Lord of the White Hell Book One

by Ginn Hale

  Chapter Seventeen

  When the day of the tournament finally arrived, the students at the academy rose early and ate quickly before mounting up and riding in a tight procession into the town of Zancoda. Nervous excitement pervaded the air, and neither Kiram nor Nestor was immune. As Kiram reined Firaj alongside Nestor’s mount he noted the pink flush of Nestor’s cheeks and felt certain that anyone close at hand could hear the pounding of his own heart.

  Students from the Yillar Academy would be approaching from the opposite direction. Once the two great schools of Cadeleon had converged in Zancoda’s center, the race to the gold pavilion would begin.

  Kiram hadn’t known what to expect beyond that, but he certainly hadn’t imagined anything like the spectacle surrounding him. Crowds of people lined the road even far outside of town. As they entered the city gates the display amazed him. When he had last passed through Zancoda on his way to the Sagrada Academy the town had struck him as dull and colorless. The buildings were old and the stonework had been weathered to a lifeless gray. The few inhabitants he had seen from his carriage had looked as pallid and plain as their surroundings.

  But now brilliant blue banners and vibrant green flags hung from the balconies. Flags emblazoned with colorful crests of noble families were waved from poles and chapel bells rang out wildly over the shouts and cheers of the gathered crowds.

  Men and boys thronged the streets, cheering as the academy students rode past. Every so often Kiram spotted an older matronly woman amidst the crowd holding a young child on her hip and helping the child wave. Kiram often waved back. Younger women, with their dark hair still braided and held up in combs, threw flowers and perfumed kerchiefs from overhanging balconies. Groups of onlookers stared out from open windows. Everyone, regardless of age or sex, wore bright paper flowers pinned to their clothes or waved shimmering ribbons.

  Kiram could not believe the sheer number of people who had come out just to watch the students of the Sagrada Academy ride two abreast through the streets. The inns appeared to be bursting with visitors, all waving from windows or leaning out on the steps. Some onlookers had even positioned themselves up on the roofs.

  From time to time, especially where the streets were narrow and the crowds were close, Kiram would feel a small hand reach out and touch him or Firaj. He realized that parents were holding out their children as if the passing riders were lucky stones to rub. At first he feared that an excited grasping child would spook Firaj or cause him to strike out with one of his hooves, but Firaj remained calm. At times he seemed to enjoy the attention. Even when a youth stumbled out and collided with his hindquarters, Firaj only released a hard snort and stamped once in warning. The youth scurried back into the crowd.

  “There are even more people here this year than last year!” Nestor shouted over the noise of the crowd. “The stands around the tournament arena are going to be packed!”

  “They can’t all be from around here,” Kiram yelled, surprised at how little impact his voice made upon the turbulent roar of so many other voices.

  “No.” Nestor shook his head. “Merchants and nobles from all over the country come to see the autumn tournament. Even the princes come. This year the heir himself is supposed to attend.”

  Kiram couldn’t help but feel a slight dread at the mention of a royal Sagrada. Though Nazario Sagrada’s atrocities were long past, it was still Kiram’s first association with the name “Sagrada”. If he won the Crown Challenge he would have to attempt to change that. He would be expected to demonstrate his mechanism to the king and entertain the royal family with its many uses. He couldn’t be brooding over the infamous impaler while cheerfully serving the man’s descendants.

  Then a downpour of pink rose petals from the balcony above distracted him. A white kerchief, embroidered with yellow butterflies, fluttered down and landed across Nestor’s arm. Nestor flushed bright red and clutched the token. Kiram joined him in gawking up at the shy Cadeleonian girls on the balcony.

  “Might be the one with the butterfly combs in her hair,” Kiram shouted to Nestor.

  “Do you think?” Nestor peered at the girl and she ducked quickly back into the shadows of a bright blue banner. “She was pretty, wasn’t she?”

  “I think so,” Kiram replied, though he hadn’t really seen much of her, but she had certainly possessed the deep curves and lustrous dark hair that Cadeleonian men seemed to desire.

  “It smells like jasmine.” Nestor carefully tucked the kerchief into his riding glove. “Not too much further to the town center. You ready?”

  “Not at all. I’m terrified.”

  “Me too.”

  Under other circumstances Kiram thought he would have found it funny that both he and Nestor were screaming out their fears. But now the irony of the situation didn’t amuse him. He was too nervous about the race that was to come, once they met the Yillar students at the town center.

  The students of both schools would circle the city fountain once and then race madly down six narrow avenues out of the town and to the tournament grounds. The first student to reach the gold pavilion would receive a favor directly from the Sagrada prince.

  Countless bets had been placed within the academy and in the town as well, Kiram imagined. Both the Helio twins were thought to be contenders, as was Javier.

  Apparently Javier had finished second last year, only a neck behind Hierro Fueres of the Yillar Academy. Elezar had placed a huge wager on Javier and made it clear that he would personally take it badly if any other rider from the Sagrada Academy cost him his money.

  Kiram had no illusions about his own chances of winning. He hoped only to survive. He clenched his fists around Firaj’s reins. Last night Elezar had recounted stories of students who had taken terrible falls in the race from the fountain. He’d described young men being trampled by their own horses, or becoming tangled in their stirrups and being dragged against the hard cobblestones of the street.

  Kiram’s thoughts were so focused on his possible impending death that for an instant he failed to register the familiar voice calling his name from the surrounding crowd.

  “Hey! Kiri! Kiram Kir-Zaki!”

  Kiram turned slightly in his saddle and was shocked to recognize his uncle Rafie waving from the midst of dozens of pale Cadeleonians. The sight sent a thrill of joy through him.

  Despite Rafie’s elegant Cadeleonian clothes he stood out starkly from the rest of the crowd. His slim Haldiim build and smooth skin lent him the appearance of a tall youth but his close-cropped hair was nearly white and deep smile lines etched the corners of his mouth. Days of summer travel had deepened the natural cinnamon tone of his skin to a rich walnut color, making his pale blue eyes seem to blaze in contrast.

  Rafie ducked between two big Cadeleonian men, slipped through the crowd with fast graceful twists, and was soon jogging alongside Firaj.

  “We’re staying at the Laughing Dog!” Rafie called to him in Haldiim. “We’ll see you this evening. Take care!” Rafie tossed a small bundle into Kiram’s lap, then ducked back into the relative shelter of the crowd.

  “Who was that?” Nestor called out.

  “My uncle Rafie.” Kiram clumsily opened the satchel with one hand. Inside he found a Bahiim lotus medallion on a fine gold chain.

  “He came all this way to see you in the tournament?” Nestor looked happy. “That’s nice.”

  Kiram nodded. He guessed that Alizadeh was here as well and had probably blessed the medallion personally. Kiram pulled the chain over his head. The weight of the medallion felt amazingly comforting.

  Chapel bells boomed over the streets in double time, and Kiram realized that the riders at the front of the procession must have arrived at the city center. A few moments later he and Nestor rode into the huge square with a massive fountain at its center that featured a sculpture of three stallions rearing up in the spray. Carved across the base of the fountain were the words: Faith, Honor, and Strength.

  A church rose up on one side of
the square, and ranks of Yillar students, dressed in deep green uniforms, gathered there. Kiram guessed that there were nearly two hundred of them, forming a veritable wall of armed men and glossy warhorses. A gnawing anxiety clutched at his stomach and he had to look away from them.

  The last students from both schools filed into the square. Like Kiram and Nestor, they each took their positions as they had drilled countless times in the months earlier.

  Master Ignacio rode his stallion from the front of the Sagrada Academy ranks to the fountain where he met the war master of the Yillar Academy. Ignacio was the younger of the two and far more serious in appearance. The Yillar war master was plump with a big white beard. He smiled like an indulgent grandfather at Master Ignacio’s grim salute and returned the gesture as if it were nothing more than a wave.

  Once the salutes of engagement were exchanged, riders from both schools surged into action all around Kiram.

  “Good luck!” Nestor shouted, and then his roan stallion lunged ahead into the fray of riders and horses.

  First-year riders forced their way forward and suddenly strangers surrounded Kiram. One rider attempted to force Kiram into the wall of a guild building. Firaj snorted angrily and sprang ahead. Kiram clung to his reins. He lost sight of Nestor. Then suddenly Yillar riders surged up from behind him. Kiram spurred Firaj forward to keep from being trampled in their charge.

  Though Kiram had hated every moment he had spent with Master Ignacio, he was suddenly glad for the practice. Without it he would already have fallen.

  Now his heart pounded madly in his chest but he urged Firaj ahead faster and the big gelding responded. His hands shook, but he kept his grip on his reins and focused himself on staying in his saddle.

  Somewhere in the crush of uniforms and horses, Kiram heard shouts of pain and animal screams. Firaj bounded between two other horses and a big student in Yillar green swore at Kiram and swung his riding crop. Firaj suddenly bared his teeth at the man’s mount and the other horse reared back, nearly throwing its rider. Firaj and Kiram raced ahead.

  Kiram completed his circle of the fountain just behind the bulk of other riders and took the nearest of the six avenues leading out of the town. Stone buildings rose up on either side of him like walls and dust churned up from the street in choking clouds. From the balconies above, spectators screamed other men’s names and hurled flowers.

  Suddenly the closeness of the crowd and the constant downpour of flower petals became unbearable. Kiram swatted rose blossoms away from his face as if they were flies. He couldn’t slow, much less stop, without being trampled by the riders behind him. They drove Kiram ahead faster but could not pass him. The street was too narrow. All of them raced to escape the confines of the town walls and tight streets.

  The sight of harvested fields and wide open tracts of fallow land came as an overwhelming relief.

  Even in the fields there were spectators. Groups of young boys sat atop stone walls and waved. Milkmaids and farmers leaned against fences watching. Ahead, an entire fairground of tents and bright flags spilled out from behind a huge yellow pavilion.

  The open field allowed him the space to slow. Other riders urged their mounts ahead and Kiram let them pass. Firaj seemed to hate the sight of another horse racing past him and each time another rider sped by, he made an attempt to give chase. Kiram always reined him back to a reasonable pace.

  He just wanted to reach the gold pavilion in one piece; he had no interest in risking his life to be counted among the finest riders, though he could tell that Firaj would have liked to be among the finest horses.

  As he neared the huge gold pavilion Kiram caught sight of Nestor, racing across the field on his roan stallion. Kiram slowed Firaj further to allow Nestor to catch up.

  Kiram waved. But Nestor didn’t respond and Kiram guessed it was because Nestor couldn’t see him. He’d obviously lost his spectacles somewhere earlier in the race.

  However as they both drew closer to the gold pavilion, Nestor squinted at him and then waved ecstatically. Kiram rode up next to him. Nestor’s face was streaked with road dust and the bridge of his nose appeared to be bruised.

  He shouted, “It’s madness this year!” by way of greeting.

  Then they both passed beneath the yellow silk ropes decorating the entry to the tournament grounds and they were done. Grooms wearing blue armbands took their horses and told them what place they had taken in the race. Kiram was the hundred and forty-eighth rider. Nestor was the hundred and forty-ninth.

  “I don’t see why anyone keeps count after fifth, except to embarrass us,” Nestor commented. Kiram wondered briefly how Javier had fared in the race. He hurried after Nestor into the gold pavilion.

  Inside, sunlight glowed through the luminous yellow silk walls, lending a gold cast to the hundreds of onlookers gathered in the wooden stands. The center of the silk tent, however, was open and hard morning light poured down over the dirt floor of the arena, illuminating every detail of the filthy students gathered there.

  Two men with silver horns blew out sharp notes as Kiram and Nestor walked in. A young man shouted both their names. When Nestor was announced a roar of cheers went up from the stands and Kiram realized that most of Nestor’s family had to be here. The Grunito crest of a red bull on a blue field hung from ten raised box seats where dozens of big Cadeleonians waved and shouted out Nestor’s name. A tall woman with shoulders as broad as Kiram’s and a nose like a hawk’s beak hurled a bouquet of red and blue ribbons to Nestor. It slapped into Nestor’s chest and he gripped it tightly. His dirty cheeks took on an embarrassed flush.

  “God save me,” Nestor whispered as he squinted up at the box seats. “I’m never going to hear the end of this. I come in one hundred and forty-ninth and then get a bouquet from my mother.”

  “It’s not so bad.” Kiram said. “There are plenty of riders behind us.”

  “Yes, but my mother isn’t going to throw them bouquets.”

  “Your mother isn’t the only one who threw you a favor, though,” Kiram reminded him.

  “That’s true.” Nestor smiled slightly. “She really was pretty, wasn’t she?”

  “She was,” Kiram assured him.

  The two of them joined the other Sagrada Academy students in the center of the arena. Elezar was the easiest to pick out in the crowd, simply because of his size. The vestiges of a bloody nose stained his upper lip and mud spattered the entire front of his shirt. Almost immediately after finding Elezar, Kiram caught sight of Javier.

  He wasn’t with the rest of the Sagrada students but instead he leaned up against wall of the stands with his neck craned back. He shouted something up to a group of people in a box seat on the second level. A green and yellow banner hung from the box. Fedeles was up there, along with half a dozen other very well-dressed people. None of them resembled Fedeles as much as Javier did but Kiram still guessed that they were Fedeles’ family, the Quemanors. One elderly woman gazed at him with that particularly adoring expression that Kiram always associated with grandmothers. When her gaze shifted to Javier, however, her expression was one of undisguised hatred.

  Fedeles bounced in his seat and appeared to be singing something. Kiram couldn’t hear him over the pressing roar of hundreds of surrounding conversations. Elezar was recounting his own worst failure in a race to Nestor, but Kiram was only half listening. Every now and then a trumpet blast announced more riders and cheers went up through the crowd.

  A giddy feeling of joy and relief washed through Kiram. It had been a mad ride but he had survived it. Briefly, he thought that he would do it all again just for this rush of happiness at the end. The notion was crazy, but it filled him with a strange kind of joy. Kiram thought he might be grinning as wildly as Fedeles right now.

  Up in the stands, Fedeles threw a wad of black and white ribbons down at Javier and then suddenly leapt up from his seat and pointed directly at Kiram.

  Kiram returned his enthusiastic wave. He received a cold stare from Fedeles’ grandm
other, but he hardly cared. Javier pulled the black and white ribbons from his dusty hair, then he turned and started towards Kiram. As Javier drew closer Kiram caught sight of the bloody, matted black hair dried to the right side of his face.

  Suddenly Kiram’s pleasure turned cold. “Are you all right?”

  Javier only smiled at him.

  “He took first place!” Elezar crowed. “Flat out beat Hierro Fueres this year.”

  “What happened to his head?” Kiram asked. Javier seemed oddly unaware of the question.

  “He got clipped. His right ear is full of blood.” Elezar pointed to Javier’s head.

  Javier nodded. “I can’t hear out of my right ear. It’s full of blood.”

  “Shouldn’t he see a physician?”

  “He’ll be fine,” Elezar responded. “It’s just a graze. Bled like hell though. He looked completely bitched when I first came in. Bastard had the gall to tell me I looked bad.”

  Javier watched Elezar’s face intently as he spoke and then nodded.

  “I said you looked like shit,” Javier said to Elezar and then he turned his attention back to Kiram. “I didn’t hear them announce you.”

  “You can’t hear anything, can you?”

  “No, I’m fine,” Javier responded.

  “He can’t read lips for crap either.” Elezar stepped closer to Javier. “Do something about your bloody ear.”

  “I think it’s nice and quiet like this.” Javier shrugged.

  Kiram saw the faintest spark flicker over Javier’s right ear. It guttered out almost instantly. Another spark trembled to life only briefly and then it too went out.

  Kiram frowned. It wasn’t like Javier to put up with an injury, not even to annoy Elezar.

  “Did Holy Father Habalan administer muerate poison to Javier?” Kiram asked Elezar.

  “Of course. It’s the only way to make sure he doesn’t cheat during the tournament. He still took first—” The rest of Elezar’s words were lost in the loud blast of a trumpet. More riders were announced. The crowds in the stands cheered as the dirty students made their way to the center of the arena. The last students seemed to be arriving nearly all at once. Few of them showed any injuries, though one young man in a Yillar uniform had clearly been bombarded with flowers. Rose petals and straw flowers were still falling out of his hair and clothes as he walked across the arena.