“Proving my claims is not necessary when the Order knows who the traitor is,” Stephane spoke out, his breath coming in rapid bursts. Sweat beaded his forehead, and he rubbed his face nervously. “They have proclaimed the old ways dead. I am the rightful king.”
“He failed the quest,” Isabella announced. “Regardless of what the Order proclaimed, they did so under the direction of a man who was not qualified to rule.”
“How did you know that?” Stephane choked out, anger wild in his eyes.
“You chose wrong,” she said calmly. “In the final chamber. That is why you failed the quest. Father was right. A good ruler must also see with his heart. Not just his eyes.”
“It matters not,” he hissed. “I will be king.”
“I issued a challenge,” she said. “Do you accept or do you show the Leaudorian people who the true traitor is?”
Panic flared in his eyes as he realized he was well and truly caught. If he refused, it would appear that he had something to hide. He would have no choice but to accept.
Behind Stephane, the members of the Order exchanged uneasy glances. Doubt clearly registered on their expressions as they witnessed the scene before them.
“By what right do you make such a challenge?” Lord Helwedge spoke up.
She turned and fixed her stare on the members of the Order assembled. “My right as the true ruler of this country,” she said icily. “By what right do you change our laws?”
He shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny and his gaze flitted over the other members. None of them stepped forward, nor would they meet her stare.
“Perhaps we were a bit hasty in our decision,” Lord Helwedge said, clearing his throat nervously.
Father Ling stepped forward. “The princess has issued a challenge as afforded to her in our laws. Do you seek to deny her?”
Lord Helwedge swallowed then looked over at Stephane. “Do you accept the challenge issued before you?”
“You can’t condone this,” Stephane cried. “You cannot allow her to get away with her treachery.”
“May the righteous prevail,” Lord Helwedge announced, backing away.
Stephane turned to her, hatred burning in his eyes. “You will regret making such a foolhardy challenge,” he hissed.
“Make the circle,” Father Ling called out.
The members of the order filed solemnly from their positions at the back of the platform and formed a circle around her and Stephane.
From beyond the circle, Merrick fixed her with his gaze, his eyes lending her his strength. She took in a deep breath and nodded at him. She would prevail. Everything rode on her success.
Father Ling stepped forward and offered a blessing over her then faded back from the circle. Stephane’s face flushed red at the monk’s slight and the message it sent to the observers.
They circled one another warily. Isabella thought back to all Father Ling had taught her. She had been an apt pupil, soaking up the ancient traditions. But the lessons learned had never been more important than at this moment.
Stephane struck first, swinging his leg out. She easily blocked it with her hand and quickly struck a blow to his ribs with her foot. Bouncing up on her toes, she danced around him, looking for another opening.
He faked left then straightened, throwing first his left then his right hand. She jerked her head back, effectively dodging both swings, but his leg arched in a precise kick, catching her in the shoulder.
Stumbling back, she moved to the side and resumed her stance. “Out of practice, brother?” she taunted. “You kick like a weak woman. Surely you can do better than that.”
His eyes narrowed, and he lashed out in anger, punching his fist toward her face. She caught his wrist with one hand and brought her knee into his gut, using his momentum to carry him forward. He grunted in pain, and she slid her leg down to sweep his feet from underneath him. He landed with a thump on the floor, rolling quickly away from her.
Slowly, he stood up, rubbing his abdomen. They circled again, each measuring the other. She faked several punches in order to get him to react. When his hands lowered, she threw her palm forward connecting with his chin.
His head snapped back, and he brought the back of his hand up to wipe his mouth. Blood smeared from his lip, and he stared in disbelief at the red trail on his hand.
Foregoing any pretense of traditional fighting, he lunged at her with a roar. His arms closed around her, and he drove her to the floor, landing painfully atop her. Her breath left her in one long whoosh.
Gasping for air, she jammed her knee up between his legs. He howled in pain and rolled away from her. She scrambled up, using the opportunity to catch her breath.
