The latter inclined his head at the lady then bowed at Lord Tyrem Brenheran. “May I present, Miss Gandrett Brayton.”
Gandrett considered curtseying, but then with the entirety of the room watching her, she reconsidered. She didn’t need to embarrass herself at the first opportunity.
“Pleasure,” she said drily, her face as smooth as she had learned to keep it in battle. Yes, her emotions were there. Plentiful. But her pride didn’t allow for any bowing and curtseying.
That man had damned her by taking her away from her family, and now he had paid to get her here. He needed her. The life of his son depended on her. And she would not bow.
Nehelon gave her a glance that suggested if she didn’t, he would knock her knees out from under her, but before he got a chance, to his credit, Lord Tyrem laughed with delight.
“Unique,” he said with a voice that reminded Gandrett of the Meister when he was about to let that wrath break her.
But Lord Tyrem didn’t get to his feet and pick up a rod. He didn’t gesture for any of his guards to lift a finger. No. He sat and watched her with amused eyes as he beckoned her to come closer.
When she didn’t react right away, Nehelon gave her a tiny push with his hand, shoving her a step toward the lord. With small yet steady strides, Gandrett walked up to him, keeping her face blank.
The lord and his court only watched her, the men with curious eyes, the guards sizing her up, trying to figure out what threat she would pose if she unleashed herself on the great hall—they had no idea that within the minute she had spent in the room, she had identified the twelve guards, apparent and disguised, and the assortment of swords, knives, and bows they were carrying. They didn’t realize that it would take her less than another minute to launch herself on the table, pick up the various silverware, and throw it at the archers at the back of the room, then roll to the other side and, maybe using Lady Brenheran as a shield, wield her sword at three guards that stood right beside the lord… She didn’t finish that game in her mind, for she knew there was one person she wouldn’t find a way around—Nehelon. His Fae speed and strength, his magic, if he dared to use any of it, would have her on the ground before she’d reach that table. And even if she knew, if she had trained for it, to kill, to protect, to fight, she had never taken a life. And she wasn’t inclined to start with it the moment she walked into her probably only shot of seeing her family again.
So she stopped close enough to reach the lord’s throat with her sword if she changed her mind, flashed the men a grin, and inclined her head at the ladies who measured her for other reasons, returning her attention to Lord Tyrem, whose gaze she held, waiting for him to speak.
Lord Tyrem’s eyes grazed over her in a way that made her hair stand.
“So you are Everrun’s best fighter,” he finally said after a long assessing silence. His eyes wandered back to her hip where her plain sword was dangling in the folds of her skirt.
“That’s what they say.” Gandrett focused on keeping that face smooth, calm. No emotions. They would only betray her. This man, she reminded herself, had paid to get her here. And horrible as that made her feel, to be someone’s slave, her unique skills—whatever they were remained a question for another day—gave her a certain standing.
The lord hadn’t protested when she hadn’t shown him the respect his position demanded. He hadn’t reprimanded her. All he did was observe as if he was waiting for something to happen.
“Is she really as good as they say?” he asked Nehelon without taking his eyes off of her.
Gandrett didn’t dare break the stare. He wanted something. And she had it. She was in a position of power even if her dirty clothes, her uncombed hair, the soreness of her legs suggested otherwise.
Nehelon’s chuckle carried through the high-ceilinged space, past the pillars, and echoed in the far corners by the stained glass windows. “Why don’t you ask for a demonstration?”
So the lord lifted a hand, causing a guard to rush close to his side at the gesture, and he whispered something to the heavily armed man.
“Why don’t you demonstrate, Miss Brayton?” The lord gestured for the guard to step forward, and as the broad-shouldered man did, the courtiers cleared away from one side of the table as if they were expecting to get in harm’s way.
Gandrett swallowed. The guard that was approaching her in solid steps was almost as tall as Nehelon and wore a breastplate. His neck was a muscle-corded column, his features saying nothing but, Show me, little girl, how you defeat a mountain like me. He drew his sword, a fine blade singing in the half-light of the great hall, and gave her a taunting look.
She had fought his kind before. The older boys in the order were all eager to prove themselves, challenging her in training. And none of them had won. Also, none of them had been a man of forty with probably two decades of experience on a battlefield. A real battlefield.
As she drew her sword, she thought of the other ones she had fought. The ones who returned from their missions every now and then, to spend a couple of days in solitude at Everrun and to report back to the Meister to get their new assignments. They came from every corner of Neredyn—except the Fae territories—and she had defeated them all. The Meister had insisted she fight them all because she had defeated anyone else there, and he wanted to know where her boundaries were. How strong she really was, how skilled. She remembered the expressions on their faces when she had them on the floor, her sword at their throats, and sometimes, her hand had shaken, eager to drive that blade home. Not because she wanted to kill, but because she wanted it to end. She never gave in to that urge.
Gandrett didn’t need to adjust her stance to parry his first blow. She had been training to be balanced even if she were sleepwalking. His blade hit hers with a deafening crash. She used the force of the impact to swirl to the side and kick the man right in his ribs under his sword hand.
The man staggered back to the surprised ohs of the courtiers while Gandrett stood, calm like a blade of grass, waiting for him to recover.
She could have used the time to strike again and get him to the floor in one or two blows, but that wasn’t what she wanted to demonstrate. Not that she could be used as a killing machine, the way so many of the Children of Vala were, but that her strength was extraordinary restraint in battle.
It had always been the one thing that her opponents lacked. The patience to find the weak spot, the skill to parry strikes until the weak spots became accessible—
The guard barked something at her. More a cry of rage than words. He was the sort of man who wasn’t used to being toyed with.
When he pulled a knife from his belt, both arms extended with deadly blades, Gandrett stood and waited, assessing the way he shifted his weight. He was bulky, strong, yet slower than most of the boys at the order. If he managed one blow—just one, single blow—she would be out cold.
So Gandrett crouched and swirled the same moment the man threw himself at her, both hands grabbed the hilt of her sword as it touched the floor, a counterbalance for her legs as she launched them up in the air, her feet darting right between his blades, hitting him in the chest.
She landed like a cat, sheathing her sword at the same moment the metal of the breastplate hit the floor, both his blades clattering to the stone beside the massiveness of the guard. With light fingers, Gandrett picked them up and had them at his throat before he could recover from the impact.