Godfrey appeared, welcoming the clan with his booming voice and high energy. Adaira wasn’t listening to his introduction, though, because her eyes were on the arena doors. The ones that opened to the dungeon passage.
She reached out and found Jack’s hand. His fingers felt cold as midwinter. Neither of them would be able to sit for this fight, and they remained standing at the balustrade, side by side, mist shining in their hair. Waiting.
The iron-webbed doors creaked open.
Niall arrived first, his shoulders hunched and his feet dragging over the sand. He wore a tunic, a scuffed breastplate, and tattered boots. He was staring at the ground as if he was afraid to look up, to lift his eyes and behold Jack on the balcony. The guards brought him to a rough halt in the center of the ring, where they unshackled his wrists and ankles. Only when they handed him a dented helm and a sword did he glance upwards.
He looked directly at his son.
Adaira felt Jack’s fingers tighten around hers. She knew his heart was racing, that he was struggling to breathe through the worry and the fear. Then Niall bowed his head. Adaira didn’t know what that meant. A sign of resignation, or a vow to fight? She didn’t think Jack knew either, because she felt a tremor run through him.
Niall slid on his helm. His sad countenance and shock of auburn hair were now hidden as he waited for his opponent, sword in hand. Adaira wondered if that was the last time she would ever see his face, living and hale. His eyes gleaming with life.
The doors opened again.
Moray was ushered into the arena. He arrived with his chin tilted upwards in pride, a skewed smile on his face, his blond hair braided away from his eyes. He wore a brand-new breastplate—not a scuff marred the leather—and his boots looked freshly tanned as well. The guards escorted him to the center of the arena, a few paces to the left of Niall, and they unshackled him. They gave Moray a polished helm and a sword whose blade burned brightly, as if it had just come from the forge.
Adaira felt a shadow creep over her.
It was apparent that the dungeon keeper and the guards favored Moray. They had given him the best the armory had to offer, while giving Niall the battered, dull-edged scraps.
This didn’t feel like a fair fight, and she ground her teeth, wondering if she should say something.
Jack must have read her mind, because he squeezed her hand, drawing her attention.
Don’t, his eyes said.
Adaira sighed, but she knew what he had inferred. This fight, whose roots were tangled and deep, far beneath Jack and Adaira, had been destined. They had taken the opportunity during their two dinners to sway or to make amends, but now the outcome was up to the swords, and the men who held them.
She felt someone staring at her.
Adaira’s attention returned to the ring.
Moray was watching her intently, waiting for her sign. The helm was in the crook of his arm, the sword in his right hand. Godfrey was rambling on and on, talking about crimes and punishment and honor and bloodshed, but in that moment it was only Adaira and Moray.
This was the minute that could change everything. A fracture of time that sat like a blade in Adaira’s hands. A snarl in a tapestry, waiting for a tug to unravel it.
She bit the inside of her lip. Her mind was spinning, anticipating all the ways this night could move forward. But there had never been a question of what she would do, and she stared impassively at her brother. The thistle remained untouched in her hair.
She watched as the realization struck him.
She wasn’t going to turn against Innes. She wasn’t going to dance to his ploys.
An ugly expression twisted Moray’s pale face, just before he slid his helm over it.
Moray took the first cut, as Jack knew he would. Niall blocked it, but didn’t seem eager to counter. No, his father remained on the defense, letting Moray lunge and cut and spin around him, seeking his weaker side.
This wasn’t how Niall had fought Jack in the arena. Niall had been fierce from the beginning, a strong contender who knew exactly what he wanted and how to obtain it. He had craved victory, as Moray did now. The heir fought as if the only thing that mattered was to win. To carve a way out of the arena.
Jack began to feel incredibly nervous.
He watched his father, whose moves were smooth yet submissive. Niall was merely reacting, and Jack wondered why. Why aren’t you fighting back? Why aren’t you countering him?
He thought that Niall might be hesitant to kill the laird’s heir, especially given his history with Innes. Jack grimaced. He should have mentioned at dinner that Innes wanted Moray to die.
Niall stumbled.
Jack froze in horror as his father sprawled on the sand.
It was over. He hadn’t fought back at all. He had simply been biding his time, allowing Moray to show off his skills.
Jack closed his eyes. He couldn’t bear to watch this, even if he had agreed to be the Tamerlaines’ representative. He couldn’t witness his father’s last moments. Jack remembered how it had felt to be lying on the sand with hundreds of eyes on him. The helpless, vulnerable feeling that had turned his fear into lead, making it difficult to move.
Jack inhaled deeply, his pulse throbbing in his ears. He could feel icy sweat trail down his spine. He waited to hear Moray’s sword meet flesh, the sound of steel splintering bone and the splatter of blood. He waited to hear the end come, but there was only a hiss and a gasp. The sound of surprise blooming in the crowd.
His eyes flew open, just in time to see Niall roll across the sand, evading Moray’s dramatic swing.
Let our names be the sword in your hand.
Niall rose. He took a broad cut at Moray; their swords met and held. They seemed locked together, and Jack wondered if they were speaking through their helms. Whatever they said must have been tense. Niall slung Moray back with a powerful sweep of his blade.
Let us be your shield and your armor.
Moray teetered for a moment. He found his balance again but hardly had a second to breathe. Niall was coming for him like a storm, gathering up wind and debris. He knew all of Moray’s cuts and favored movements now, having seen them all at the beginning, when he had parried one after the next after the next. When Jack had believed his father would go down without a fight.
Fight for us tonight.
It seemed dangerous to hope that his words had found their mark, to believe that Niall had listened and was envisioning a life beyond the arena. A life in which his guilt and his past would be gradually peeled away, like calloused skin. A gentle but quiet life he could build with Mirin, with Frae. With Jack.
And yet . . . how was such a life possible as long as the clan line still divided them?
Adaira’s fingers tightened around his.
Jack narrowed his attention. Moray looked angry and was fighting like a cornered dog, but Niall anticipated his every move. He was older, stronger. Emotionless. With one fluid motion, he disarmed the western heir.