Page 15 of Court of Talons
A horn sounds, and Fortiss lifts his head, turning as if he can see who’s making the distant call. His profile seems chiseled in stone, and wariness tightens my stomach. A new, unfamiliar, and definitely unwanted doubt fills me. This is a warrior knight I need to stay far away from. This whole place is a danger I can ill afford.
“New houses arrive,” Fortiss announces, glancing back at me, “and so I must greet them. But welcome to Trilion, Lord Merritt of the Tenth.” He studies me intently for a long moment, then nods. “To Trilion, and to the Tournament of Gold.”
Chapter 6
We set up camp, erecting a central tent that is large enough to hold ten men. No one needs to know we don’t fill it with anything but air and, with any luck, we’ll soon have men to spare. Nazar spends some of our coin to pay for a messenger’s swift ride to the Twelfth House, with a letter to Lord Orlof advising him of our detour to the tournament and assuring him of my eventual arrival. Neither of us speak of how I plan to hide a warrior’s band from my futurehusband, of course, but that’s a challenge for another day.
There’s also the niggling issue of my sister lodging in some Trilion inn, but Nazar waves off my concern over this. Women have no place at the tournament. No one will come looking for Talia here, he insists, only Merritt.
By the Light, he better be right.
The next morning, I set off with new resolve to play my role and secure my house. To my surprise, Nazar’s prediction has been borne out: the deep cuts on my arm caused by Merritt’s warrior band have closed, thick dark scabs replacing the redwelts. Eventually, he says, the black scorching will fade, and this time I believe him.
With the sun bright and full, the morning breeze playing through my cropped hair, I find myself willing to believe anything. It’s nearly a half hour’s journey from our camp to the coliseum, but I don’t mind the walk. Besides, I need the practice.
Riding like a man is easy enough—far easier than as a woman, truth be told. But walking? More difficult than I ever imagined, especially in leggings and boots. If I’m to make a presentation to Lord Protector Rihad later today, as Nazar informs me I must, I have work to do.
But all may not be lost, if I can keep my focus. With a skill I didn’t know the priest possessed, Nazar has fashioned for me thickly padded breeches and a tunic made of heavy material that gives me bulk while straightening the curves of my chest and hips. I carry my sword slung low on my waist, which forces me to walk in a wide, sweeping swagger, and my dark green cloak flows around me in rich, Tenth-House green. I feel ridiculous, but if I go slow, I can manage it.
The tournament grounds are teeming with people this morning, shouts and laughter mingling with the stentorian tones of an official crier reciting the history of the tournament—how it honors the ancient battle between the warriors of the Exalted Imperium and the vile armies of the Western Realms. I barely listen. Even as far away as the Tenth House, I’ve heard this story often enough.
The man’s voice grows more strident as I approach. “Our imperial warriors were allied with the Light, and through a battle of unimaginable ferocity, they conquered the Darkness. In return, we were granted the service of the Light’s mythical beasts, the Divh!”
At these last words, my warrior band flares with sudden and unmistakable heat, and I stop short. A few people around meseem to take notice and edge away respectfully. Respectfully! I struggle not to apologize to them, to tell them they need take no extra measures for me. That I’m only a second-born, a daughter, a woman.
Except, I’m not, by the Light. Not in this place. Here, I’m a firstborn son. A warrior knight. Though Nazar has actually taken something away from me—my hair—he’s also apparently added impressive bulk to my size in all directions. It’s a strange and unsettling truth, both thrilling and, in its way…deeply irritating.
The crier continues his tale, refocusing me. “But the war had taken its toll. The forces of the Exalted Imperium withdrew to its capital city to regroup, leaving behind a Protectorate of twelve great houses whose firstborn sons commanded mighty Divhs, as well as noble families throughout the land who were also granted Divhs by divine decree. No one dared challenge the might of our great beasts, so there was no more fighting. But the twelve houses and their noble families dared not rest! To keep our alliance with the Divh strong, we brought the Way of the Light to our great Protectorate. Under the careful watch of the Lord Protector, Divhs were transferred from one generation of sons to the next. Invoking the imperial right granted only to him, the Lord Protector then used his own band to create new bands, summoning Divhs for worthy fighting men—making them banded soldiers. And then, finally, the First House established an extraordinary proving ground for both the warrior knights and their mighty beasts: the Tournament of Gold!”
Cheers go up all around me, the spell of the man’s tale finally breaking. Though he continues on about the glory of the First House, I force myself to start moving again.How much Merritt would have reveled in the pageantry of this place,I think, unexpected sorrow lancing through me.How much he would have loved every moment of this.
My heart a rough stone in my chest, I make my way toward the coliseum—not to make a purchase right away, but at least to scout out the area. As I walk, my gaze remains fixed on the enormous structure. The crowd is already whispering about the day’s tournament trials, and despite myself, I burn with curiosity to see them.
The banded soldiers and their Divhs won’t be summoned for fights such as these, they say. Instead, it will be men and their horses, tilting for a chance to gain a position in a house’s garrison. A house like the Tenth, I resolve. If I can gather the men we need quickly, in the midst of the pretournament confusion, my deception may not be uncovered.
I’m jostled to the side as my mind is swept away by thoughts of battles and beasts, and stumble into a small group of people. Someone in the crowd shoves back.
“Watch your step, boy,” comes the surly snap.
I straighten, willing myself not to react. Here’s yet another person taken in by my disguise! A tremor of hope chases through me. Here in Trilion, I’m not a crime, not an abomination…I’m an ordinary boy, someone meant to be here. No one knows my truth in this city. No one knows my shame.
No one will know anything but what I show them.
As long as I never again cross paths with other true warriors like Fortiss of the First, I will survive this place.
Squaring my shoulders, I aim once more for the tournament stands when a flurry of activity to the right catches my attention. There are shouts and cries of excitement, and small, lumpy sacks held high in grimy hands. Money bags, I realize instantly. A fight must be underway, or some game of sport to keep the interest of the mob at bay until they can wager on the tournament proper. Nazar has warned me to stay away from everyone other than the soldiers whose services I must buy, but I’m a man now. A first-blooded, firstborn warrior, in fact. I can go anywhere as long as Idon’t stay too long, don’t fix my attention on anyone, or let them fix their attention on me.
I shoulder my way through the crowd until it shifts before me, giving me some view to the open space beyond.
Itisa fight—my very first of the tournament!
A tall, strong boy brandishes a long, well-turned sword. His face is set in a snarl of outrage, thick lips pressed back against his teeth. He wears no helmet. A shiny chain mail shirt hangs from his shoulders, and his breeches are sturdy and well made. This is a warrior knight, I realize instantly, cut from the same cloth as Merritt and probably the same age of seventeen years, no more. I don’t think he’s first-blooded, more likely a warrior knight from lesser noble family, but his sword is well made, and heavy enough to make the boy’s arms wobble, for all his apparent strength.
“You dare to speak to me,cripple, about anything?” he demands in a shrill voice, staring hard at someone I can’t see. “You dare?”
I stand up on my tiptoes to see his opponent—and gape.
Facing the warrior knight is an even younger boy of maybe only fourteen years, but not one dressed in chain mail or heavy clothes. He’s wrapped in rags that look stitched together from several different shirts and pants, and in place of a sword, he holds a long stave in his right hand. But though I’ve fought many mock battles with rods, the boy doesn’t fling out his left hand in the same manner I have done.