The Pawley's Lawn, Uptown, Vienda
Her body was her own again; Niccolette knew she was not heavy, that although she was not precisely short, not for a Bastian, neither was she tall, and she was slim. Funny, she thought – more than once Uzoji had joked she would have an easier time on the airship if she were heavier. It had been hard, at first, to pit her own slightness against the tossing winds – to learn to master her balance even in a storm –
Tears streamed down Niccolette’s cheeks, and she shuddered. It wasn’t the spell anymore; it wasn’t even the pain, for all that each breath sent a whistling ache through her ear, sent another stab of nausea down through her chest. Kneeling there, on the grass, Niccolette let herself cry. This time, she knew when it started; she knew when the first sob shook her. Over it, distant and only the faintest echo, she heard Ekain Da Huane’s voice. Another spell, Niccolette thought, drearily. She couldn’t bring herself to be afraid of the pain.
The Bastian took a deep, shuddering breath. She sniffled; she unclenched shaking hands from her side, brought them up to her face, wiping it off. She pushed herself up, slowly, digging her fingers into the muddy grass, forcing herself back to her knees. Mud and dirt streaked her face, streaked her hands – streaked her dress, not only the hem and her boots which had pressed into the ground, but the side where she had grasped it, all that lovely dark blue fabric smeared with mud and grime. There was still a thin trickle of something from her ear down her neck, a darkness against her pale skin.
Niccolette looked up, and Ekain Da Huane was gone. She shuddered, kneeling on the grass. His voice had stopped – stopped – her eyes flickered from side to side, slowly. The Bastian sniffled, wiped her nose on her sleeve. If she stayed down, she thought – if she just kept silent – the duel would end. She could go home; she could sleep. She could have someone see to her ear, help her make sure the damage wasn’t permanent. She could dry off; the heat in her field had dissipated, and Niccolette was shivering now, wet enough that the humid heat of the evening didn’t keep her from being cold.
Niccolette felt as if she could hear the seconds counting down in her head. Her eyes scanned the field again. She needed to find him, Niccolette thought. She needed to find him and to cast at him, or –
No.
The Bastian paused. She didn’t need to cast at him to keep from forfeiting. She only needed to cast. Niccolette sniffled, wiped her muddy face with her muddy hand again, and pushed her hair back off her forehead. She only needed to cast at all.
The Bastian took a deep breath, clenched her hands in her lap. She wasn’t aware of how much time had passed; she couldn’t have said. She couldn’t see Pawley checking his watch behind her; she couldn’t see the galdori huddled on the back porch, holding their breaths. If she had – if she had known how close her time was to being up – would it have mattered?
Niccolette began to cast. She lifted her chin – she didn’t stand, still kneeling, but her voice was loud – and if it quivered, if it cracked on the enunciation here and there – all the same, the living mona in the air around her shifted and shimmered beneath the rain, her field etheric. She cast a simple enough spell, the first one she thought of – a spell to let her see in the dark. The familiar words were more than memorized; they were a part of her.
The only thing difficult was the homing, because – because this time, Niccolette cast on herself and not her husband. Her voice quivered, there, but the streaming energy around her sank into her – her eyes flickered green, glowing for the briefest of moments – and then the spell shuttered out.
Weak, Niccolette thought – too weak. She had not been able to find Ekain Da Huane in that moment - in truth, the spell had not even really worked, not enough to notice - but it didn’t matter. She had cast; she had spoken, and that meant the duel would continue. The Bastian didn’t try to rise; she still knelt on the ground, half-sunken into the mud, but she was upright again, her chin lifted, and she looked back and forth on the field, slowly, waiting for the moment that Ekain Da Huane would reveal himself.
Three points to two, the duelist thought, coolly. Three points to two. He had not buried her; no one had, not yet. Her hands tightened further in the fabric of her skirt, and Niccolette’s field flexed, strong and powerful in the cool night air. She wasn’t cowed by her failure; she wasn’t cowed by his strength. She would not let him win by default; if she lost, it would not be with anything left to give. They would bury her only when she was truly dead.