I am the only Page who wears the gold of the Line of Arthur.
Sel said I had too many reasons to be here. Fractured goals.
Tonight I have only one focus, and I fight for only one family: my own.
The matches are set up so that each Page goes in the ring three times, for a total of nine matches. When the first pair goes up, Nick makes eye contact with me and winks. He’s never seen me in the arena, and his easy confidence in my abilities triples my nerves.
Sydney easily beats Greer with the quarterstaff but loses to Blake when it comes to the longsword.
Whitty knocks Blake out of the ring with rapid stabs and swipes of his dagger. Then, to everyone’s surprise, manages to beat Vaughn into submission with the staff. Vaughn smacks Whitty’s staff away and leaves the ring, face as red as his tunic. It’s been obvious since warm-ups that he’d planned to get through the night three for three, winning each match with each weapon. He launches his staff against the trees, splitting it down the middle. Fitz walks over to his Page to pat his back encouragingly and murmur in the other boy’s ear. Even though Fitz doesn’t need a Squire—he’s got Evan—it seems he’s still invested in his Page’s success.
The other Pages, Squires, and Scions cheer or groan, and chat between rounds. Only Nick sits hunched over, silently watching the bouts with a neutral expression.
Each time Pages enter the ring with the hard, black practice swords, all eyes go to him. Everyone wants to know what the Scion of Arthur is thinking.
My first match is against Sydney, with the dagger.
Greer claps me on the back and nods when I go up. “You got this.”
Sydney, in an orange tunic, smiles back and struts to the ring. I’d never seen the Line of Bors’s sigil up close—three bands across a circle. She doesn’t seem to be at all concerned about the outcome of our fight. I shake my shoulders to loosen them up, and force the fingers of my right hand to stretch wide before grasping the handle of the rubber dagger. Sydney and I take our stances: balanced over bent knees, body and vital organs behind the knife, blade up and forward in a hammer grip.
Gillian signals the start.
We dance—Sydney attacking, me dodging—long enough for sweat to build on our brows. I manage to avoid every attack, but I only get in one of my own: a swipe that she blocks, with effort. She lunges underneath our elbows, and I leap back—only to hear a whistle.
“Out of bounds, Matthews. Round to Page Hall.” Gillian claps. Match over.
Damnit!
I’m angry about losing to a simple misstep, but the fury in Sydney’s eyes almost makes up for it. She’d never expected me to last even that long in a match and, from the looks on a few of the others’ faces—including Gillian’s—neither had anyone else.
When I take the bench, Nick and I lock eyes. He wiggles his shoulders as if to say, Shake it off.
I get one round to rest before my next match. Had Vaughn’s dagger been real, Greer would have been fully disemboweled.
When Gillian calls his name, Blake stands. He flexes his broad shoulders, pulling against his tunic, the dark yellow of Owain. Then she calls mine.
Right away Blake presses his advantages—strength and height—with a powerful overhead strike. I block, but it’s clear that if we stay on his terms, the win will be about sheer force more than speed or fancy footwork.
I’m faster than he is. I know I am.
I have to keep moving.
His arm and weapon rain down again and again, each crack echoing in my ears like a thunderclap. Every block sends a teeth-jarring reverberation into my elbows. Three minutes in, my thighs burn. Countering him takes every muscle in my body just to remain upright.
“Everyone leaves an opening. Find it, then throw everything into it.”
Blake pauses to pace around the ring. “Give up, Matthews.” I’ve been up close and personal to Sel’s snarl; Blake’s watered-down version would make me laugh if my lungs weren’t on fire. Our breaths come in hard, labored pants. “You can’t block forever.”
He lunges.
I snap my staff up longways to block his two-handed midbody strike, but it takes everything I have to keep the weapon in my shaking hands. My fingers spasm around the wood, barely keeping it in a grip.
He retreats.
His brown hair is black under a river of sweat. He’s running out of steam too, and catching his breath.
Blake swings high to my left, and it’s like he’s moving in slow motion. My eyes track each shift of his muscles, every movement from his shoulder to his arm.
I have plenty of time to duck, so I do. I keep my eyes on Blake’s broad chest—there!
I launch myself forward, ramming the end of my staff into his solar plexus. For a moment, he seems to hang in the air. His staff flies out of his hand and over my right shoulder.
Time accelerates.
Blake’s back hits the mat.
Gillian’s whistle splits the air.
“Weapon out of bounds. Match to Matthews.” She sounds just as surprised as I am.
Applause reaches me, but I barely register it. Blake rolls over with a groan and pushes to all fours before standing. His face is a blistering red grimace. I stand stunned in the middle of the ring until Gillian steps in front of me and waves a hand. A small smile plays over the older woman’s face. “Earth to Matthews.”
“Matty,” I correct. “Earth to Matty.” Alice would be proud.
I head to the benches, but not before I see Sel. Up in the trees, he tips his head in a silent salute that fills me with an embarrassing amount of pride. Great, overflowing buckets of the stuff.
Whitty offers a fist bump before he and Greer go to the ring together. Thanks to their fencing experience, Greer handily defeats Whitty with the sword. I’m gently massaging my sore shoulders when I hear my name again.
I should have known that my last match would be with Vaughn.
Vaughn leaps off the bench without hesitation. He throws a towel from his shoulders and struts to the rack, pulling his black, heavy polypropylene practice sword.
A few of the Scions murmur to one another. Apparently news of our rivalry has spread.
Greer and Whitty say something encouraging to me, but I don’t hear it over the sound of the blood pounding in my ears. Nick sits up as I pass the viewing area to pick my own sword. I look away from his worried expression before it becomes all I can think about.
Vaughn prowls back and forth in the center of the ring, waiting for me.
When I step onto the mat, Gillian calls for a clean match. She looks at me. “Match is over when one opponent yields or steps—or loses a weapon—outside the ring.” She looks at Vaughn. “No headshots.”
A short, high whistle signals the start.
Vaughn sways in a wide opening stance, tossing his blade from hand to hand. Every time he catches the hilt under the crossguard, the hard muscles on his shoulders and biceps roll and flex. His mouth parts in a taunting grin. “No shame in yielding now, Matthews.”
“Don’t listen to him, Bree!” Greer cheers.
I don’t want to listen to him, but I can’t help but hear his low, mocking laugh. Can’t help but notice his eyes meandering up my body, starting at my legs and lingering over my hips and chest. “Fine, stay.” He mutters, so that only I can hear him, “I don’t mind the view.”
Anger floods me, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of an emotional, undisciplined attack. He shrugs as if to say, Have it your way—and lunges.