At the same time, though, how could I say no?
No was never an option here.
Sira approached him with a jar of ointment. He smelled mint and the acrid stench of redberries—a bruise-soothing mixture. Wiggling the jar, she smiled at him. “I’m ready. Would you like me to sing while you fight?”
“Oh, Sira.” Mother sighed.
“Yes,” Ven said firmly. “I’d love that.”
Sira asked Naelin, “Can you provide a rhythm? Beat that hide with the stick, an even rhythm.Bah, bah-bah, bah, bah-bah...” A tanned squirrel skin was stretched across a frame in one corner. Ven stretched out his arms, getting used to the weight of the wooden sword as Naelin began the beat.
Sira began to sing, deep and low, an old battle hymn, and Mother leapt off the platform and landed in a crouch on a lower branch. “Come on, boy!” she called.
Seventy years old.
She hasn’t slowed a bit.
He jumped down, and she was charging at him before he’d even landed. He sprang up to block her blade. The force shook through his muscles, but he held steady. She pulled back and was swinging again, a swift strike toward his side. He dodged and danced backward, noticing as he did that the limb she’d chosen was narrow, with the thickest part behind her. It bent beneath him, bouncing him up a quarter of an inch. He added that into his calculations as he dodged and struck.
She was as nimble as he’d remembered. More so.
From above them on the platform, Sira’s voice soared. His body absorbed the rhythm of the drumbeats, which he knew was one of Mother’s tricks: her enemy would move subconsciously with the beat, while she would remain unpredictable. He concentrated on making his strikes staccato, out of sync with the song, but she adjusted quickly, blocking and striking back with all the ferocity of...of a mother whose son has wronged her.
“I am sorry for not sending word,” Ven said.
“You should be.” She wasn’t winded. But then, neither was Ven.
“You raised me to face what battles came my way, and so I did.”
Strike, block, spin.
Balance.
Adjust for the bounce in the branch.
Position the feet, and lunge. Strike, punch, kick. And duck.
Thwack.He felt the flat of the wooden blade hit his side. Breath hissed through his teeth. Mother didn’t let him recover. She was on him again, strikes and jabs that he parried back. He shot one look at Naelin, to be certain she was still safe while his attention was diverted—he wouldn’t put it past his mother to use her against him. Sure enough, Mother saw the glance and used it, racing up the branch to swing hard at the support that held the platform level.
She wouldn’t...
She did.
With the wood sword, she hit the support so hard that it was knocked out of position. The platform jerked down, and Sira’s song cut off in a shriek. The drum stopped, and Ven immediately raced toward them—to where Mother waited.
He saw her but didn’t slow. He let the blow hit him, bending so that it impacted his back instead of his neck, and he bashed into the support until it wedged into position. The platform jerked again, steady. He saw Naelin help pull Sira back—both of them safe.
Grabbing a branch, he swung to land in the crook of another tree’s branches.
Mother did not pursue. “Still thinking with your heart instead of your mind. You will never be a truly great champion until you conquer that.”
He’d heard all of this before. “I am not choosing love over duty, Mother. I am choosing both.” Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a spirit: a large air spirit, with translucent wings and a body that blended into the leaves, and he made the calculation. Then he leaped the one direction Mother wouldn’t suspect: backward against the same weakened support, knocking it out completely. The wood slammed into Mother, sending her flying onto her back.
As the platform fell, the air spirit swooped in with a cry, catching Naelin and Sira on its back with its translucent wings spread wide. Below them, the platform tumbled down, hitting against the branches below.
He watched Sira and Naelin be delivered safely back to the house, and then he laid down his practice sword and offered his hand to his mother, hoping she wasn’t bruised too badly. “Do you concede?”
She didn’t take his hand. “No.”
