring back as I eat more of the food laid out.
“You look so like Ímar,” a woman says to me.
I turn stiffly. “I do?”
“Yes,” she says, running her hand along my coat collar. “He didn’t have your dragon coloring, but it’s in your face.”
“Dragon coloring?”
She nods. “Oh, he would have loved that, though. He was so enamored by those dragons. It was almost silly how devoted to them he was.”
“Is that so,” I say blandly.
She laughs, hand resting on my arm as she tells me about the first time she saw Ímar ride his dragon. He was a man who liked theater, his dragon rolling and flipping through the sky as an elegant dancer moves across the floor. Some of what she describes reminds me of flights with Senach and Aedín, particularly the ones where the damn dragon feels playful and bucks us off her. She lets us fall through the sky before she swoops in to catch us. But those are my favorite flights for all I complain about them—Senach laughs so much during them. I glance at him as the woman walks away. He looks so bored now.
That man against the crumbling wall still stares at me, but before I can ask Senach for his thoughts about him, another of the Fair Folk comes up to me. I listen to another story about Ímar, one of him fighting raiders that came to Dál Macha’s shores. The man says great things about Ímar’s fighting skills, hoping to see that mine are as great as the dead king’s. I give him a cordial smile before excusing myself and drinking my glass of wine quickly. Senach frowns at me, touching my arm gently as I pick up a third glass. I pat his hand and step away, nearly directly into another man of the Fair Folk. He tells me that Ímar’s dragon hovered at Ímar’s side just as Senach hovers at mine.
“Who is that man?” I blurt out, interrupting whatever story I’m to hear now. No more tales that tell me I’d still be a disappointment to Ímar. I point to the man against the crumbling wall, deep in a conversation with a fey lady now. “Him.”
“Lord Julius Westhollow. I’m surprised he came. He’s not normally one to attend a duel.”
“Oh?” I ask, but the man launches into a tale of the last duel he saw Westhollow at, and then a tale about the time he watched Ímar duel a chieftain of Dál Macha into submission. I grimace and walk away.
I have to listen to another story, of how Ímar met and married his wife, before Brighthollow arrives at the mushroom ring. He has a large grin as he walks up to the pavilion, kissing another lord on each cheek as they greet each other. This, too, Onóra told me about. Brighthollow and I may both be here now, but we must both be given the opportunity to chat and refresh ourselves before the duel begins. Senach pulls me aside as Brighthollow is given his chance. I drink my wine as I follow him, but he doesn’t allow me to pick up a fourth glass. We both glare at a lord and lady who attempt to approach us. They scuttle off to Brighthollow’s side instead, staying with him until the duel is called to begin.
Brighthollow swaggers to the edge of the mushroom ring, laughing as he makes a few playful swings of his sword at his friends. I glance at our audience as Senach walks with me to the mushrooms. Mór and the others sit as far from the Fair Folk as they can get without being called impolite, Taran and Onóra joining them. Westhollow sits alone against the wall, drinking his wine as he watches me again. I wave at him, but he does nothing in response.
“Lord Julius Westhollow,” Senach says, not even turning around. “He’s been watching you since we arrived.”
“I know.” I remove my coat, handing it to Senach. “What do you think he wants?”
“What do any of the Fair Folk want from you?” he asks. “Entertainment.” He drapes my coat over his arm as he steps closer, hand at the back of my neck as he forces me to look at him. “Please tell me you are not drunk enough to die during this duel.”
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“I’m not drunk enough to kill myself,” I tell him, patting his arm. “Will you keep an eye on Westhollow?”
He looks doubtful, but nods. I smile at him as I step away, pulling my sword free and giving him the sheath to hold. Brighthollow already stands at the eastern point of the mushroom ring. I move to the western point, and we bow at each other before we step into the ring. Even on Dál Macha where so few of the Fair Folk venture now, we know not to step into the mushroom rings that sprout in fields. It feels strange to deliberately step into one, though nothing occurs to the world when I do. Brighthollow grins at me, flipping his sword around arrogantly. I glance at Senach, but his gaze holds no sympathy for me now.
One of Brighthollow’s friends steps up, laughing as she daintily waves a bit of lace at us. Brighthollow lunges forward, swinging for my arm. I deflect his blow, shaking my head at his attack. He tries again, swinging as perfectly as he was trained. I sidestep him, swinging for his leg. He jumps away, slipping on the dew damp grass. A little bit of fury blazes in his eyes when he regains his balance. I beckon for him to try again. He doesn’t disappoint, launching into a flurry of blows. I defend myself against each of them, stepping back and walking around the mushroom ring. He leaves his right open on many of his attacks, and he enjoys advancing on me too much to understand when someone gives ground willingly and when someone does so unwillingly. I swing my sword up, smacking his away as I step forward. In the space between a breath and the next, my body freezes of its own accord.
Brighthollow’s sword cuts the inside of my arm.
I step back with a hiss of pain, watching as the red seeps into my sleeve. Senach steps forward immediately, tossing my coat over a low piece of wall before grabbing my wrist to examine my arm. The new cut crosses the one left by the gryphons, and he runs his fingers over both. “Are you satisfied?” he calls back to Brighthollow.
“Not at all,” Brighthollow replies, smirking at me.
Using magic to cheat. Bastard.
“Oh, you fight just like Ímar!” someone says behind me. I ignore the fey lord, but he prattles on about how Ímar was such an excellent dueler, none could compare.
“Wonderful story,” I say, stepping around the man hastily. Westhollow stands just beyond him, refilling a glass of wine. I walk up to the table before Senach can pull me back, taking another glass of wine and looking Westhollow over as I drink. “We haven’t been properly introduced, my lord.”
“Do you remember anyone’s names here?” he asks. “You’ve been introduced to so many.”
“I remember some,” I lie. Senach looks dubious behind Westhollow. I ignore him and focus on Westhollow again. “Are you enjoying yourself? I’ve heard the Fair Folk love duels.” I eye the pavilion. “You make such a day of it,” I add softly.
“It’s enjoyable when the fighters are skilled,” Westhollow says mildly. I tilt my head at him in question, smile frozen on my face. “Galan loved duels, though, no matter who was fighting. Loved to nettle someone until they challenged him, too.” He glances at me. “He never lost.”
I watch him walk away, then drink the wine in my glass quickly. Senach’s eyes widen slightly as he steps forward, trying to take the glass from me. I turn from him as I finish off the wine, then give him the empty glass and snatch my sword back. Oh, I know Galan never lost a duel. The man was a brilliant strategist—he never lost anything. I’ve lost duels aplenty amongst the dragon knights, though. They were the fun ones to fight, never scared to brawl and knock a prince to the dirt.
But Brighthollow had honorable teachers as I did in the castle. He might use magic, but I doubt he would brawl.
Brighthollow grins at me as we bow and step into the mushroom ring. I take a deep breath, ignoring how the world tilts around me. He’s barely lifted his sword before I step forward, knocking it aside and spinning into his chest. He gasps and tries to step back. My back hits him and I knock his arm away, cut his hand and force him to drop his sword. I turn, lifting my other arm and bringing that elbow into his nose. He makes a choked off noise as his nose breaks with a satisfying crunch. He looks so surprised as he stumbles back, falling out of the ring. When he brings his hand up to his face to tap his nose, he winces and stares at the blood coating his fingers.
I give him a bard’s bow, then toss my sword to a grinning Senach.
Estrid hoots. Mór cackles. The Fair Folk look as shocked as Brighthollow. All except Westhollow, who has the same mildly curious gaze that a man in a snow leopard mask had. I give them all the same bow I gave Brighthollow. Another laugh, Taran this time—though it’s cut off with a gasp.
“Bridei!” Senach calls.
I spin towards him, catching my sword as he tosses it back. I bring it up in time to block Brighthollow’s sword as it comes for my head, staring at the edge of his blade and how close it is. The impact knocks the breath from me. I shove Brighthollow back, then kick him in the chest. He stumbles back, glaring, but doesn’t fall as he did before.
“How wonderful,” Westhollow calls out. “They’re so eager for another round.”
I glance back. Senach is frozen, glancing between me and Brighthollow. I shake my head at him. He frowns, then nods and steps back. “He wants more than blood,” he says, nodding to Brighthollow.
I return my attention to Brighthollow. “Is that so?”
He doesn’t answer, just charges forward. I dance back, bringing my sword up again. Brighthollow loses all of that gentlemanly grace he had. He swings savagely, throwing himself at me. I bat his sword aside, following the line of mushrooms as I evade him. When I jump away from one of his attacks and into the middle of the circle, I bring my sword down against his arm. He stops, holding his hand to his arm. His fingers come away red with blood.
The blast of magic knocks me off my feet.
I tumble back, rolling with the magic, then scramble to my feet as Brighthollow attacks. His earlier attitude reminded me of the duels between Dál Macha’s nobles, where how they dressed mattered as much as, if not more than, the fight itself. I was never popular for those duels. I’d trained with the dragon knights for too long to remember the niceties of the nobility. Knights duel, but they’re rough about it. Senach was always my partner, was always the first to challenge me. Others would lose their nervousness about fighting the pretty princeling once Senach had knocked me to the ground a few times. The nobles would never lose that nervousness. They always feared to strike true—but when they were mad, they had no tactics.
Brighthollow is much the same. He swings his sword wildly, intent on doing more than harm, but he’s too angry to focus. His pride was more brittle than I expected it to be when going for his nose. It makes me grin as I fight, dancing around him and smacking him with the flat of my sword. I tease him as I would tease the dragon knights, pokes and prods and little shoves. The dragon knights were always quick to anger—except Senach, of course. He reciprocated with his own shoves and pokes. If I tripped him, he tripped me. If he pushed me, I pushed him. I glance at him now as I step out of Brighthollow’s reach. Mór stands with him now, the two of them talking softly as they watch the duel. He meets my gaze when I look at him, then nods his head in Brighthollow’s direction. I turn in time to deflect another attack. I kick him back this time, and he goes sprawling.
Again, he uses a blast of magic to stagger me. I grit my teeth against it and hold my blade up as yet another blast of it comes. Brighthollow gets to his knees, eyes widening as my sword cuts through the magic. I whistle, examining my sword curiously. Brighthollow throws himself to his feet, lunging for me. I step back, but his swing comes too close to my chest for me to parry. His blade is sharp enough that I don’t feel the cut to my neck until he’s stepped back. I touch the cut, glancing at the blood on my fingers. Brighthollow leaps forward, cutting down. I jerk back before he can slice my hand off, our swords rattling together.
He tackles me next, dropping his sword as we tumble to the ground. Who knew the high and mighty fey lord would decide for an ungentlemanly brawl? My wrist hits a rock as I land, pain sparking bright and lancing up my arm as I release my sword. I wheeze with the pain and a laugh. Reminds me of home. Brighthollow sits up and brings a fist down. I throw my arm up to block his hit, squirming down to get under him. He grabs a fistful of my hair and lifts my head up before slamming it into the ground. I hit him in the stomach, then flip him off me. He doesn’t let go of my hair, twisting my head as he falls. A rock slices my cheek. Funny how you don’t notice any rocks until you’re on the ground and they’re jabbing at every part of your body.
Brighthollow releases me to snatch a sword up. I rip the dagger from my boot and plunge it into his ribs as he’s turning back to me, sword raised above us. He goes still, staring down at the dagger in shock. Behind him, the Fair Folk under the pavilion stand and stare at us with wide eyes. Brighthollow laughs, dropping the sword to grab my hand. He pulls the dagger free, his blood flowing over our hands. “Heart’s blood,” he says with another laugh. He chokes, falling forward. I drop the dagger and push him away from me. Senach walks towards the ring, shaking his head when I grin at him.
White fire bursts from Brighthollow’s chest.
I scramble away from the body as the fire rears back, a bird flapping its wings to take off into flight before it shimmers and fades into a dragon, snarling as it looks at me. I stare back with wide eyes. It flaps its wings once as it launches into the air, then dives for me.
Senach screams my name as the tiny dragon collides with me.