The Drowned Woods (11)

And if they did not die.

The danger only seemed to add to the festive air. An older woman played the pipe and tabor, and people chatted happily at the fringes of the fights.

Fane glanced at Blodeuyn. “Thank you,” he said. “For the drink.”

She gave him a speculative look. “I thought I owed you something, since you threw that fight.”

Surprise flickered through him, but Fane did not let it touch his expression. “Why would I do such a thing?”

“That is what I was going to ask you,” she replied. “You didn’t hit me. Didn’t even try—I mean, I know you made a show of it. You raised your fists and threw punches at the air, but I know a diversion when I see one.” Her mouth pressed thin. “Is it because I’m a woman? Because I’ve no problem thrashing you again.”

Fane shook his head. “No, no. Nothing of the sort, I assure you.” That much was true, at least.

Blodeuyn drained her cup in a few swallows. “You haven’t won once,” she said. “You’ve been losing matches and coin since you showed up here.”

“Perhaps I’m not as good a fighter as everyone else,” said Fane.

Blodeuyn tapped a finger against her empty cup. “You know what I think? It’s a swindle. You’re going to keep losing fights until the odds are so stacked against you that no one else will bet on you. You’ll wager everything on yourself. And then you’re going to finally fight back and walk away with a full purse before moving on to the next village.”

Fane let out a startled laugh. He had anticipated many problems with this job, but being scrutinized by a fellow fighter had not entered his mind. In his experience, people did not question their own victories—they were either too greedy or too grateful. “You make me sound like some kind of master criminal, Lady Blodeuyn.”

She cut him a sharp look. “You’re here for some purpose. If it’s not to win fights, then what is it?”

“Perhaps I like the company,” he said, smiling.

“Perhaps you enjoy being beaten,” she replied, with a nod at his bruised face.

“Perhaps I wish I could be,” he said, with more honesty than he’d intended.

Blodeuyn stared at him for a few heartbeats and Fane let out a breath. He was used to speaking with double-edged words, to using truths as both shield and weapon. Humans did not speak in such a manner—they either lied or they didn’t. He’d spent too many years in Annwvyn to sound human anymore. And while he could feign normality for a time, these two weeks among the fighters were beginning to dissolve that illusion.

Blodeuyn opened her mouth. She could prove to be a problem if she chose to make herself one, and he hoped she wouldn’t. Then there was a shout from the man standing atop the crate. “—Challenger! None has defeated the Blaidd of Hafn Glawog.”

Blodeuyn’s head snapped up. Her posture shifted from relaxed and friendly to something harder and more dangerous.

“Finally,” she breathed. “I thought he would never come.”

It took him a few heartbeats to understand what she meant.

“You intend to fight the Blaidd?” asked Fane, aghast.

Blodeuyn did not so much as look at Fane. Her gaze was fastened to a man striding toward one of the fighting rings. The crowds parted before him, shuffling aside so quickly that some were stepped on and a few were shoved to the floor. The crier was continuing to shout about the Blaidd’s impressive achievements: his victories in battle, the strength of his fists and arms, how he’d once wrestled an afanc and lived—

That last one was such an obvious untruth that Fane almost snorted through his crooked nose. But nothing about this situation was amusing.

“Are you mad?” he said quietly to Blodeuyn. “Do you know who that man is? Why they call him the Wolf?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “I know who he is. Why do you think I came here?”

Fane had made a mistake; he’d never considered that Blodeuyn had come here for reasons other than coin. The way she fought—all short bursts of ferocity—was born of some deep-seated anger. He should have seen that in her before now.

“Blodeuyn,” he said. “Please—I don’t know why you think this is important, but—”

Blodeuyn rounded on him. “There was a little girl. One without parents. She’d been taken in by a miller, you see. Given food and clothes and shelter. But the Blaidd of Hafn Glawog arrived not a month later. He and his mercenaries required a place to stay—so they took the mill for the night. When the miller protested, the Blaidd set fire to the mill. His ward was inside.”

A bitter taste filled Fane’s mouth.

“The miller went to the lord of the cantref,” said Blodeuyn. “He asked for justice. But the Blaidd was too good a soldier, too useful on the front. Nothing would ever be done, no matter how many homes were burned, how many bones left in his wake. The miller is my cousin—and now he has no home, no livelihood. And he weeps every day for that girl.”

“So this is how you’re going to avenge his adopted daughter?” Fane said. “You’re going to challenge the Blaidd to a fight?”

“No one else is going to stop him,” said Blodeuyn. “No one else will. I could not attack him while he’s surrounded by his friends. But here, in the ring—I can fight him. And I cannot stand by and watch this brute hurt other people.” She pushed her way through the crowd, stepping into the fighting ring.