Page 50 of Court of Talons
I keep my face placid, though it takes some doing. When Blackmoor visited us, it had been the very edge of spring into summer. The mountains were in blossom and the breezes light, the days growing long, and the cloudless nights filled with stars.
“It sounds very grim,” Gemma murmurs, and I pat her hand.
“It’s home.”
“The generosity of the Tenth House was great, for all that their holding is small,” the bard continues, the backhanded compliment earning him a round of laughter. With Gemma pressed tightly to my side, I dare not stiffen. Blackmoor, emboldened by the response, presses his advantage.
“It would have to be great, else no one would ever venture so deep into the mountains to find them. They boasted only one warrior, too, the son of Lord Lemille. And he was no warrior such as we have in this grand hall.”
I stiffen. What on the blighted path is this? How dare he speak of Merritt this way?
As if feeling the weight of my stare upon him, Blackmoor turns toward me. I try to press back into the shadows without moving, glad the bard is all the way across the hall. My disguise cannot fail here as it failed with Caleb. Instead, I pray that Blackmoor only registers the façade I’ve worked so carefully to create. I’m wearing Merritt’s clothes, my hair is cut like him, my face similar enough…for me not to be Merritt would be unthinkable, impossible.See what I want you to see,Blackmoor,I silently beg.
The bard’s eyes go wide, his face a comic show of surprise, and my heart shrivels for a half-second more before he speaks.
“Why, Lord Merritt!” he cries, falsely aghast. Clearly, he’s already marked my presence. “You’re here!”
A raucous round of laughter surges forth, and the bard suddenly grins. I nod my head graciously toward him, acknowledging the joke and hoping desperately he doesn’t seek to prolong it.
I call out my response, pitching my voice as close to Merritt’s as I can. “The houses of the eastern border don’t host grand tournaments, Bard Blackmoor—or any tournaments at all, as you’ve seen for yourself. I’ve had no chance to try my skills against my peers. As luck would have it, I’m here to do just that.”
I look around the room, trying to read the faces watching our exchange. Some are eager, some sated, some interested, some bored. None look like the face of a killer. My gaze finally reaches the warriors of the First House, standing at their ease before the high table. I swallow then force myself to remember that Merritt would be brash, bold. Even foolhardy—and hehadlost good men on the road to this tournament.
I plunge on. “In the Tenth House, we are born to honor and raised to battle. May the warrior knights at every house always prove to be so noble.”
Not all the men, but some, give the slightest glance my way, too sharply to be idle curiosity. Beside me, Fortiss has gone as still as stone. My heart hardens in my chest as Blackmoor’s gaze intensifies. He’s another spy for Lord Rihad, has to be. He took our food and money, drank our wine, entertained my father and Merritt with talk of exploits and even this cursed tournament. Yet all the while, he’d been gathering information for Rihad. Information for what, I have no idea. Had he shared our family’s wedding plans with some other house? Do I have him to thank for feeding this conspiracy of murder?
“It will be a tournament that we’ll sing about for generations to come.” The bard turns quickly round, as if this is part ofhis standard performance, his arms wide. But the movement serves to break our eye contact, and I allow myself the smallest satisfaction that he sought to do it first.
“In that, you’re certainly correct.” Lord Rihad’s voice draws everyone’s attention once more. “We have a great fire here already, and we would do well to build the blaze yet higher. The men in the fighting pits have labored long this week to vie for a place among the most elite warriors in the land. We should give them more of an understanding of what they are aspiring to!”
Lord Rihad turns and considers me, and I feel the trap closing in. But I can’t run, I can barely move as Gemma’s fingers clutch me like iron claws, and Fortiss hems me in on the other side. I don’t know where Miriam has gone, but now I understand her calling out to me, stringing me along with her talk of spies, when I should have quit this room for air and peace. I’m part of their trap, without question. And now that trap is about to spring.
“I propose a new exhibition to entertain the crowds thronging in the coliseum, for demonstration only, a chance for our warriors to show what sets apart the truly great from those who merely fight,” Rihad continues. “And you, Merritt of the Tenth House, you will have the honor of being a combatant in that exhibition.”
I stand frozen, knowing I have no recourse. I’m at the mercy of a man bent on entertaining the masses and, perhaps, on making an example of those who dare speak out of turn.
But I’ve barely connected with Gent, and that’s a problem. I’m no more his master than I am Rihad’s. Now, if Rihad has his way, Gent will be lining up at the edge of a battleground, expecting me to guide him during a fight—a fight that’s happening far too early! Gent, who seems more at home with his arms flying in the wind than he is attacking something else, is about to be tested. And so, it appears, am I.
“And who shall we pit against the new blood from the Tenth House, I wonder?” Rihad stares around the room, clearly relishing his role. There’s a shift in the crowd, and I see Caleb again. He’s no longer laughing with his new friend but watching me proudly. Nazar stands beside him, smoking a long pipe. I watch the pattern of smoke curl and eddy around his face, and lose myself in the wisping curls, even as Rihad’s voice shouts on.
“Kheris, I think, of the Third House.”
“Challenge accepted.” An enormous warrior from the center of the Third House gathering pounds the table and stands, grinning at me across the space. “You’ll see how we fight in the Southern Realms, boy. A lesson you won’t soon forget.”
The room erupts into cheers, and suddenly my back is being clapped hard, and I’m congratulated from all sides. Even Fortiss grasps my shoulder above my warrior band. The bolt of awareness that shoots through me at his touch startles me from my reverie.
“It’s an honor to fight in an exhibition,” he says, tightening his hand briefly. His face seems sincere, but everything is turning around on itself. There’s no way I know who to trust, or how much weight to give to their words. “Though I’m well past the age to claim my own Divh, I’ve not yet been granted that boon.”
I nod, trying desperately not to betray that I already know this information. It’s even more difficult to hide my pity. Fortiss is the favored warrior of the Lord Protector, and his nephew in form if not by blood, which makes him as close to first-blooded and firstborn as the First House has, since Lord Rihad has no offspring. Whyhasn’the been granted a Divh?
Fortiss doesn’t seem to notice my silence. His face is set beneath his cheerful grin, and his eyes are a shade harder. Clearly, there’s some dark reason Rihad has not allowed him to claim his own Divh, but that’s not for me to prize out of him. AllI know is, I don’t want the “honor,” he seems to value so highly. But I say nothing. I understand an order when it’s given, and I understand a punishment when it’s meted out, even if it seems a blessing.
The crowd quiets at last, and the next bard strides forth, a young man freshly returned from the northern frontier. There’s naught to the north, however, but snow and steadily worsening weather, and the bard’s only saving grace is that he makes the crowd laugh with the tales of his travels.
Meanwhile, I disengage myself from a curious-eyed Gemma as soon as I’m able and bid my leave of Fortiss. As I weave my way back to Caleb and Nazar, I sense I’m being watched—and not just by random members of the crowd either. With experience born of my time in the shadows, hiding from my father’s sharp gaze, I sense the attention at the side of the great hall, from the small knots of warriors and from the high table itself. Rihad and Miriam are tracking me. I deliberately loosen my stride and square my shoulders, a young warrior eager for the chance to show the world what he’s made of.
In my case, however, I know I’m made of lies.