Page 55 of Water Dragon
She eyed him, knowing there must be a catch, wondering if he was aware how well she could manage the blade in his hand.
“I shall never fear that sword,” she said. “Blessed or not.”
Leon’s smile turned crooked, as though he was pleased by her brazenness. A voice at the back of her head was telling her to be wary, that nothing was ever so simple, but another voice knew the pride of males. He had every reason to underestimate her, no matter what Sir Patrick might have told him of her prowess in the training circle.
“And who am I to meet?” she asked.
Of course, she already knew.
Sir Patrick walked through the open doors of the throne room, passing the half-moon of royals, coming to a stop next to Leon who clapped a hand on his shoulder. Leon’s gaze hadn’t left Iona’s. He was enjoying watching the emotions on display, she was certain of it. Because knowing who she was expected to fight and actually seeing the knight standing before her were two different things.
Not only was she well aware of how good he was with a sword, but more than a century of being taught to curtsey at the sight of him in hallways was making itself known. Like a slow-moving stream, shallow but pervasive, the taught and trained respect was cutting a path through her conviction that she could match him.
She shouldn’t even try.
She should concede, admit defeat, and hope for forgiveness.
You are no maid, a new voice spoke firmly from the very hearts of her.You are a future queen.
She straightened her back, lifting her chin to rest her gaze on Sir Patrick.
He looked as detached as ever, as though he could just barely see her and if he looked just a little to the left of her, she would blur out of sight, same way that she always had for all the years they had spent in the same spaces.
I bow to no one, Iona thought, the truth of it stymieing the flow of insecurity within her.
“Iona,” Malcolm said behind her, but she didn’t respond.
She had to do this.
“I accept,” she said.
Leon held her gaze, smile playing on his mouth, then flipped the sword in his hands to offer it to her. She had barely held it, and yet she trusted it implicitly. It would do her bidding; it wouldn’t fail or falter. She grasped the leather of the handle, tightly secured with thin leather ribbon that made the grip that much more available.
The weight of it in her hand made her feel better, safer.
She was no longer as exposed to the whims of the man before her, even though she was agreeing to engage with this strange twist of a tournament.
Leon’s eyes shone with expectancy as he stepped away, letting her have the space along with Sir Patrick, whose hand rested on the pommel of his own sword. It was still sheathed. She lowered her weapon, resting the tip against the flagstone to signal she wasn’t going to attack until he had armed himself. This was the knightly thing to do, and she could see amusement creep into his gaze.
She was no knight.
“Sir Patrick,” she said, as if in greeting.
“Lady of Lakely.” He gave a curt nod.
“Will you not draw your weapon?” she asked.
“I will,” he said. “I’m just giving you the chance to reconsider.”
“I won’t,” she assured him.
“Iona,” Malcolm said, but she continued to resolutely ignore him. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him because the risk of losing him would make her come undone, and she knew it was still a very real possibility.
Sir Patrick’s gaze had left hers to look at Malcolm over her shoulder, but now his eyes were back on her, observing her intently. Finally, he reached down and unsheathed his sword with a soft song of prospected violence.
It had a warning in it. She’d heard it before. Every time he fought someone in the training circle, his sword would sing the same note as it was swung through the air, as it clashed with another.
Leon hadn’t said this was to the death, but Iona couldn’t imagine it was anything less. At least not for her. If she was to stand as the victor, she was going to have to…
