Page 6 of Lady Dragon

Branon managed to hold Kirek’s attention throughout his bout. He, like Jamsens, handily won his match with a skill that was less furious but no less disciplined than her captain. If anything, her brother was colder, more calculated.

Which felt to Samansa the more dangerous. She would have the chance to know for sure, as Jamsens and Branon were to face each other next, to see who would compete with Tordall and become the final victor of the short tourney.

“And you say these events can go on for days?” Kirek grumbled, lounging back into her space-consuming sprawl. “Thank the skies this is the truncated version.”

“Are you not curious who will win next? You seemed interested enough in Branon’s match.” Samansa could barely keep the resentment from her voice.

“Because I hadn’t seen him fight. Now I have. And now I know he’ll win.” The dragon girl gave a lazy shrug. “Without any blood to prove the victory, it’s rather less exciting once you can predict the outcome.”

Samansa glared at her. “You don’t know he’ll win! Jamsens fights well.”

“Jamsens fights like fire. Branon, like rock.” Kirek arched a dark, bladelike brow at her. “Have you ever watched fire try to burn rock?”

Bemused, Samansa said, “Not really, no.”

“Then watch and learn. Are you really so eager to grant Jamsens your favor, anyway?”

Samansa felt her forehead crease, an expression her mother always told her not to make lest it remain permanently etched in her skin. “No, not exactly. I mean, I wouldn’t mind! Rather, he already has it.”

The dragon girl rolled her eyes. “That was three different responses disguised as one. You’re being as precise as ever.

” She folded her arms and leaned her head back against her chair, closing her eyes against the sunlight that set the silk awning above their heads aglow.

“Now watch,” she said, while by all appearances, she took a nap.

Samansa gave a scowl Kirek couldn’t see, and then she watched.

Not because the dragon girl told her to, of course.

Still, a good part of her wanted to close her own eyes after Kirek’s prediction.

While the princess didn’t want to encourage Jamsens by granting him any favor before an audience, however small it was, she didn’t want to watch him lose, either.

He was her friend, despite not being much younger than her brother, and he took pride in his skill—and in his ability to protect her.

More importantly, she didn’t want Branon to win.

Worse than granting Jamsens her favor, who would perhaps value it more than it was worth, would be bestowing it upon Branon, who would value it not at all, or even spit upon it in return and make some horribly snide remark that would embarrass her in front of everyone, as her older brother was wont to do.

Jamsens didn’t look concerned, only eager, as he tested the air with a few swipes of his practice blade. Branon only smiled at him, his eyes flat.

They’d been competing all their lives, it seemed. They’d been the closest thing to brothers that either of them had had, until Jamsens had chosen to be the captain of Samansa’s guard instead of following Branon into military command—chosen her over Branon, or so her brother seemed to think.

Now they would decide who was the loser in that situation. Jamsens would love nothing more than to prove himself, to the princess and the prince. Branon, to prove him wrong .

At least, whoever was the victor of their round, they would still have to face Tordall in the final match, the most experienced fighter in the queen’s forces.

Jamsens was his son and had trained with him since boyhood, just like Branon—not to mention that Branon was second-in-command of the queen’s forces, ranking after only Tordall.

Even so, the queen’s first-in-command would surely win against either of them.

Or at least Samansa hoped he would. And yet, both combatants looked in peak form as they took each other’s measure.

After the princess gave her signal, Jamsens swung at Branon first, and Branon blocked him easily, throwing his strike wide. Samansa tried not to think about fire against rock as her brother tossed away Jamsens’s next couple of blows.

But then Jamsens adapted, staying more on his guard and deflecting a few of Branon’s own attacks.

They both gripped their swords in two hands, the cross guards glinting in the sunlight as they circled around each other.

Jamsens shifted, his foot sliding back through the dirt, his blade coming higher over his body, and Samansa recognized the practiced skill in his stance.

He wouldn’t just gutter out against Branon’s steadiness. He was better than that, and Kirek was wrong .

Branon adjusted his stance in response, his sword coming down low, almost touching the ground.

Jamsens swung as he advanced and pivoted, clearly testing Branon’s defenses, feinting first left, then right.

The prince barely responded, sword tip weaving, not deigning to treat the feints as real threats.

The message was clear: His opponent was beneath him. Samansa had all too often been on the receiving end of such judgment from her brother, and felt a sympathetic burn of humiliation for her captain .

But then Jamsens darted forward, bringing his blade up in a horizontal slash, and the princess’s breath caught in her throat. Branon countered him with another powerful blow from above, clearly relying on his superior strength to match it, laughter ready on his lips.

Instead, at the last moment, Jamsens let the point of the sword dip, and his hand moved with a speed almost too quick to follow, leaving the hilt to grasp the blade itself, reversing the cross guard and driving the pommel into Branon’s throat.

Shock registered on Branon’s face as he choked, falling to his knees, all laughter and smiles gone, and the crowd gasped collectively at the sudden reversal and display of talent.

Pride blossomed in Samansa, enough to nearly lift her to her feet, cheering.

But any cry of victory died on her lips, freezing her in her seat.

Because Branon had an answer all his own. He turned his fall into a roll, his features twisting in anger, and he kicked out—his boot connecting directly between Jamsens’s legs.

To any onlookers, it could have been an accident, an unfortunate result of his tumbling flail back to standing. Samansa saw it differently, and she felt gooseflesh rise on her skin in the sun-warmed air.

Her brother was perfectly happy to lose a battle to win the war, and use low blows while he was at it. Her stomach dropped at the realization.

As she thought he might, Branon hissed, “My apologies.”

Jamsens groaned, trying to power through and stay upright, but he faltered to one knee, and Branon, now standing over him, brought his blade up in a sharp, short slap against Jamsens’s own throat .

“Because you lose ,” Branon snarled, before managing to school his features into a more confident sneer.

Samansa’s hands strangled each other in her lap, the threat of tears stinging her eyes, as she and the crowd waited for the concession. She refused to look at Kirek, her gaze fixed on the arena below. Jamsens could only nod his assent, red-faced, before Branon withdrew the blade and stepped back.

“It appears as though it’s you versus me, old man,” the prince called, casually now, inspecting his sword and not looking as Jamsens dragged himself up and limped his way off the field.

The princess bit her lip, aching for her captain as she watched him retreat.

Jamsens’s pride was likely more wounded than he was, but he probably hurt enough in every capacity that Samansa wouldn’t be seeing him up in the stands soon.

As much as she wished to console him, she doubted he would welcome it right now.

“Alas, I’m afraid my old shoulder injury is acting up,” Tordall said from the sidelines, shrugging and rolling his arm in its socket. “I wouldn’t want to aggravate it, as I need it to be in peak condition in case of an actual fight.”

“You mean you forfeit?” Branon said with a raised brow.

Samansa gaped at that—his forfeiting the fight meant her brother had won the tourney.

Had Tordall intended this all along, whoever was the victor?

If he’d been up against Jamsens, it would have ensured his son earned the princess’s favor that he so desired.

And with Branon, what did that mean? Tordall had never backed down from a challenge before.

“Besides,” the older man continued soberly, “I would never wish to face you on the field, only stand alongside you. ”

Branon smiled at that—a genuine smile that Samansa had not seen in some time. It raised the hair on the back of her neck.

Or maybe she was once again reading too much into her brother’s actions. Or perhaps, at least, Tordall’s. Branon was nearly as much of a son to him as Jamsens, after all.

And yet, the prince didn’t accept his victory. He nodded at a squire, exchanging his sword for a new one—perhaps deeming that one too nicked after his fight with Jamsens, even with dulled edges. A fresh blade in hand, he turned to the stands.

“Merard,” he called. “How about you try me? Make sure your swing is still true?”

Merard was the captain of the queen’s guard, just as Jamsens was the captain of the princess’s, and he stood in his place just behind the queen’s chair.

Samansa swiveled to look, feeling herself bristling.

While Jamsens had just fought, it was odd for Branon to single out Merard when he hadn’t volunteered.

Was he trying to prove himself better protection than that with which the queen surrounded herself?

Or was his intention darker than that—more of a threat?

Merard gave a short bow of his head. “My duty is to the queen,” he said simply.

“And yet Jamsens tried to prove himself against me,” Branon argued from below. “Though perhaps he was pursuing more than duty, with regard to the princess.”

Laughter rose from the stands. Lords and ladies , Samansa thought. Was everyone certain how Jamsens felt about her but the princess herself?

“Come, is there anyone else willing to try me?” Branon asked, gesturing at the rest of the crowd.

“Don’t force the princess to grant me her favor.

We all know it’s not me whom she’d wish to bestow it upon.

Although…” He paused, waiting for a pregnant moment.

“Perhaps she can keep me from winning it… by fighting me, herself.”

Samansa’s breath left her in a rush. “ What? ” she squeaked, nearly bolting upright from her chair before she got herself under control. She forced a laugh, settling her hands atop her skirts and willing her racing heart to calm. “We’ve been over this, Branon. I can’t compete for my own favor.”

But what about your own honor? Samansa could practically hear the biting question forming on her brother’s lips. She hated him for it, even though he hadn’t yet spoken it.

And hated herself a little, for not having a ready answer.

“I can compete for her favor,” a different voice responded—one Samansa at first couldn’t believe.

Branon couldn’t seem to believe it, either, as he turned to the dragon girl in stark surprise.

Kirek stretched her legs out, her arms overhead—so much like a cat—before bounding to her feet. She didn’t stop there, her movements fluid as she gripped the banister of their stand and vaulted over it, landing lightly on the dirt of the arena.

“You know what beats rock?” the dragon girl murmured over her shoulder to the princess. “ Molten rock.”

Still awash in shock, Samansa didn’t know what to say. Kirek had already turned anyway, hefting her own practice blade and weighing in her palm, to face Branon.

And then, without waiting for the princess’s signal, the dragon girl charged him.