Page 23 of Court of Talons
“It wouldn’t,” I say instantly.
He’s silent. I try to push on, but it’s impossible to imagine, though I’ve seen it with my own eyes. “It…can’t. It’s not of the Light.”
“We were attacked,” he reminds me, and my heart hardens anew. Merritt’s sightless stare, the dead gray arrow, so much crimson blood.
“To weaken the Protectorate overall by turning us against each other?” I finally guess. “That’s the only reason. But how can that make sense?”
A roar goes up from the crowd around us, the fighting taking on a new level of frenzy far below. I see warriors fall, their horses twisting and stampeding. Men are getting injured down there, I realize. Maybe dying. Good, strong fighters—and for what? For entertainment?
I scowl at the carnage. “The tournament is supposed to be a training ground, I thought. Not a killing field.”
Nazar doesn’t reply, and I swing my glass again to the nobles and warriors assembled on the stone platform at the center of the stands opposite me. I see a tall man dressed all in cloth of gold, looking like the Light himself. Lord Rihad, I decide. Has to be. He’s slender but conveys an implacable strength, and his left shoulder is bare, the heavy golden cloak thrown back. Not one buttwosentient bands span his broad bicep, and I stare. Who can ruletwoDivhs? I’ve never heard of such a thing.
Fortiss stands beside the Lord Protector, and I study him again, my heart picking up speed. Something about the warrior knight draws my attention more than any other man on the platform—and they’re all men, I realize with sudden awareness, feeling the weight of my mound of hair, my heavy gown. My lips flatten in a hard line. Even if they didn’t do the deed, had Rihad and Fortiss ordered the killing of Merritt?
Even as I think it, I long to reject the idea. It would be the height of foolishness, on the eve of a tournament the First House itself was hosting, to take out a small house who poses no threat. Far more likely that it’s another house, working in the shadows. If it’s a house at all.
And yet, Fortiss was there. In the forest, wearing gold and black. Not hiding his affiliation to the First House at all.
Why was he there?
A horn blast sounds over the melee, not once but several times, and I snap my gaze back to the tournament grounds far below us.
Slowly, the men battling on the field pull apart from each other. Squires swarm forth, capturing horses whose riders have been knocked to the ground, helping men up and off the field. The area clears quickly. The other spectators lean forward in excitement, and I do as well.
Two tiny forms appear on either end of the mile-long field atop warhorses. The crowd erupts in cheers as the men race toward each other. As I strain to see more, however, I realize they’re not holding lances, spears, or blades. They merely gallop in proud splendor, their plumage flying in the wind, cloaks stretching out long and theatrically behind them. Clearly these are warrior knights. Eventually, they slow their horses to a trot, then a walk. They meet in the center of the field and turn on point to face the central platform, each of them raising a hand to the Lord Protector.
The riders dismount. One of the knights is dressed in the rich purple of the Sixth House, a major holding whose livery even I instantly recognize, whose stronghold lies in the far northwestern reaches of the Protectorate. One wears sky blue—the Fourth House, I’m almost certain. To my eye, both warriors are strong and well made, their faces aristocratic.
There’s movement at the base of the three-story-tall wooden towers that stand in front of Lord Rihad’s imposing stone perch. Doors at the base of the structures pop open, and two figures emerge, dressed in gold-and-black livery. Squires of the First House. The squires hustle out toward the knights and take the warhorses’ reins, then the warriors stride toward the towers amidst more cheers from the crowd. There is a near frenzy of anticipation building around me, and even I am up on my toes, desperate to see more.
The men pass through the doors at the base of the wooden platforms, and moments later they exit onto the rooftop platforms, facing each other. I frown. What are they doing? Beside me, Nazar remains unhelpfully silent as always, but I sense his gaze upon me, not on the men on the stands.
My attention, however, remains fixed on the warrior knights. They move to the center of the platforms. Each of them raises his right hand high in the air—then claps it to his left bicep.
An unearthly roar shakes the stands as the air snaps taut around us, and suddenly, cheers turn to startled shouts and everyone scrambles to better see the miracle before us.
I’m jostled as the crowd presses in tightly, but no one is stretching forward more eagerly than me. When I finallycansee, I nearly drop Nazar’s seeing glass.
By the Light, I certainly don’t need it anymore.
On either side of the mile-long expanse before me, gargantuan creatures huff and blow, staring each other down.
Divhs.
Chapter 9
“Oh…Light,” I whisper, snapping my mouth shut only when Nazar elbows me hard.
I don’t need to ask him why he’s chastising me. I know I should be more nonchalant, even as Talia and not Merritt. But these monstrous, impossiblyimmenseDivhs are easily twice the size of Gent…well, the original Gent. Perhaps larger than whatever he’s become too. I suddenly can’t remember. Their shadows cover half the coliseum seats, and when they lift themselves to their full height, bristling and roaring with rage, they blot out the sun.
The creature on the right, the Fourth House Divh, looks like an enormous leather-skinned lion, but with hide the color of pale sky. Its skin is thick and covered with scars.
That Divh screams and flings its head high, then stamps its feet. Its head is a large shield-like platter and its mouth sprouts tusks at either corner. It has a half-dozen eyes spread over its brow, some directly in front, some to the side.
An answering scream comes from the other end of the field, and I jerk my gaze toward the noise, my breath stalling in my throat. The Sixth House Divh isn’t at all like its opponent. Along, sinuous lizard, it’s shaded deep purple in a violent series of arcing, rippling coils, and its wings expand almost to either side of the spectator stands. When it screams, it cranes its head far forward and its mouth opens, revealing a long red tongue—and a burst of fire.
The crowd bursts into another round of cheers, but a sudden knowingness sweeps over me, a call for my attention not to remain in slack-jawed wonder on the Divhs, but on an entirely different pair.