Dafydd into combat against one blade when he didn’t have one in hand himself, but two seemed egregiously unfair.
Dafydd flung himself to the side, rolling through soft dirt to come up with the blade he’d discarded. Merrick was there in an instant, raining downward blows as Dafydd struggled to regain his feet. Merrick scored a glancing scrape against Dafydd’s forearm and he swore, giving up trying to rise and instead hatchet-kicking the side of Merrick’s knee. It popped and he gave a shriek as loud as Lara’s, dropping his weight to the other knee. Dafydd rolled up, and for the space of a breath they fought on their knees, too close to do much more than batter one another with their sword hilts. Dafydd punched Merrick in the diaphragm with his free hand, then skittered back, regaining his feet as Merrick wheezed.
Lara slipped around the outer edge of the chamber, kneeling at Aerin’s side to check her breathing. She did, shallowly, and her color was returning. Ioan shot Lara a sharp look from beyond the contestants, and she nodded, earning mixed relief and chagrin from the elder Seelie prince. He worked his way around the room from the other direction, moving slowly so he would distract the combatants as little as possible.
Merrick surged to his feet again, though he limped on the left side now. That was the side he carried the dagger on, too: less reach and more vulnerability, Lara thought. Dafydd saw it as well, and feinted, but no more than that. Merrick brought the dagger up in an effective block, and Dafydd fell back again, nodding as though the entire action had been a test. He dropped his guard as he did so and Merrick lurched forward, driving his sword toward Dafydd in a desperate thrust.
Dafydd leapt aside, nimble enough to remind Lara that Dickon had once commented on his unearthly grace. With a sweeping step, Dafydd rebounded off the side of Emyr’s bier. He crashed on top of Merrick, body weight bearing the other man to the ground, then slammed an elbow against the back of Merrick’s neck. Merrick roared, driving himself upward, but Dafydd was gone again, this time running for the chamber’s far side. He vaulted Emyr’s bier and disappeared, then came up again armed as Merrick was: a short sword in one hand and a long dagger in the other.
Merrick’s gaze, comical with offense, snapped to Lara for an instant before he turned his attention back to Dafydd. Lara pressed her hands against her mouth, fighting down a frantic laugh. She’d forgotten the blade Hafgan had almost killed her with. The battle suddenly was matched, neither scion having the weaponry advantage.
“What were you
She startled, having almost forgotten him, too. “I couldn’t think of any other way to get him to let go of Aerin without killing her. I thought if I gave him a chance to get what he really wanted—”
“Did it occur to you Dafydd might lose?”
“Obviously not!”
They both fell silent, Ioan dragging Aerin closer to the back wall. The Seelie took a deeper breath, beginning to wake as Dafydd and Merrick met again. Lara knew too little about swordplay to follow their fight clearly: to her it was a rush of sound, full of its own music, and of brilliant flares as weapons scraped off one another and flashed again in fresh attacks. Neither of them scored marks against the other. The scrape on Dafydd’s arm was the only drawn blood.
Sudden quiet exploded through the chamber as the combatants dropped back, the only sound their harsh breathing. Frustration twisted Merrick’s face, and after a moment of panting he muttered, “We were always well- matched.”
“In arms skill. Not in duplicity. I could capitulate and you could fight Ioan instead.”
Hope leapt in Lara’s heart, not for Dafydd’s safety, but because Ioan was the superior swordsman. Merrick sneered. “The Truthseeker said to defeat Emyr’s heir. We both know Ioan forsook that role when he embraced the Unseelie path.”
“And yet you wore his guise to take the Seelie throne. I look forward to that unmasking,
Merrick’s lip curled again, and the respite was over, both princes coming at one another in a blur of motion that made the same kind of song that Lara had heard upon riding to battle with the Seelie army. There was a purity in combat, a focus that stripped everything else away. Kill or be killed; survive or die. It wasn’t beautiful, but it was honest, and a part of her wanted to rest inside that music, confident that its truth would hold her until the song’s violent end.
Closing her eyes to the battle, though, would make it no less real. Lara huddled uncomfortably against the chamber wall, the staff pressing into her spine, and stifled a cry when one of Merrick’s blades came alarmingly close to Dafydd’s throat.
Even watching intently, she almost didn’t see the blow that ended the fight, and even in reconstruction, she hardly knew how it had been done. Dafydd lost his footing on the soft floor, and in the same instant Merrick disarmed him, knocking the sword out of his hand. His remaining dagger simply lacked the reach: Lara could see that, and the gasp she drew in was cold with horror.
Merrick lunged, thrusting downward with his sword, and Dafydd twitched his dagger upward.
It slid easily into Merrick’s belly, just beneath the breastbone. Momentum kept him falling forward, but his grip went boneless and he dropped his own dagger, clutching his stomach instead.
Dafydd rolled to the side, avoiding Merrick’s collapse, and came to his feet with an expression of ancient sorrow.
Merrick, on his knees, said, “You’ve killed me,” in pure astonishment, and Dafydd watched him fall before murmuring, “In all likelihood, yes.”
Ioan, voice strange, said, “That was well done. I think I could not have done it myself.”
“We were too well-matched.” Dafydd stepped on Merrick’s blade, then bent to pick it up, turning it this way and that to see where blood made dirt stick to the metal. “We’ve fought practice bouts our entire lives. It was necessary to do something he wouldn’t expect.”
“What do you mean?” Lara’s hands were ice cold, so numb she could barely turn them into fists. “What did you do?”
“The slip was deliberate,” Ioan said, still with the note of strain. “It’s difficult to take a fall like that without making it obvious it’s a feint. Especially if you know your fight partner well.”
Sickness boiled up in Lara’s stomach, washing away the cold in a burst of heat. “
Dafydd, less concerned with the power of words, said, “Dead? Yes. That was the idea,” as if it were all a remote theoretical exercise. Then his eyes pressed shut and he took a shuddering breath before throwing Merrick’s sword away. Lara lurched to her feet, crossing the small chamber in a matter of steps so she could crash into Dafydd’s arms and hold him.
He staggered with the impact, but caught her and lowered his head over her ruined hair. “I’m all right. I believe you may have lost your mind, but I’m all right despite that. Mortal combat, Lara? What happened to my gentle tailor? I thought you would talk him out of his madness.”
Lara laughed against his chest, a shaky sound. “He would have killed Aerin if I’d tried. I could hear it in his voice. Aerin.” She looked toward Ioan and the Seelie woman, and Ioan gave her a brief, encouraging smile as Aerin took another sharp breath. Lara exhaled until her lungs were empty, then inhaled again to speak with relief. “There was only one thing he wanted badly enough to not kill her, and that was the crown. Dafydd, I’m so sorry. I know he was your—”
“Brother,” Dafydd finished. “In all ways that mattered. At least his death is a matter of clear battle now, rather than foul murder. Though I’m not certain simply producing a body will endear me to my people. They already think he’s dead by my hand.”
“Not dead.” Ioan had moved while they spoke, rolling Merrick’s unmoving form over. Red bubbles formed at the Unseelie prince’s mouth, and once silence fell, Lara could hear his short, wet gasps as Ioan said, grimly, “He lives, if barely. Dafydd?”
Dafydd looked to Lara, whose heart thudded heavily. “Why me?”
“Truthseeker, wayfinder, worldbreaker. Arbiter of justice. You said defeat me, and he has failed in that. You didn’t say kill or be killed, and so his fate must lie in the decision you now make.”
“Kill him.” Aerin spoke hoarsely, but without remorse. She pushed herself upright against the wall, feeling cautiously at her throat even as she threw a hateful look at Merrick. “He’ll never be anything but trouble.”
