Free Heir to Sevenwaters by Juliet Marillier Page B

trifles.
    This fight was not like the last two. From the start it was intense and brutal, the pair moving from one tight lock to another, their knives a hairbreadth from wrist or groin or neck. Nobody shouted instructions. The crowd watched in a tense hush as Aidan backed Cathal all the way across the circle, up to the stone wall of the house, only to have Cathal slip sideways almost faster than eye could follow to pop up behind the other man and place a knife across his neck. I held my breath longer than was quite comfortable; I realized my teeth were clenched. Aidan struck backward with his elbow, expertly, and when a winded Cathal let his weapon slide away from his opponent’s throat, Aidan hooked a leg around Cathal’s and attempted to unbalance him. They staggered, locked together, each seeking an opportunity to wield his knife effectively. I could hardly bear to watch, for there seemed to me to be a violent purpose in both men that put this on a different plane from the other bouts we had seen today. Surely Johnny should call a halt before one of the combatants plunged his weapon into the other’s heart.
    I glanced in my cousin’s direction, but he was watching with every appearance of calm. The look in his gray eyes suggested he was assessing the two fighters’ technique, nothing more. He made a quiet comment to Gareth, who stood behind him, and Gareth smiled as he murmured a reply. Mikka and Sigurd, across the circle, looked engrossed but not troubled. Perhaps I was overreacting. Perhaps this was not as bad as it seemed.
    Cathal slipped and fell to one knee. The crowd sucked in its breath. Aidan grabbed Cathal’s arms, twisted them behind his back and applied a fearsome grip to his opponent’s right wrist, trying to force his knife hand open. Cathal said something under his breath, and Aidan’s features were suddenly suffused with rage. For a moment he looked like a different person. He hissed a response, jerking at Cathal’s arms, but Cathal writhed like an eel and was out of Aidan’s grasp and on his feet again, his knife still in his grip, his expression showing nothing but detached amusement. This time I heard his comment.
    “You’ll have to do better than that, papa’s boy!”
    Aidan launched himself at Cathal like a battering ram, heedless of his own safety or that of the circle of onlookers. Cathal dodged out of the way, lightning swift, and Aidan came close to crashing headfirst into a pair of white-faced serving women. He managed to stop in time, spinning to face his opponent, knife at the ready.
    “At least I know who my father is,” he said in a voice that had gone ominously quiet.
    For a moment Cathal froze. Then, in a whirl of movement, the two men met again, and an instant later Aidan was on the ground on his back, with his adversary on top of him and both wrists pinned over his head. I looked for Cathal’s knife and saw, to my astonishment, that at some point he had slipped it back in his belt. Cathal’s grip tightened. Aidan’s right hand opened and his weapon fell to the ground.
    “Enough,” said Johnny calmly, stepping forward. “Technically very good, Cathal, but you came close to letting your guard down. You must learn to block out your opponent’s taunts. Aidan, get up.” He reached out a hand to help Aidan to his feet. “If you have not already learned that anger is a hindrance when you fight, now is the time to do so. We are professionals, whether in an exercise such as this or on the field of war. A cool head, impeccable technique and perfect focus are the keys to success. The two of you will settle your differences before nightfall, and there will be no more dispute between you.”
    Cathal and Aidan looked at each other. Cathal put out a hand, but his expression was stony. After a long moment, Aidan grasped his friend’s hand briefly, then turned his back.
    “Very well,” Johnny said. “Last bout, Cathal. What’s it to be? After that fright, I think our audience