Lord Jertain’s indigo-and-white, turned smartly to the left, to end his march below Jertain’s box. The other, with helm ribbons and armbands in Vossinor’s cinnabar-and-brown, turned at the same moment to the right, to salute Vossinor’s box.
Both elven lords acknowledged their fighters with a lifted hand. The gong sounded again. The two men turned to face each other, and waited with the patience of automata.
Dyran rose slowly, a vermilion scarf in his hand. Every eye in the area was now on
him;
as host to the conflict, it was his privilege to signal the start of the duel. He smiled graciously, and dropped the square of silk.
It fluttered to the sand, ignored, as the carnage began.
In the end, even a few of the elven spectators excused themselves, and Serina found herself averting her eyes. She’d had no idea how much damage two blunt instruments could do.
But Dyran watched on; not eagerly, as Lady Alinor, who sat forward in her seat, punctuating each blow with little coos of delight—nor with bored patience, as Sandar. But with casual amusement, a little, pleased smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and a light in his eyes when he looked at Alinor that Serina could not read.
And when it was over—as it was, quickly, too quickly for many of the spectators—when all of the other elven lords had gone, he made
his
move. Toward Alinor. A significant touch of his hand on her arm, a few carefully chosen words—both, as if Serina were not present.
White with suppressed emotion, she pretended not to be there; pretended she was part of the furnishings. Certainly Lady Alinor took no notice of her.
The Lady stared at Dyran as if she could not believe what she had heard—then burst into mocking laughter.
“You?” she crowed. “
You
? I’d sooner bed a viper, my lord. My chances of survival would be much higher!”
She shook off his hand and swept out of the arena, head high, her posture saying that she knew he would not dare to challenge her. If he did, he would have to say
why
—and being rejected by a lady was not valid grounds for a challenge.
Dyran went as white as Serina; he stood like one of the silent pillars supporting the roof, and Serina read a rage so great in his eyes that she did not even breathe. If he remembered she was there—he would kill her.
Finally he moved. He swept out of the arena in the opposite direction that Lady Alinor had taken, heading for the slave pens.
Serina fled for the safety of her room and hid there, shivering in the darkness and praying he had forgotten her. After a long while, she heard muffled screams of agony from Dyran’s suite.
He’s forgotten me
, she thought, incoherent with relief and joy.
He’s forgotten me. I’m safe
…
If I dared, I would shift and fly off
, Alara thought in disgust. The last scene replayed in Serina’s memory had left the dragon limp and sick.
The duel was bad enough. The Kin had no idea that
this
was the kind of thing that went on in these duels. The sheer brutality of two thinking beings battering each other until one finally dropped over dead—
moments
before the other also succumbed—was something Serina took for granted. It was that, as much as the duel itself, that made Alara ill.
How could she
—
she didn’t feel anything at all for those two men, she basically just reacted to the blood and injuries. She would have been just as nauseated seeing someone gut a chicken. Probably more. Those were her
own kind,
and she watched them slaughter each other to settle someone else’s quarrel without a second thought
!
But then, her reaction when Dyran chose some poor, hapless victim to torture—to feel
joy
that the victim was someone else—
The dragon forced herself to calm down, closing her mind to the human’s for a moment, telling herself that it didn’t really matter. These weren’t the Kin; they were Outsiders. It shouldn’t matter what they did. to each other or what was done to them.
Yet she was utterly
Both elven lords acknowledged their fighters with a lifted hand. The gong sounded again. The two men turned to face each other, and waited with the patience of automata.
Dyran rose slowly, a vermilion scarf in his hand. Every eye in the area was now on
him;
as host to the conflict, it was his privilege to signal the start of the duel. He smiled graciously, and dropped the square of silk.
It fluttered to the sand, ignored, as the carnage began.
In the end, even a few of the elven spectators excused themselves, and Serina found herself averting her eyes. She’d had no idea how much damage two blunt instruments could do.
But Dyran watched on; not eagerly, as Lady Alinor, who sat forward in her seat, punctuating each blow with little coos of delight—nor with bored patience, as Sandar. But with casual amusement, a little, pleased smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and a light in his eyes when he looked at Alinor that Serina could not read.
And when it was over—as it was, quickly, too quickly for many of the spectators—when all of the other elven lords had gone, he made
his
move. Toward Alinor. A significant touch of his hand on her arm, a few carefully chosen words—both, as if Serina were not present.
White with suppressed emotion, she pretended not to be there; pretended she was part of the furnishings. Certainly Lady Alinor took no notice of her.
The Lady stared at Dyran as if she could not believe what she had heard—then burst into mocking laughter.
“You?” she crowed. “
You
? I’d sooner bed a viper, my lord. My chances of survival would be much higher!”
She shook off his hand and swept out of the arena, head high, her posture saying that she knew he would not dare to challenge her. If he did, he would have to say
why
—and being rejected by a lady was not valid grounds for a challenge.
Dyran went as white as Serina; he stood like one of the silent pillars supporting the roof, and Serina read a rage so great in his eyes that she did not even breathe. If he remembered she was there—he would kill her.
Finally he moved. He swept out of the arena in the opposite direction that Lady Alinor had taken, heading for the slave pens.
Serina fled for the safety of her room and hid there, shivering in the darkness and praying he had forgotten her. After a long while, she heard muffled screams of agony from Dyran’s suite.
He’s forgotten me
, she thought, incoherent with relief and joy.
He’s forgotten me. I’m safe
…
If I dared, I would shift and fly off
, Alara thought in disgust. The last scene replayed in Serina’s memory had left the dragon limp and sick.
The duel was bad enough. The Kin had no idea that
this
was the kind of thing that went on in these duels. The sheer brutality of two thinking beings battering each other until one finally dropped over dead—
moments
before the other also succumbed—was something Serina took for granted. It was that, as much as the duel itself, that made Alara ill.
How could she
—
she didn’t feel anything at all for those two men, she basically just reacted to the blood and injuries. She would have been just as nauseated seeing someone gut a chicken. Probably more. Those were her
own kind,
and she watched them slaughter each other to settle someone else’s quarrel without a second thought
!
But then, her reaction when Dyran chose some poor, hapless victim to torture—to feel
joy
that the victim was someone else—
The dragon forced herself to calm down, closing her mind to the human’s for a moment, telling herself that it didn’t really matter. These weren’t the Kin; they were Outsiders. It shouldn’t matter what they did. to each other or what was done to them.
Yet she was utterly
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