by Helen Lowe
“Even though it was truth?” Girvase asked coolly.
Because it was truth, Kalan thought.
On his other side, Ado started to grin. “You know, I think Ser Alric only spoke up because he liked you, Hamar. He was betting on your bouts this morning. But the way you looked at him—” He shook his head again, still grinning. “I think he thought he’d woken one of the ice bears they say live in the Winter Country.”
Kalan had seen one of those bears once, from a safe distance. “You’re right,” he said ruefully. “Ser Alric was an unworthy target.” They did not discuss what the Wymark knight had said, but Kalan knew it would come up again. Don’t tell Raher, he wanted to say, but knew he couldn’t. If they were going to ride as a company, any matter than affected the group had to be agreed upon by all of them.
The muscles along his jaw tightened as the anger flared again, although he was not quite sure who he was angry with: Girvase, for articulating that what Ser Alric said was true; or Jarna’s grandfather for sacrificing her to satisfy his own skewed notions of honor and how the world should be—not, Kalan thought savagely, how it is, at all. He was angry at himself as well, for closing his eyes to the reality that Ser Alric had just outlined so clearly. And, if he was honest, with Jarna, for presenting another complication to throw into a mix that held Derai and Darkswarm and the Heir of Night, awake now behind the layered masks of cartographer and adept, and measuring them all with her cool, smoky gaze.
Easier by far just to get on a horse, clap a lance into place, and thunder full tilt toward another heavily armored opponent, and—Kalan thought, baring his teeth as he did just that—knock him out of the saddle. The anger had burned away his weariness and he rode its wave through the blaze of afternoon, his eyes narrowed on finding the precise spot that would send a succession of opponents crashing to the ground. Raher was doing well, too, he saw, when he had time to take in the shield array, and Ado was holding his own. He could not see Girvase’s shield, which was farther along the wall from the marshaling area.
“Ser Ombrose is still here, of course,” Raher said, in a snatched conversation, “and a few of those northerners, although they don’t seem to be very good at jousting.”
Well, they wouldn’t be, Kalan thought. The use of a lance, tourney style, was not a skill much called for on the Wall of Night. The Derai had to compete, though, if they wanted to be seen as serious contenders in the tournament—even, he reflected grimly, if they were really here on other business. He scowled, suppressing his concern about what that business might be, given the Swarm presence in Caer Argent. Instead he urged his horse back to the end of the lists, concentrating on the heft of another lance before clamping it beneath his arm and bearing down on another opponent.
One of the Sword warriors, he saw, once his lance had done its work and the man was on the ground. His next opponent was a Lathayran, who lost his lance but only came half off his horse, clinging to the saddle bow until he reached the end of the lists. After that it was Raher, who kept his lance and just rocked backward in the saddle. The bout still went to Kalan, who had maintained both balance and lance, but he realized that his opponents were getting stronger. It was almost with a sense of inevitability, in the final bout of the day, that he looked down the lists and saw Ser Ombrose facing him at last.
Kalan supposed he should feel nervous, afraid even, but instead he was cool, almost detached, as he selected a lance and closed his visor. Ser Ombrose might be tourney champion, but in the end he was just another knight with strengths and weaknesses, no different from himself or any other competitor here.
I have met the hero Yorindesarinen, who slew the Chaos Worm, he thought. I will not be overawed by anyone’s reputation, next to that, not even the champion of Emer. “Ready?” a list marshal asked, and he nodded, settling the lance into place.
The baton came down and his horse exploded forward with a powerful thrust of its hindquarters, hooves drumming against the hard ground. Kalan’s eyes narrowed on what was no longer a person but a fast-approaching gleam of steel beneath green and black. He looked past the lance tip, crouching low behind his buckler as he automatically assessed Ser Ombrose’s body position and balance, all his attention focused on the point that would displace the other’s weight while maintaining his own.
The shock of the lance against his buckler jarred through Kalan’s whole body, but he kept his weight forward and stayed grounded in the saddle. Ser Ombrose had taken the impact on his shield, too, and also kept his seat, which meant another round. The contest would go to three before the marshals made a declaration.
“You held him off!” Raher was practically howling with excitement. Girvase was there, too, and Ado, plus other competitors whose faces blurred into the background. Kalan had no time for anything beyond a quick check of horse and harness before his friends lifted up the next lance and he was thundering down the lists again. His world contracted into the roar of his blood, which might also have been the roar of the crowd, and the oncoming rush of armored horse and armored rider, and brightly colored lance.
The second impact, coming immediately on top of the first, was sickening, and this time both lances splintered from the force driven along their lengths. Kalan had bitten the inside of his mouth and tasted blood, but he managed to throw the lance away so the splintered shaft did not catch in his opponent’s armor, or the eye slit of his helmet. He was still in the saddle, but so, too, was Ser Ombrose, and the champion had also tossed his lance clear, so there was no advantage there.
“Hamar! You champion!” Raher ran to meet him as he cantered back, and this time Jarna was at his destrier’s head when he stopped, her face white with fear and excitement as her sure hands checked his horse’s legs for strain or injury.
“Not champion yet,” Kalan said, taking the water bag Ado gave him and squirting water into his mouth.
“Armor’s good here,” Girvase said, as Kalan spat out blood and water before taking another swallow.
Raher nodded agreement from the other side. “And here.”
“He’s clear,” Jarna said, stepping away from his horse. She did not say “take care,” as Malian had that morning, but he could read the words in her expression. He took time over his lance selection, careful over weight and balance, before turning to face Ser Ombrose again.
The baton dropped for the last time, and again his destrier leapt forward. Lists and stands whipped past in a blur as Kalan crouched low and kept his shield centered. Ser Ombrose was a crouched mirror image pounding toward him, his lance rock steady. Kalan’s vision narrowed until only knight and lance filled it, alert for any nuance that would reveal an opening. The champion swept closer, and Kalan kept his own lance locked in, all his weight behind it as he drove square and true at his opponent—but at the last instant Ser Ombrose’s lance tip rose and thrust for his helmet.
Kalan’s head snapped back as the blow connected, and his torso followed. He rocked in the saddle before catching the movement and throwing his weight forward, fighting to retain his seat and hold onto his lance at the same time. His horse thundered on, but he had the reins still and was able to check its speed before they reached the end of the ground. “You rocked him,” one of the knights there said, “but not enough.”
And striking the helmet, Kalan thought, fatigue washing back in on the tide of his disappointment, is a more difficult maneuver. The senior list marshal must have agreed, for a moment later he directed his baton toward Ser Ombrose Sondargent, who raised his lance to the Duke and then the surrounding stands, accepting the victory.
Chapter 42
Rites of Honor
“It was close though,” Raher said, when Kalan had dismounted and they were helping him out of his armor. “No one expected that, Sondargent included, I imagine.” Raher grinned. “He rocked me as far back as my horse’s rump in the first exchange.”
“Everyone’s saying that he’s never had to go to three lances before,” Ado agreed.
Kalan nodded, alt
hough his whole body felt like it had been pounded by a smith’s hammer and his head was aching from the helmet blow. The inside of his mouth stung where he had bitten it, but at least it had stopped bleeding. He caught Girvase’s eye. “Did you joust against Ser Ombrose, too?”
“No, but I did go up against the northerner who fought Audin yesterday.” Everyone stopped, and Girvase’s rare grin dawned. “He’s big, but he can’t joust. I beat him on the first lance.”
“I don’t think any of the northerners are in the joust final,” Ado said. “But you and Hamar both are.”
“And Ser Ombrose, of course,” said Raher cheerfully. “So now you have it all to look forward to again.” Kalan groaned.
“You’ve drawn a crowd, too,” Girvase murmured, and Kalan, looking beyond their small circle, saw that it was true. The bulk of the tourneygoers might be dispersing, but there was still a mix of nobility, merchants, and common people pressed as close to the list barrier as the marshals would allow. Ser Raven was nearby, talking with one of the marshals, and Kalan saw Ser Alric—holding back, but still there—and the two Allerion knights who had watched Girvase fight yesterday. He nodded to Ser Alric, a little stiffly but a nod nonetheless, before his eyes slid to Jarna, who was walking his horse. She caught his gaze and smiled, her face bright, and he guessed she must have done well in the horse trials. When he looked back, Ser Raven had turned away from the marshal. The knight smiled, too, an expression as rare on his face as it was on Girvase’s.
“You made Sondargent work for his victory,” he said. “Well done.”
Kalan grinned, feeling as though he had just received his accolade from the Duke himself, and a little of his disappointment lifted. Trumpets rang out, bright and silvery, and everyone looked around. “The Duke’s leaving the lists,” Ser Raven said, and Kalan took the hand Girvase held out and heaved himself to his feet.
The cavalcade rode close by them, the Duke lifting a hand in acknowledgment as he passed. Ghiselaine, too, raised a gloved hand and bowed from the saddle, fair and graceful as the lily of her guerdon. Alianor and Ilaise rode behind her, together with a mix of other guests who included clerics in the robes of Serrut and Imuln. Both damosels waved, and once the last riders had passed a pair of heralds crossed from the shadow of the ducal stand, making for the list barrier. The gathered watchers fell back on either side to let the great gray horses through.
You would not guess, Kalan thought, studying the heralds’ impassive calm, that Tarathan of Ar had spent half the night contending with Swarm agents across the rooftops of Caer Argent. He was conscious of relief, too, as they made their way toward him, because their presence here must mean that Malian was safe, pursuing whatever business Maister Carick was meant to be about in the ducal palace.
“We have a commission,” the heralds said, drawing rein by the barrier and speaking in formal unison. “We are sent by Ghiselaine, Countess of Ormond, to salute all those who wore her colors today.”
A murmur sounded as the tourneygoers craned forward, anticipating one of the chivalric gestures that were part of the magic of all tournaments, but especially that of Midsummer, which was sponsored by the Duke.
“I, Ghiselaine of Ormond, greet you,” the heralds intoned, still speaking in their one voice, “on my own behalf as Countess of Ormond and on behalf of my betrothed, Lord Hirluin Sondargent. In both our names, I salute your achievements today and also the spirit of friendship and honor in which you have made gift of them to me, as individuals and as the Normarch company. In return, I offer each of you these tokens of my friendship and esteem.”
The crowd murmured again as Jehane Mor unwrapped a square of folded cloth, revealing seven yellow scarves with the lily of Emer brocaded into the silk. We need Audin for this, Kalan thought, but Girvase gave him a little shove forward and he lifted both hands to accept the scarves. “We salute Countess Ghiselaine,” he said, projecting his voice so the crowd could hear, “and accept her gift—in the name of Falk, Castellan of the Northern March, and our liege, Caril, Duke of Emer.”
Cheers erupted from the crowd as he turned and held the scarves out to the others. Even the knights and marshals were cheering, Kalan saw, because their small company had been successful today and this was Emer, where everyone loved tourneys and the grand courtly gesture. Clever Ghis, he thought with an inward smile, knowing how to play to that. He looked up from tying the scarf over the peddler’s ribbon—to fresh cheers from the onlookers—and nodded to Ser Raven. “There’s one there for you,” he said.
Just for a moment, he thought the knight might refuse—but then Ser Raven picked up the cloth and knotted it around his arm. “My honor,” he said, as if he meant it, although he must have known that it would be unwise to say anything else given the sentiment of the crowd. A sentiment, Kalan reflected, that might all change tomorrow if another knight or company won their fancy. For now, though, they were all for Ghiselaine and the Normarch contingent.
“Which,” Girvase said, as they made their way back to the tourney camp, “was what Audin and Alli hoped for when they spoke with me this morning.” His fingers touched the scarf around his arm. “Not all service,” he added softly, “is with the sword.”
No, Kalan thought, although excelling at the tourney and in war brought glory, which carried as much weight as either birth or gold in Emer. He turned his face to the sun, which was descending slowly toward the western horizon, and thought that this life, of a warrior amongst warrior comrades, had always been his dream—even when cruelly relegated to the unwanted life of a temple novice. He knew that he could be Midsummer tourney champion if he stayed in Emer, perhaps not this year but the next, and win not just glory but wealth as well, and a place in the councils of the dukedom.
But you are not Emerian, his inner self reminded him coolly, just as those early dreams of glory were never of Emerian tourneys and border wars. And the reason you are here at all is not because of your own cleverness and strength in breaking free, but through the grace of others, not least Captain Asantir and Rowan Birchmoon. The heralds, too, he reminded himself, conscious of where they rode a few paces behind him. For that was another part of the courtly rituals loved by the Emerians—that Ghiselaine’s emissaries must be invited to eat with them before returning to report on the outcome of their commission.
Rites of hospitality and honor, thought Kalan—really, when all was said and done, the Emerians were very like the Derai. He felt contented, absurdly so, to be walking back to camp with his friends around him, knowing that Ser Raven was with the marshals and other captains, going over the order of tomorrow’s events on their behalf. Even, he thought wryly, if all that I am and have here is only by the grace of others. Giving in to impulse, he reached over and tugged Jarna’s braid. “You did well today, too,” he said, “making the finals.”
She smiled back, fingering the scarf around her arm. “And Countess Ghiselaine sent me her colors. This is much finer than my peddler’s ribbons—but then, they all look so fine and grand now, don’t they, the damosels? And did you see Serinna Sondcendre this morning, wearing the tourney crown, how beautiful she was? One of the Lathayrans said that she was fairer than the dawn.”
“Poetic, for a Lathayran.” Girvase sounded amused.
Jarna patted the roan’s neck. “My sisters used to talk about it all the time, what it would be like to be crowned queen of the Midsummer tourney.”
Had she dreamed about it, too, Kalan wondered, until her grandfather decreed a different fate? Raher laughed. “My sisters were the same until m’father brought a mirror.” The others looked at each other, not quite sure what to say, although Girvase rolled his eyes and even Ado looked taken aback.
“Well, there are no mirrors in my grandfather’s house,” Jarna said finally.
Raher opened his mouth as if to say something more, but caught Kalan’s warning look and closed it again as they dismounted to lead their horses into the camp. There were already gaps along the tent rows where contestants who had not mad
e it through to the final rounds had left. Many had stayed, though, to visit the fair and see the champion acclaimed. Most of these had also begun drinking the moment they knew they no longer had to fight. The camp was raucous with their singing and jeers, and several times the Normarchers had to detour around men on their knees vomiting, or passed out in the lanes between the tents.
The black tents were still there, Kalan saw, although there was no sign of activity amongst them, not even the silent guards he had seen on the first night in camp. Darksworn, he thought, and felt the familiar insect crawl along his spine, although he had never resisted the knowledge that there might be Derai amongst the Swarm in the same way Malian had. Perhaps because Brother Belan had told him the story when he first arrived in the temple of Night, and the crazy old man seemed like his only friend at that time. Or perhaps, Kalan thought, because my experience of the Derai Alliance meant I saw our people with less idealistic eyes than one raised to be Heir of Night.
But if the lightning warriors were Darksworn, then they wouldn’t just be mourning Nherenor, they would be out hunting for blood.
“Tarathan of Ar and Jehane Mor.” Orth stepped out from a line of Sword warriors, all heavily armed, who blocked the lane to Normarch campsite. His voice was a growl. “High time, I say, to find out what you did with our captain.”
Tarathan and Jehane’s expressions remained unchanged, even as Kalan and Jarna moved automatically to shield their left, while Girvase, Ado, and Raher fanned out to the right. Kalan could see other knights stirring around their campfires or lifting bleary heads from ale kegs, but none of them spoke.
“We last saw your captain in Ij,” Jehane Mor said quietly. “He was well then.”
“I say you lie!” Orth snarled. “You’re weirdlings, some kind of priest-kind, and I say you bewitched and betrayed him!”
Now the camp around them grew very still. Even the drinking songs from more distant campsites seemed muted in the hush that followed Orth’s accusation.