Free Heir to Sevenwaters by Juliet Marillier Page A

away. His shoulders were set tight.
    “Coming out to watch?” Cathal inquired, brows raised. His narrow features were not without a certain charm when he allowed himself to relax.
    “Maybe I should be there just to make sure he doesn’t kill you,” I said. “It’s hard to believe the two of you are childhood friends.”
    “Ah, well,” said Cathal, “there are some things only a friend will do.”
    “Like making someone tell the truth when he doesn’t want to, you mean?” Aidan’s embarrassment and shame had been written all over him. There had been no formal promise made between Aidan and me; no official mention of a marriage or an alliance. Still, there had been an unspoken understanding, and I was hurt. I had thought Aidan liked me. It seemed I had misjudged the man. It galled me to realize that Cathal had done me a favor.
    “Better go,” he said. “Wish me luck.” With that, he was off.
    Mother and Muirrin stayed inside, but the rest of us trooped out to the yard. Coll and Eilis stationed themselves at the front of the crowd—cooks, grooms, men-at-arms and maidservants had all come out to watch. Johnny had a habit of springing sudden displays of this kind on his men when they were at Sevenwaters, to keep their skills sharp.
    In the first round they used bare fists. Each warrior had his own style. Mikka was nimble, but no match for Johnny, who had superb technical skill. Gareth and Aidan were more evenly matched, though Aidan’s concentration seemed erratic. I expected Gareth’s dogged strength to overwhelm him, but it was Aidan who won, a well-timed blow catching his opponent off guard and sending him sprawling. Aidan helped him up, looking at Cathal as he did so. The message in his eyes was quite plain: You next .
    Sigurd was unfortunate in his adversary. It was quickly plain to me that Cathal had something none of the rest did—an ability to anticipate moves, almost as if he knew what was in his opponent’s head, combined with a knack for springing surprises and the physical skills to use that knack to devastating effect. He fought like quicksilver, impossible to pin down, never where his adversary expected, evasive and fluid, yet strong when it mattered. I began to understand why Johnny had kept him. The bout was soon over, with Sigurd laughing as he offered congratulations.
    “Another round,” Johnny said. “I fight Gareth, Sigurd fights Mikka, Aidan takes on Cathal. If anyone has two wins, a third round determines the overall victor. Gareth, what’s your weapon of choice?”
    Bouts between these two were always entertaining to watch. They had been inseparable friends for as long as I could remember. We treated Gareth almost as one of the family. On the field of combat they moved with a perfect understanding, almost like a single entity in two parts. The fight came to a close with a dazzling display in which staves flew through the air to be caught, whirled and tossed again, with both combatants executing a somersault or two in between. Finally Johnny swung his staff low and caught Gareth across the calves, sending him toppling to the ground, from where the taller man sprang to his feet to clap his opponent on the shoulder and declare him the victor. Both warriors were grinning.
    Mikka and Sigurd fought with swords. Neither managed to fell the other or to relieve him of his weapon, and eventually Johnny declared the bout a draw and congratulated the combatants, then pointed out a couple of things each could have done to gain the advantage. Next, he told Cathal and Aidan to step up. “Weapon of choice?” he asked.
    “Knives,” said Cathal, quick as a heartbeat.
    “All right with you?” Johnny looked at Aidan.
    “Fine.” Aidan wasn’t looking at anyone in particular. He took the knife Gareth offered, examining the blade minutely. I went cold for a moment, then told myself not to be silly. This was a disagreement between friends, that was all. People didn’t kill each other over such