Page 36 of To Claim a King

Xandrie took her place in the competitors’ pit, adjacent to the ring.

Saskia was first to enter. She was fast on her feet and Melnak, the blade the King had given her, sang. Xandrie studied her. She had a tell: right before she went in for the kill shot, she feigned right. Every time.

That might be useful.

The air was filled with grunts and clashes, punctuated by sighs and applause from the crowd. When Saskia and her opponent put up their swords, a page stepped forward with Saskia’s score: nine out of ten. Saskia nodded at Xandrie as she passed, but it was more of a “screw you” nod than a greeting.

Contestant after contestant took to the ring and was dispatched by the guards with ease. No one came close to Saskia’s score.

When Demelza finally stepped forward, Xandrie felt her stomach clench. Her friend assured her that her arm was healed and she’d be able to fight, but it had only been a month since Saskia had ripped into her and Xandrie was sure the palace mages didn’t have half the skill her sisters had when it came to healing. She wanted to close her eyes and look away, but honor dictated she must not. Even if Demelza failed miserably, as the women who’d gone before her had, Xandrie had to bear witness to her fierce spirit and total unwillingness to yield.

Claws nudged his head under her hand, as he always did when she was tense. She was glad of his soft, warm presence and did her best not to clench his fur in her fists each time the guard lunged at Demelza. She needn’t have worried. Demelza was every bit the kickass warrior Xandrie knew her to be. She fought with her usual ferocity and skill and left the ring with a stunning score of seven.

“Not too shabby for someone with a gimpy arm, right?” she teased her, amused by her worry.

Xandrie clutched Demelza and squeezed her tight. “I am so proud of you.”

Janive was up next. She smiled at Xandrie and Demelza on her way past, and she shed her good girl image the second the flag was dropped.

She went after her opponent with rage and skill; Xandrie could hear Vincent, who stood behind them, exclaim, and it took a lot to impress her weapons instructor, so she knew Janive must be doing well. None of them were prepared for a perfect score, though. When the page held up her card and the crowd saw a ten, they went wild.

Xandrie felt her heart thumping way up in her throat. She stepped into the ring, determined not to disgrace herself. She’d do her best, damn it. She didn’t need a ten - she just needed to get high enough to get through to the semi-final.

She didn’t dare look to the King’s box, not wanting that distraction.

She pushed the world out of her mind and drew her spirit in tight. The crowd fell away, Vincent fell away, even Rhey fell away. All she could see was her sword and her enemy. She lunged, she swiped, she tried to make the blade an extension of her arm, then her heart, remembering the dance Rhey had taught her one night, so long ago. Her footwork was shoddy compared to his, she missed as many times as she landed a hit, and she was a sweaty mess by the time the bout was over. She wanted to hang her head, but Demelza’s words rang in her ears: “Show no weakness.”

She lifted her eyes to the royal box and waited on the page. The Elders conferred for longer than usual. Was it possible to earn a negative score? She felt the shame rise and spread throughout her. The page stepped forward and turned over the card.

The crowd exploded.

Vincent ran into the ring and threw his arms around her. She could hear Demelza screaming her name, but she could hardly see for the tears. She’d scored a nine.

The rest of the afternoon zoomed by in a flurry of knives and swords, lunges and feints, but by nightfall it was decided: she, Saskia, Janive, and Althara, a woman she hadn’t even seen fight, were through to the semi-finals.

Demelza didn’t seem the least bit concerned.

The songs of victory reverberated throughout the entire compound. Xandrie was victorious and the entire city - the entire Kingdom - seemed to roar its approval.

The Ball

He didn’t knowwhether no one had seen fit to warn him, or if he’d scratched the unfortunate event from his memory, but the next night, they were to have a ball.

The ballroom was decked out in its most sumptuous decor. The orchestra was in the galley, the fires roared, and the tables were piled high with truffle-drenched roasts and sculpted delicacies. Drinks were ladled from an ice-carved swan the size of a horse. By the time the King arrived, his guests were gorged and giddy, sweeping around the dance floor with some abandon.

Xandrie was at the very center of the melee.

Rhey tried not to stare, but it was impossible. She had come to the Palace in a guard uniform too large for her frame. For the most part, she’d trained with Vincent in a dun tunic that did nothing to show the curves and contours of her frame. When she fought, she’d been resplendent in her armor, which, true, didn’t hide much, and he’d seen her with nothing at all, too, but tonight, she had slid into a hip-hugging, curve-caressing slice of crimson silk that rippled as she moved, but clung to her thighs and ass in ways that made his heartbeat land squarely in his groin.

Vincent twirled Xandrie around the dance floor; how easy she looked in his arms. Rhey choked back the jealousy, determined not to embarrass himself in front of the entire assembly; the woman washis,he knew it, Vincent knew it, the whole damn palace knew it after he’d made her scream his name. He turned his attentions to his partner, a lovely woman who had been struck dumb the minute he’d taken her hand. When the tune ended, he returned her to her seat, then took the hand of his next, designated partner. He grinned when he saw who it was.

“I would dance with my King.”

Elza.

The old friends took their places, Rhey signaled the orchestra, and the two of them thrilled the room with a dance they’d invented when they were children.

Though he couldn’t see Xandrie, he could smell her light and lively scent. As he turned Demelza through a simple box step, he caught a glimpse of that column of lustrous red silk, this time in Nathos’ grip. He had to laugh. The man was about as elegant as a workhorse, but at least, he’d been a good sport. He normally stayed on his seat.

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