Page 22 of Stardust Child

The archers got seven arrows, just enough to satisfy without boring anyone, and it came down to a whisker of a difference between Heben and Tancrede, who both scored seven consecutive bullseyes. Miche had to bring the target leathers over to Remin for final judgment, and Ophele was all but leaning over the railing as they measured. The slit in the leather from Heben’s arrows was a scant half-inch wider than Tancrede’s; likely the difference of a single arrow.

“That’s a shame.” Ophele said, looking at Heben sympathetically. “I wagered on you.”

That alone was some consolation. The archer brightened.

“Thank you, m’lady,” he said. “Next time, I’ll win in your honor.”

“The winner is Tancrede Emion,” Remin announced, pointing for the benefit of the gamblers in the furthest benches. Miche handed a golden cup to Ophele, who started in surprise at the sudden outburst of clapping and cheering.

“Congratulations,” she said, wilting as every eye in the crowd turned to her. “Th-that was very good. I have never seen anything like that. Thank you. Tancrede of Emion.”

Her ears were reddening. Remin laid his palm flat against her back, feeling her tremble. He knew she was shy, but he still didn’t really understand what she was afraid of, or why some things were worse than others, much less how to remedy it.

“Thankee, lady,” said Tancrede. The archer looked a great deal like his weapon, tall and skinny, with a great beak of a nose that he swore helped him with his sightlines. He accepted the prize with a wide smile,bowed, and walked away under a storm of cheers, already exchanging insults with Heben.

“You did well, saying his name,” Remin murmured as they took their seats again, wondering if he ought to present the rest of the prizes himself. “They like that.”

“Sir Edemir told me about it,” Ophele whispered, trying to smile. “He said they do it in Segoile, I asked about tournaments. You won prizes there, didn’t you?”

“I did.” He rarely had time for tournaments, but the year he won his knighthood, he had competed vengefully for half a season and swept both the joust and the melee, receiving his honors from the Empress herself. She had not shown any signs of her husband’s loathing for him, but Remin would far rather have received his prizes from someone with Ophele’s sincerity. “Though we have something they didn’t,” he added, with some satisfaction as he nodded toward the field. “Look.”

Even as he spoke, Madam Sanai and Master Balad were moving toward the center of the field with their polished wooden staves in hand, an altogether different elegance than the Empress’s icy, empty manners. Both had the long limbs and willowy grace of Benkki Desa, and Madam Sanai was clad in her usual light tunic and trousers while Master Balad went bare-chested. Shaved bald, he was as ageless as a beech tree, his torso and arms smoothly muscled.

The two turned to face each other and bowed, then extended their staves to their full reach to measure their starting positions, just out of one another’s range. Turning, they faced the dais and bowed again, and Remin waved a hand for them to proceed.

“She can really fight him?” Ophele whispered, leaning forward and craning her neck. “You said she fought you?”

“The master has six inches on her, which means a longer reach,” Remin explained, watching no less avidly. “Women are usually at a disadvantage; she doesn’t have as much muscle to put behind her staff, nor to absorb a strike. But the madam knows what she’s about. Look.”

As if to demonstrate, Madam Sanai’s stave flashed forward, a flick of her elbow that propelled the staff straight into the master’s chest. His own staff swung up to block, a blow that would have rattled Madam Sanai to her shoulders if she hadn’t pulled her staff inside and let him yank her forward, her long leg snapping out with his strength behind it.

“There, see?” Remin applauded as the master jerked out of the way. “She did that to me, too. They have a word for it,balahimsama,using the opponent’s strength against them. It takes skill.”

“She almost kicked him in the face.” Ophele was sitting on the edge of her seat, her large eyes riveted. “Oh, but if he hits her…”

“It will hurt,” Remin agreed, watching as the master lunged forward with a sweep of his staff to try to take her feet out from under her. Madam Sanai flung herself into a backflip, kicking her feet up heels-first and narrowly missing his chin. “So would that,” he added, adding his own applause to the crowd’s.

“But he’s so fast,” Ophele marveled, as the master swiveled out of the way and lunged again like a striking snake. The sharpclack clackof staff against staff rang over the field, and Remin was as caught up in it as anyone else; this was a very different martial style than anything in Argence. The clean, pure strength Master Balad advocated was evident in his fluid motions, one strike leading straight into the next, propelled all the way up from his toes, sturdy as a tree, swaying like branches in the wind.

If he was a tree, Madam Sanai was a bird, a dark, glossy raptor swerving around his staff. Applause broke out again and again as her feet lashed out toward his head, the counterpoint of her staff, deadly strikes that he absorbed expressionlessly.

“She’s doing so well,” Ophele breathed. “She’s hit him so many—”

Madam Sanai’s staff slammed down on top of his shoulder and there was a roar of appreciation from the watching knights as Master Balad’s hand slipped on his staff. He retreated instantly, shaking out his hand.

“What did she do, what did she do?” Ophele asked excitedly.

“There’s a sensitive place on top of the shoulder,” Remin explained, rolling his own massive shoulder in sympathy. Madam Sanai had struck him there in his bout with her. “If you hit it right, it temporarily deadens your arm and weakens your fingers. She says they learn where those sensitive places are from massage, and then aim for them when they fight.”

It seemed that was the lesson of this demonstration. It hardly mattered who won; the Benkki Desans determined for themselves when the match was over, and turned to bow to Remin, dusty and sweating, with purpling bruises striping the lengths of their limbs. Madam Sanai endured the injuries stoically as she went to sit with her ladies again,setting her stave on the ground before her. Remin had no doubt that the men of the camp would think twice before testing Imari Sanai.

The applause and cheers were genuine, and Ophele clapped breathlessly.

“What did you say the word was?” she asked Remin, her eyes glowing. “Using your opponent’s strength against them?”

“Balahimsama.”

She repeated it, lingering over the musical syllables.

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