Page 13 of Court of Talons
Soaring high above the city is the First House, home of Lord Rihad and the Court of Talons. The First Lord of the Protectorate governs not only the city at the base of his mountain stronghold, but the whole of our border nation; he answers only to the Emperor of the Exalted Imperium, who has not stepped foot in the Protectorate for the past hundred years. At the base of Lord Rihad’s mountain, there’s a wide swath of wasteland—open ground unplowed or built upon, I assume by Rihad’s own decree. Then the city proper of Trilion begins: inns, taverns, shops and smithies, crafts holds and kilns, all of it spreading out in a teeming tide toward the second great structure of the city: the tournament coliseum.
Fully three hundred galloping strides long on each side, the coliseum of the Tournament of Gold consists of two great stands carved out of a bedrock of limestone, reshaping what had once been two bulbous fists of rock jutting out of the earth into massive semicircular foundations for seating.
It’s rumored that a great city once stood on these grounds, and a stadium for sport as well. But unlike the cities tucked into the mountains to the east, still somewhat intact despite the long centuries of rot and decay, the open plains were cruel to all relics of the past.
By the time the Exalted Imperium pushed back its enemies and secured the Protectorate as a buffer zone between the empire and the chaos of the Western Realms, there was very little left of the civilization had existed before. And so the first Lord Protector and the Twelve Houses of the Protectorate built upon those ashes and transformed the limestone monuments into stadiums to celebrate their fabled warriors.
According to Nazar, these stands can hold five thousand souls. Even from this distance, the coliseum seems impossiblyhuge. Mighty Divhs do battle there, and I clench my fists as I look at the enormous structure in the distance, my pulse pounding. Gent would have competed there, were Merritt still alive.
“Declare yourself!”
The voice is so loud, so close, I nearly fall off Darkwing. As it is, I flinch back roughly, then whip around to gape.
A tall, thin, severe-looking man stands in front of us on the path in richly embroidered robes. Beside him, a shorter, equally thin man in a tunic and heavy breeches holds a massive open book. They are dressed in the colors of the First House—gold and black.
Gold and black! My mind immediately flies to the warrior in the forest, and then to the gray-feathered arrow in my saddlebag. This must be some seneschal of the First House, sent to record all the visiting houses. I could show him the arrow, explain the attack, demand justice for Merritt?—
Except…that won’t work. BecauseI’mMerritt.
“Declare yourself!” the man barks again, his eyes narrowing on me, not Nazar.
“Merritt,” I blurt, my rough, low voice made harsher with panic. “Lord Merritt of the Tenth House, son of Lord Lemille, first-blooded and—firstborn.”
The man bends over the book to scratch my name onto a page, his assistant holding the tome securely. “Come to enter the Tournament of Gold,” the seneschal says, speaking in a haughty, privileged tone. It’s not a question.
I trade a quick glance with Nazar. The priest’s headshake is only barely perceptible. “No,” I say. “We seek only to hire soldiers this year. No more.”
The seneschal peers up at me, his beetling brows lifting high on his gaunt face, but the next words I hear aren’t from him or his assistant. Instead, a called-out greeting rolls across us withthe rich indolence of spilled wine, seeping into all the empty spaces of my life I hadn’t realized were there.
“Merritt of the Tenth House. Well met.”
I turn in my saddle, pulling Darkwing around—then jolt upright.
It’s the warrior from the forest.
I want to scream, to flee, or to faint straight out of my saddle. I do none of these things, instead remaining stoic and still as the warrior stares at me with an insufferably cocky smile. Everything about him is the same: the confident carriage, the broad shoulders, the rich vestments of gold and black. His burnished skin practically glows in the harsh sunlight, his curling black hair lifts gently in the breeze, and his golden eyes seem to see right through me. All the saliva dries in my mouth.
There’s no question, now that I see him in the light. This is a true warrior knight, first-blooded and firstborn, I know it in my bones.
The man is flanked by two attendants—clearly soldiers, with blocky faces and flat eyes—the three of them on snow-white horses that fairly glow in the bright sun. They all wear gold tunics trimmed in black.
Were these attendants also with him in the forest? My mind practically burns with the question. Was one of them the archer who murdered my brother?
“Who…” I begin lamely, but the warrior mercifully cuts me off.
“Fortiss of the First, nephew of the Lord Protector,” he announces, confirming Nazar’s suspicion in one breath. “And of all the warriors in the Tournament, I’m probably the only one glad to see you here.”
Fortiss, I echo in my mind, twin streams of fire and ice stiffening my spine. The unbanded champion of Lord Rihad—his brother’s child? Sister’s? Nazar hadn’t told me this. There’stoo much Nazar still doesn’t know about the politics of the First House. I can feel the priest’s keen attention on the man in front of me, for all that he makes no sound.
Fortiss holds his hand out to me, and once again I freeze. I’ve never shaken a man’s hand as an equal. Then Darkwing stamps, clearly picking up on my nerves. I thrust my hand forward, awkwardly clasping Fortiss’s. He clamps it hard, and his grin widens as I jerk my arm back once more.
“Rumor has it your caravan was waylaid by marauders,” he says, false concern shading his words. “Judging from the state of your horses and packs, I believe it. Has your party split up to find lodging?”
I grit my teeth, hearing the lie in his voice.Rumor has it, my ass.He was there in that forest, as sure as he’s standing in front of me right now. Why would he lie about it? “We were waylaid, as you say.” My rough voice slices the air, cold and blunt in the sunshine. “We mourn the loss of many good men, and a woman too.”
“Woman?” Fortiss’s face registers genuine shock, and he glances to Nazar, then to the horses, then finally back to me. “Not your sister, surely? Lord Rihad had wondered if she was traveling with you.”
“No.” There’s really nothing else I can say about that, and no ready lie springs up to explain where in the Light I’ve hidden a full-grown woman and all her wedding hair. Instead, I glare at Fortiss until he shifts his glance again to Nazar.