Defending Destiny (The Warrior Chronicles) (37 page)

The blood drained from Daisy’s head, making her vision blur.
Get a grip. Breathe. Think, dammit. Focus on the list.
Daisy took a deep breath. Seeing the list of rules in her head she tried to focus, but she was unsure what exactly she was looking for.

The King focused his attention on Merry. “Are you prepared to defend Ceannard MacBain’s honor?”

Lauren shot out of his chair. “Now just a damned minute…”

Merry spoke over him. “I am.”

Lauren clearly hadn’t written this possible scenario into his scheming. Lauren always had a scheme, but this one wasn’t panning out the way he’d planned.

“My honor doesn’t require defending by anyone but me and…”

The King cut him off this time. “But it does, Ceannard. You see, you let yourself be duped by your wife and you’ve taken yourself out of the mix with your statement that you didn’t know of her status at Court. As such, you are forbidden to defend your own honor, since you had no knowledge of it having been besmirched. Since technically a member of the Council, your wife, besmirched it, she is now required to defend it to the King. If she doesn’t win, you lose your status, Ceannard.”

Lauren’s jaw worked and his hands fisted at his sides. He widened his stance, ready to fight. Daisy recognized that look. Lauren was frantically trying to figure a way out, disregarding option after option as they raced through his head.

The King’s smile deepened. The bastard was really enjoying himself. He dismissed Lauren, letting him stew in his self-inflicted impotence. He focused his attention once more on Merry. Daisy was feeling pretty impotent herself, and it grated. It had to be ten times worse for Lauren, who she loved almost as much as she loved her father. Before this was over she’d find a way to make the King feel at least a tenth of what was roiling through Lauren’s veins.

“Do you fight, Druid, or do you nominate your Second?”

“You know I cannot raise a weapon without losing my status, Arm-Righ.”

He nodded. “Of course. So your Second will fight mine.” The King all but rubbed his hands together in glee as he continued. “And if your Second is victorious, he shall cross blades with MacBain’s Second, since that affront has been made not only to the Court but to the King as well. I exercise my option for personal recompense.”

The hall erupted into hushed whispers of surprise. While the King enjoyed his moment, Daisy clicked off one rule after another until finally she got it. If one read the rules together, two of them gave her a way out of this mess. And if there was any question on rule interpretation, as she understood it, Merry in her capacity as Law Giver would have the final say on how the laws were to be applied. She silently thanked her mother for instilling the fine art of legal debate in her at an early age.

Daisy took a silver steak knife from the table. It wasn’t very sharp, but then she didn’t need it to be. What she needed to cut wasn’t very strong. She stood, barefoot, and sliced her gown just below the long slit that exposed her thighs. An easy enough task. Then she made short work of cutting laterally until the skirt and train fell away. Not exactly the fashion statement she was looking for, but at least she could move freely.

All eyes shifted to her.

Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.

“I may be wrong, Arm-Righ, but I believe the rules of Court—the law even the King must abide by and ensure are fairly and not arbitrarily enforced—state that if a Ceannard’s honor is besmirched to a degree requiring recompense by blade, that Ceannard’s Second has the absolute right to defend her Ceannard. She may, in fact, choose to defend all allegations against him by combat against all of those so aggrieved.”

The King went absolutely still. “The rules of Court say nothing of a female Second. There are no references to ‘
she’
or ‘her’ whatsoever in any of the laws.”

“Hasn’t it already been established that gender has no relevance on the rules and that they apply to male and female equally?” Daisy knew the answer and would have done better to hold her tongue, judging by the red stealing up the Arm-Righ’s neck. The man would have gleefully smote her in that moment, had he the power to do so.

Merry spoke. “She is correct, Arm-Righ. As Ceannard MacBain’s Second, the rules of Court give her the right to demand assuaging of the insult to her Ceannard’s honor, real or imagined, individual or to the Court as a whole, by combat.” Merry cocked her head at the King. “Will your Second be exercising his right to choice of weapon?”

Once again Merry upstaged the King. His look said she’d pay for that, as would Daisy.

“It would appear that Ceannard MacBain and Druid Alexander require saving by their women.” The King reached behind him and grabbed his scepter. He slammed it to the stone floor. The traditional words declaring his final decree on the matter echoed in the silence. “So be it.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Entertainment.

The smug piece of shite had called it
entertainment.
That alone made Magnus want to kill him, King or not. He couldn’t. He’d sworn an allegiance to the Druidic order long before Daisy had heard of Court and Ceannards and presumably Druids. He hadn’t known about Merry when he joined. He knew the highest in their order for the UK was a woman, but he’d pictured a wise old frail bit of a thing in her eighties, not a vibrant woman in the middle of life who wore an apron most days and talked about sex with the descriptiveness of a sailor.

Now he was tied to her. He was grateful for that, especially when it helped bring Daisy back to him. The reality of the danger she was now in settled on his shoulders.

It was time for a new King. This one needed to die.

…

The stone was cold under her feet.

There was a cool dampness in the air, even in the relative warmth of the hall.

She could taste the salt from the sea in the air as it glided around her.

Not something she should have paid a lot of attention to at a time like this, but those were the things that ran through Daisy’s mind as time slowed around her. The tables were cleared from the hall. She didn’t look around her at the people gathered in a semicircle at her periphery. She knew they were there the same way every occupant of a room knows there are walls around them. Aside from recognizing escape routes, the walls held little meaning on their own. People were a distraction, one she couldn’t afford, so she didn’t focus on them.

She made fists with her toes and felt the stone under her feet. It had been meticulously swept and was clear of debris.
Samurai toes. Dig into the ground. Be like an ant, strong and unmovable in the face of a powerful wind.

Daisy circled, cross-stepping behind, never taking her eyes from her opponent’s chest. He was classically trained. A fencer. He’d lunge quickly and retreat even more quickly. He didn’t cross behind. He moved in straight lines. He was an artist.

She was a brawler.

She wouldn’t win this cleanly.

He wouldn’t win it at all. If she went down, he was going with her. That much she promised her maker before she slipped off her heels at dinner.

They hadn’t begun the formalities yet. In fact, the Arm-Righ’s Second had yet to choose weapons. She deduced all of that by observing the way he walked into the room, up the dais, and back down. He carried himself well, with the balance and grace of an athlete. Martial artists recognized one another the way cops and spies recognize one another, simply by seeing the signs—the small, but telling mannerisms that were so ingrained they became second nature like breathing or eating with a fork. No thought. All utility and efficiency of movement, but you knew a lefty from a righty, an American from a Brit, every time.

Damnet watched her too; the waves of testosterone-enriched air radiating from him said so. She kept her movements calm, unhurried, and not once did she make the mistake of looking at his face. He wasn’t a sparring partner and this wasn’t a game. Unless she misread her predicament entirely, the King’s Second meant to kill her. She wasn’t clear on the why of it, but she was certain of his intent.

One look at the Arm-Righ as he spoke quietly to Merry told her the King’s blessing had been given to his Second.

When all of the spectators had taken their places along the periphery, the King extended his hand to Merry, who took it. Two throne chairs replaced the seats on the dais, and the Arm-Righ and the Druidess sat. The King made every pretense of courtly behavior as he seated Merry with a formality that bordered on insult. She ignored it, her face a mask of polite disdain.

He turned his attention to his Second, who stood at Daisy’s side. She didn’t flinch or move away when his arm brushed hers. She disliked men who used their size to try to intimidate her, especially men who were only a few inches taller. It just pissed her off. She knew the dynamics. Even a man her size was thirty percent stronger in upper body strength. Everything being equal, he’d pummel her into the ground. But things weren’t equal. She was fighting for her life, and if she was correct, Lauren’s as well. The King’s Second was simply fighting to win and to inflict as much pain and humiliation as possible before he killed. Big difference. Not equal at all. “Have you settled on your choice of weapon?”

Damnet nodded. “I chose swords, my liege, and I lay claim upon Gleipnir when Ceannard MacBain’s Second falls.”

A foregone conclusion. Well he didn’t have originality on his side either.

“I have no issue with choice of weapon, Arm-Righ—however, I will not fight with Gleipnir. One’s weapons can only be forfeited if wagered or if weapons of comparable worth are chosen. What does your Second put up as Gleipnir’s equal?” Daisy’s voice didn’t waver, for which she was grateful. She was also grateful she’d read the rulebook. She wouldn’t risk Gleipnir getting into the Arm-Righ’s greedy hands.

The King smiled, a broad, welcoming smile that on any other man may have appeared beneficent. Daisy sensed the malice underneath, which took away from his polished, silver-haired good looks. It was hard to judge his age, Daisy put him at anywhere from fifty-five to sixty-five; still young enough and strong enough to be lethal with his hands. His Second was younger, thirty to forty at most; in prime physical condition. A look passed between them as if they’d been expecting that objection.

The King motioned two retainers forward, each carrying a scabbard. One held Gleipnir. The other was shaped like a Japanese katana. The weapons were placed on the table at the base of the dais, each on its own crimson velvet cushion. The King motioned to Lauren.

“Ceannard MacBain, please come forward and authenticate each weapon. Satisfy your Second as the relative worth of the sword my Second offers.” It was an order, one given by a very satisfied King.

Daisy went from elation to desperation in the space of a heartbeat. She got the sinking feeling she was about to gamble with Gleipnir as well as with her life. Gleipnir in the Arm-Righ’s possession would be a ticking time bomb of power; power he would harness and use for pain and shame. Rowan’s sword would be less powerful without it. The King would effectively be sidelining the one man she knew would challenge his power and not want it for himself.

Lauren took out his magnifying glass. He requested that Merry and Rowan examine the sword as well. He sent for his bag, pulled out his chemicals, and made slides. Microscopes made their way to the table, as did special kinds of handheld meters and lights. Daisy was fairly certain Lauren didn’t need any of it to verify what he was examining, but was trying to buy her some time. He knew the King and what the man was capable of and what he wasn’t. Daisy trusted Lauren’s judgment. He told her not to trust him, or anyone, but she did.

Lauren straightened and held the King’s gaze for a long, uncomfortable moment. Merry took her seat next to the Arm-Righ. Rowan faded into the crowd.

The King addressed Lauren, his tone gracious, fatherly. “Tell them what my Second offers as a match for Gleipnir, Ceannard MacBain.”

Lauren remained silent.

The King couldn’t contain himself. His palms rubbed back and forth on the tapestry-covered arms of his high-backed throne chair. “It is Honjo Masamune, the most famous Japanese sword of the Edo period, is it not?”

Lauren turned to look right at her, his jaw set, his body rigid, and gave her a long blink and a slight nod of assent. “My preliminary inspection gives no reason to doubt that it is.”

Daisy gasped. Honjo Masamune was created by Masamune, the most legendary metallurgist and sword smith in history, sometime between 1288 and 1328. It disappeared shortly after World War II while being delivered along with fourteen other swords to Sgt. Coldy Bilmore of the U.S. 7
th
Cavalry. It had been handed down from Shogun to Shogun for generations and became the emblem of the Shogunate during the Edo period. Its historical significance knew no limits. Its worth to black-market collectors had been speculated to approach hundreds of millions of dollars.

The chance to hold something of Masamune’s in her hands was a pipe dream. Honjo belonged in the Smithsonian or in one of Lauren’s public museums. Honjo was a piece of world history that no one man should be allowed to lock away for his own private viewing. It certainly shouldn’t be in a miserable man’s clutches clashing blades with Gliepner.