“He’s on guard,” Raine said. “There was an incident the night I arrived in Finlara, and Gertie and Raven have hardly let me out of their sight since.”
“You were attacked? But this is dreadful. Was Glonoff behind it?”
“So we assume, but we can’t be sure. The men who came at us were Finlars. Bree hasn’t mentioned it?”
“No.” Balzora’s lips thinned. “He has not.”
The curtains parted and Brefreton entered the king’s box.
“Speak of the devil,” Raine said. “Here he is now.”
Brefreton paused at the entrance and looked around. He was wearing his green doublet with the gold lacing for the occasion, chocolate-brown breeches, and his worn boots. His red hair was tied at the nape of his neck with a bit of ribbon, and his wizard stone glowed with a faint light.
“Oh, bother,” Balzora said. “He’s coming over. I don’t wish to speak to him.”
“Why not?”
“He unsettles me, the irksome man.” The wizard strolled up, and Balzora smoothed the frown from her brow. “Brefreton,” she said, giving him a dazzling smile. “How delightful.”
Brefreton bowed. “Your Majesty. You are in fine looks this morning.”
“As are you. Indeed, I almost didn’t recognize you. You’re usually dressed as a rag peddler.”
Brefreton smiled. “Still in a temper, Zozo? How long do you plan to stay angry with me?”
Balzora stared past him. “What does it matter? As you once pointed out, Aged One, my mortal years are brief, whereas you will abide centuries after I am gone.”
“Now, see here, Zozo,” Brefreton said with a frown.
His words were drowned out by a deafening roar from the crowd.
“Something’s happening.” Butterflies of excitement swirled in Raine’s stomach. “I think the opening ceremony has begun.”
The immense gates at the south end of the arena swung open and the rowan and Hedda entered the stadium on horseback, flanked on either side by the Royal Guard. Behind them marched row upon row of humans and monsters. The human contestants wore bleached linen: the males in rough kilts, the females in short tunics.
“Look,” Raine cried, pointing to a man in the crowd. “There’s Carr.” She glanced at the empty chair beside her. “Where’s Tyra? I can’t believe she’s missing this. She’s talked of nothing but the games for weeks.”
“Indisposed, perhaps?” Balzora murmured.
Raine nodded absently and returned her attention to the parade. The air snapped with excitement and anticipation. Centaurs, satyrs, fauns, and unicorns stamped proudly beside their human rivals, and gangs of trolls prowled the field, their eerie blood-curdling yips sending a collective shiver through the stands. A magnificent griffin stalked down the green. Pausing in the center of the field, he spread his wings and lashed his serpentine tail, eliciting oohs and ahs from the crowd. In the midst of the procession, four ogres clumped along, leading a rock bear by a heavy chain. The enormous beast roared and strained against the fetter, much to the delight of the onlookers. Flocks of winged horses flew overhead, and a troop of scantily clad nymphs sashayed past, their silken limbs scarcely concealed by gauzy tunics of pale silk. Eyes downcast, they danced along, their feet skimming the ground, and sent swirls of blossoms into the air. A tromp of giants lumbered behind them in rows of three.
“There’s Tiny,” Raine cried, bouncing in excitement. “He’s with the giants.”
The flaxen-haired giant peered up at the rowan’s box and waved. “Ho, Rainey,” he boomed. “Don’t this be sumpin?”
A blur of red and green flashed past the rowan’s box.
“What was that?” Raine asked.
“Kylira,” Balzora said. “The rowan’s special messengers, bound to deliver summons to the ledderad, no doubt.”
“Yes,” Brefreton said. “Raven’s been at the griffinry since sunup, working with the handler.”
The griffinry; Raine digested this. Dispatching the kylira was the business that had kept Raven from the games.
The kylira divebombed the winged horses, eliciting shrill neighs of alarm from the pegai, and circled Tiny’s head.
“Away wiv you, pesky gnats,” the giant boomed in his cheerful voice.
The kylira darted away and were gone. The sight of them sobered Raine. The world of Tandara teetered on the edge of war, and the people in the stands were unaware. Her thoughts spiraled into the events of the previous evening. She’d slept little the night before, lying awake until dawn, her brain humming with the revelations she’d witnessed.
The gods had cursed Gertie, and, somehow, Glory was to blame.
Glonoff, too, was involved in the curse. The Dark Wizard had placed a price on Gertie’s head, not because he hated her, but because he desired her for himself.
Glory . . . The prudish, sedate seer had a ruthless streak a mile wide. She’d stolen Seratha’s dream and cast her aside.
Finn the Feckless lived, and Gertie was his love. Gertie was his love, and he was clueless.
The crowd in the stands surged to their feet with a mighty shout, drawing Raine from her reverie. Bringing up the rear of the parade was a lone, hulking troll. She stalked down the green, her tusks jutting at a belligerent angle and her red fur gleaming in the sunlight.
Mother, Mother, Mother, the spectators chanted, stamping their feet. The drum of feet on the bleachers shook the stands and made the silken hangings in the rowan’s box tremble. The rowan, hearing the clamor, spurred his horse and left the queen. He galloped to the rear of the procession, dismounted, and thrust his fist into the air. The Mark of Finn on his arm blazed, and the crowd hushed.
Striding up to Gertie, he raised one of her hairy arms. “Behold, Glogathgorag, the Blessed Mother of Finlara,” he said in a voice that carried. “May her paws never weary and her claws be ever sharp.”
The crowd erupted, taking up the chant, louder than before. Mother, Mother, Mother.
“Hedda’s incensed,” Brefreton said. “See? She’s leaving the procession.”
Urging her dainty white mare away from the cortege, the queen galloped off the field. A few minutes later, Hedda stalked through the curtains. She was stunning in a sleeveless black and silver gown embroidered with the royal crest, a tight leather bodice, a black leather bolero on one white shoulder, and a white fur cape, but her face was a mask of fury. Taking a seat on one of the thrones at the center of the box, she stared straight ahead, her fingers digging into the velvet covering on the carved armrests.
The rowan remounted, and the cavalcade made a circle around the field and marched out the north gate. Shortly thereafter, the rowan joined them in the gallery. Going to the balcony, he raised a horn to his lips and blew a long, single note.
Lowering the horn, he shouted, “Let the games begin,” and took his place on the throne beside Hedda.
“Have you no feeling?” Hedda demanded in a low, furious voice. “I’ve spent the past four moons planning the festivities for Trolach, and you do your utmost to ruin things for me. First, you bolt from the banquet last night, and now you’ve made that disgusting creature the center of attention.”
“You’re making a scene, m’ dear,” the rowan said through his teeth. “The people love Gertie and would see her honored.”
“I’ve allowed her to remain in the fast and I’ve tolerated her at my table, but enough is enough,” Hedda said. “I’ve worked hard to make these games a success, and I won’t have her sitting in the gallery with my guests. She revolts me.”
Raine had heard enough. She shot to her feet. “Excuse me, Your Majesty,” she said to Balzora. “I should see what’s keeping Tyra.”
“Not to worry.” Brefreton slid into Tyra’s empty seat. “I’ll keep the queen company in your absence.”
Balzora stiffened. “I assure you, there’s no need.”
“To the contrary, there’s every need. Since you pointed out my advanced years, I feel myself…weakening.”
Raine left them and hurried over to Mauric. “I don’t want to be here. Take me to Gertie.”
“The games are about to start, lass. Besides, Raven charged me to keep an eye on you today, and that won’t be easy in the crowd.”
“Raven isn’t here, and unless you tie me to a chair, I’m not staying.” Raine lowered her voice. “I won’t sit here and listen to that horrible woman malign Gertie.”
“Strewth, Gertie doesn’t care what Hedda thinks of her,” Mauric said. “Trolls have a thick skin.”
“Maybe they do, but I don’t. I’ve had enough, Mauric. Either you take me, or I’m going by myself.”
“Tro, you’ve a temper, Rainey.” He chucked her under the chin. “Your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are ablaze. Quite fetching.”
“Mauric.”
He sighed. “All right, all right, keep your skirt on.”
They left the gallery and went down a flight of interior steps. The noise from the stadium around them was incredible, and the wooden stands shook with the fervor of the spectators.
“If I know Gertie—and I do,” Mauric shouted over the racket, “she won’t be far from the ale wives.”
“The ale wives?” Raine shouted back.
“The brewers. The beermakers in Finlara are women—the recipes are passed down from one generation to the next, and closely guarded. The ale wives have booths near each of the gates. We’ll look for Gertie there.”
They found Gertie in the stands near the north gate, surrounded by red-cheeked women in square-necked gowns and outlandish hats, and men with work worn hands in simple tunics. There were children among the throng, too, scores of them. They climbed in and out of the troll’s lap, stroking her whiskers and patting her fur, while their beaming mothers looked fondly on.
It’s considered good luck to pet a troll, Mauric had once told Raine, and these women were delighted to have Gertie among them.
“Sit down, sit down.” Gertie shoved a man aside with her hip and pulled Raine down beside her. “Have a beer and a sausage.” She raised a claw at a woman in a mushroom-shaped hat with a tray of food and drink. “Enid, a cup of your amber ale and some sausages.” She lifted a bushy brow at Mauric. “Boy?”
“I’ll take a sausage, but no beer for me,” he said, plopping down on Gertie’s left. “I’m on watch.”
Gertie’s expression sobered. “That’s right. Why have you brought the girl here? She’d be safer in the Rowan’s box.”
“No, she wouldn’t,” Raine said. “The ‘girl’ was about to lose her temper and curse Hedda and her imps with spots.”
“Hedda was in a mood, Mor,” Mauric explained when Gertie raised her brows. “You know what she is.”
“Aye.” Gertie slung a hairy arm around each of them. “She’s a harridan, that Hedda. Ooh, here’s our food, and the games are starting.”
Mauric gave the vendor a coin and handed Gertie and Raine their cups. The sausage was hot off the grill and served on brown bread with mustard. Raine ate two sausages and drank her beer and settled in to enjoy the games. There were foot races, and archery contests, and knife tosses. Alden and Seratha competed in the knife toss and Seratha took first place.
“Alden is good, but Seratha is better,” Gertie said. “She keeps the knife horizontal to the target throughout the throw. A keen eye, that gal.”
“I’m daft about the lass, but she’ll have naught to do with me,” Mauric said with a sigh. “Almost, I begin to doubt myself.”
“Unrequited love stinks,” Gertie said, looking down at her beer, “but the heart wants what the heart wants.”
The troll’s face was sad, and Raine’s heart ached for her. She tugged one of Gertie’s long ears close, and whispered, “I know.”
Gertie gave her a blank look. “Know what, pet?”
“I…I…”
To Raine’s frustration, her tongue grew thick and her lips refused to move.
Gertie slapped her on the back. “Bit of sausage caught in your craw? A drink will wash it down.” She waved at the vendor. “Enid, pour the gal another beer.” She handed Raine a foaming cup and returned her attention to the field. “Here we go, the troll toss. This is always great fun.”
“Troll toss?” Raine said, regaining her breath.
“Young trolls are buttered and assigned to each contestant,” Gertie explained. “Few things are more slippery than a buttered troll.” She jerked her tusks toward the field. “A used sail is waxed and greased, and rolled onto the field, and the warriors are barefoot. The idea is to pitch your troll and hit the target. See those circles painted on the grass? The center circle is what they’re aiming for. Each toss is graded by a panel of judges on style, technique, and accuracy. The warrior with the cleanest toss and truest aim wins.”
“Don’t the trolls get hurt?”
“Nah, young trolls bounce and find their feet, no matter which way they are turned,” Gertie said. “The cubs think it great fun.”
The troll toss was a favorite with the spectators, eliciting howls of glee as the burly warriors slipped and slid on the greased tarp while struggling to hold on to their greasy missiles. Raine laughed so hard that her sides hurt. After three rounds, a winner was declared by the judges, a warrior named Sigg. Dripping with grease from head to toe, he grinned and lifted his troll over his head to cheers from the stands.
“The rowan puts on a good show, don’t he?” A husky middle-aged man a few rows in front of them remarked. “Me and the wife come to the Citadel ever’ year to sell our wool and buy supplies, but this is our first time at the games.”
The man sitting next to him turned. “Mountain folk, eh?” he said, his gaze moving from the sheep farmer’s wide-brimmed hat and sheepskin vest to the rough clogs on the man’s feet.
“Aye. You live in the city?”
The man grunted in response and turned away.
Taking this for encouragement, the sheep farmer jerked his thumb at a plump woman in a scarlet hat waiting in line at a sausage vendor. “Magga be a stickler fer the old ways,” he said. “Me mam, now, she kept fire sprites in the house. Drakes, she called ʼem. ʼCourse, they weren’t real dragons. Still, drakes come in handy when there’s no dry wood to be found, though they stink of sulfur something awful. Magga won’t have ʼem in the house. Won’t let the young’uns keep the odd bit o’ troll hair in their pockets—for luck, you know.” He shook his head. “Magic offends Magga. Me, now I’m more of a progressive. I say a bit o’ conjury never did nobody harm, ʼspecially when the wood’s wet.”
A dozen men hurried onto the field, rolled up the slick tarp, and carried it away. Wagons clattered onto the grass and teams of workers set up logs, piles of stone, barricades of sharpened stakes, and bales of hay. Posts were erected at either end of the field, with ribbons of silk tied between them.
“What are they doing?” the sheep farmer asked.
“Readying the field for the Hammer and Munch,” the city dweller said. “It’s an obstacle course, see, and the object of the game is to capture the pikonna—that is, the horn—and carry it through those ribbons to win. Pikonna means ‘little’ in Trolk. The horn is fashioned to resemble Finn’s horn, though much smaller, of course.”
“Is it true the horn is made from troll ivory?”
“Nah, troll tusks are too costly. Trolls don’t shed their tusks often, and they’re stingy with ʼem. You want to make a troll angry, steal his tusks,” the city dweller said. “The pikonna is carved from deer antler.”
The workers marked a wide lane down the center of the green and set crates on the grass the length of the field.
“What’s in them boxes?” asked the sheep farmer.
“Lava imps. Mind when they open the crates.”
A man pried the l
id off the first box and jumped back. A dark, winged creature the size of a small dog shot out of the box, whizzed into the air and back down again, plunging into the earth. The grass where the imp had buried itself burst into flame and became a square of molten lava.
“A lava imp guards its bed, and don’t take kindly to trespassers,” the city dweller said as the rest of the boxes were opened. “Keeps the players from running down the middle of the field, see?”
“Kron,” said the sheep farmer. “Bet them little rascals could start a fire with wet wood.”
“Burn your house down, more like. Lava imps can melt stone.”
“What about drakes? You keep drakes in the city?”
“Nah, Rogoth Bloodmantle, the second rowan, outlawed them within the city gates. Fire hazard.”
“Tell you what’s a fire hazard,” the sheep farmer said in an ominous tone. “Wizards. The tapkeep at the Lucky Drab tells me there’s a wizard staying at the fast. My lady wife wanted to pack up and go home the moment she heard.”
“You’ll lift your mug someplace else, unless you’ve a liking for sour ale and a knock on the head,” the city dweller said. “Leechy Bottom’s no place for outliers. What’s more, your tapkeep’s mistook. The Rowan’s got three adepts at the fast, including the Blessed Mother, and a seer from Shadow Mount.”
The farmer made the sign against the evil eye. “Three wizards and a heathen princess?”
“Hara’s twin. Looks just like the coins, they tell me. Got herself in a right fankle, or so they say. Running from Glonoff himself and wheedled the Rowan into giving her sanctuary.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“Aye,” the city dweller said. “Them wizards brung her. Must’ve ensorcelled the rowan with their dark powers. Why else give a Shad sanctuary?” He shook his head. “Gorne’s all right, but he ain’t half the rowan Linn was.” He pointed to the field below. “Mind the green. The entertainment is starting. There’s always some sort of amusement provided between events.”
A delectation of nymphs formed a line on the edge of the green and launched into a hypnotic dance.
A Muddle of Magic Page 32