Page 53 of Court of Talons
“Not at all,” he smirks. “If Talia held the secrets shared between us close to her breast, I can only do the same. But there’s something here you’re not telling me, something you both aren’t. With her having run away, I find myself wondering what secretsyou’rehiding, Lord Merritt, and when we’ll all learn the truth.”
With that, he offers me a short bow then strides away, leaving me to look out over the dark, murky marshland. The desolate landscape stretches out in silent testimony to the truth of how poorly I’ve played my hand this night.
Fortiss knows something is wrong. He may know a little—or a lot—but he knows the Tenth House warrior is hiding something dire.
And when he finds out?
I’m as good as dead.
Chapter 21
My night doesn’t improve.
It’s another hour before I make it back to the barracks, and another still before the castle quiets down enough for me to follow Nazar’s instruction to reach out for Gent.
The moment I call for him, Gent mentally draws me into the training yard of his own plane. But though he mimics my movements and eventually follows the lead of my thoughts, I have nothing really to prepare him for. I’ve never fought a Divh. I’ve herded animals and occasionally fended off a guard too drunk for sense, but that’s not the same, no matter how Nazar insists I should pay attention to such trifles as these.
At my side, murmuring into my ear, judging my experience as I share it in fits and starts, the priest seems unusually content—too content, given the fool I’m about to make of myself. It’s too soon for me to fight—far too soon. I’d thought I would havedaysyet to practice.
Eventually, I sleep, only to be plagued by nightmares of the tournament field. I wake into an early dawn weighed down by exhaustion—which perversely seems to please Nazar as well. He dresses me in yet another heavy tunic and cloak, thick breechesand boots. Hanging from my belt are more green sashes, along with my sword and a pouch for a ceremonial warrior’s knife.
“I’ll swelter in all of this,” I grumble, trying to stifle a yawn.
“But with any luck, you won’t bleed through it,” comes the unhelpful response.
I peer at the priest to see if he’s joking, but can’t read the expression on his face. Instead, he continues talking. “All warriors bleed. In time, all fall. Timing, in truth, is how you will win this battle.”
“Nazar,” I groan. “Iwon’twin this battle.” I thought of Gemma’s words the night before, the first time I’ve thought of her again in my panic to prepare. Now, with no more preparation possible, I frown. “That favor you gave me to present to Gemma. What was it? She recognized it, I think.”
“She recognized the bird, nothing more. A mourning dove. A fitting gift for a young woman so beautiful.”
“But how did you—” I groan as Nazar’s eyes brighten, and I hold up a hand. “Stop, no. I can’t bear it. The way of the warrior is timing, I know. You’re going to tell me you somehow anticipated this. Anticipated it and came to my aid before I even realized I needed help.” I shake my head. “Thank you, Nazar.”
Nazar stands back from me, but amusement is still evident in his face. “It’s not unreasonable to believe that you would be plied for gifts in advance of the tournament.”
“This isn’t the tournament, though. Not yet.”
“Isn’t it?” Nazar asks mildly.
The guards arrive, and there’s no talking for a long while. Darkwing is restless and eager, and I think again of Merritt, so proud to sit atop this warhorse and charge into the Tournament of Gold.
I will do all I can to not fail either my brother or his beautiful horse.
“Merritt.” Nazar’s prompt floats to me, and I straighten, knowing the rebuke for what it is. There are too many people around us. I can’t show weakness, even to myself. My mind thrums with Nazar’s words as he’d stood beside me through the long night. The warrior Kheris of the Third House has fought at previous tournaments, Nazar has learned. And so his Divh is well known—known and feared among the other combatants, known and adored among the battle-lusting crowd. It’s a long, sinuous serpent, as thick as Gent is wide, and more than five times as long. Though a snake would normally not seem interesting to watch, this one can leap in such a way to seem like flying, and it prefers to squeeze its opponents to death, or to lock its jaws tight around a shoulder or leg or arm.
None of that sounds terribly appealing.
I’m still contemplating how best to protect Gent when we clear the lower gates of the First House, and Nazar rides up to keep pace with me. Caleb falls in behind. The guards along the route stretch the distance between us, giving us privacy to speak and strategize. The same respect is allowed Kheris, who follows me at a distance of a half mile. Runners have been sent ahead to assemble the populace. It is to be a grand, unexpected spectacle, we’ve been told.
“You are holding yourself in a grip of iron,” Nazar says now. “Be as a river, flowing from one movement into the other. To be tight is to let your enemy see that you aren’t prepared.”
I glare at him. “I’mnotprepared.”
“You must believe that you are. Think of Kheris, laughing boldly at the feasting hall. He does not know you or your Divh. However, he has been a warrior long enough to know that the gifts of the Divh can be awe-inspiring. He may worry on this, but he won’t show his worry. He will know he is prepared and be certain that you know this as well. And that gives him the advantage. He is as the river.”
“The river,” I grumble, but Nazar’s words spark through me. I ease the tension in my brow and straighten my back, and he nods in approval.
“Good. You must hold yourself with your head erect, your gaze neither low nor high nor off to the side. Your brow shall be calm, your stare unblinking. Your shoulders shouldn’t hike above your ears but remain low and at the ready. Your belt shall remain tight, not slack, your sword wedged in.”