Page 57 of Court of Talons
“But I—” I shake my head. I have no idea how they’d appeared. “That’s not…usual?”
He coughs a short laugh. “No. That’s not usual. And you’ll want a believable excuse if you’re asked. Say they were sewn into your tunic, and the force of the serpent’s attack loosed the seams.”
“Oh!” I turn to him as we make our way down the stairs. “That’s good. Thank you for—for this. For your kindness. I’ll repay you for it, I swear.”
That’s clearly the wrong thing to say, as the guard stares back at me, the color in his face too high. “You must be living under a rock, you and your house. You have nothing to repay. I’ll be asked as well, and the better my story and yours, the more likelywe’ll both escape Lord Rihad’s wrath. Right now, he finds you a curiosity, not a threat. Best to keep it that way.”
I grimace as we reach the bottom floor. “I think I’ve amply proved I’m no threat.”
“And I think you’re wrong.” He peers at the door and sighs, listening to the sound of trumpets above. “We wait,” he says simply and then, a minute later, he cocks his head, listening to the ebb and flow of noise outside.
“Kheris is off the platform,” he says, nodding sharply. He raises his voice. “Open the door!”
The door swings away, and I hear the cheer of the crowd, clenching my jaw tight as the guard roughly shoves me out and into the arms of one of his fellows. The two of them push me up on my warhorse so quickly, I wrench my shoulder again, but as my vision swims, I manage to hear the guard’s orders to his mate. “Get ‘im out of here fast. Full gallop, down to a walk after he enters the central passage. Don’t let anyone look too close.”
Panic fills me as I look down at my tunic, my breeches—has my costume failed me? Have I done something wrong? But nothing looks out of place, save for a few stray blossoms on my tunic. I frown but hold on to the pommel of the ornate saddle, grateful for something to focus on as my warhorse surges forward. The animal doesn’t need me to tell him to run fast and hard; it’s how he’s made. Still, as we make our way to the central passage, cut into the middle of the spectator stands, the applause finally breaks through my pain. I lift my head, and a roar of cheers go up in the stands closest to me, none louder than one young boy near the central passage.
“Merritt! Merritt!” he shouts, then he disappears down the corridor, shoving his way through the crowd.
My stomach twists. It’s the boy from the fighting pits, who even now is wearing my tunic, I suspect. I’ve failed him, after all he’s already endured.
Are the other men I purchased watching as well, I wonder? Are they reconsidering their decision to ally with the Tenth?
I grimace as another surge of pain rips through my shoulder, then the warhorse slows to a trot, turning into the cutaway passage through the coliseum walls. We’ll pass beneath the seats and onto the open ground beyond, and then this will be done.
But I am not finished yet. The boy from the fighting pits suddenly appears above me, leaning above the railing. “Merritt!” he shouts again as he drops something over the edge.
Instinctively, I flinch, angling the horse away from the thrown rock or garbage or even my balled-up tunic. But as I blink, my eyes focus on the flashes of midnight blue and white that are falling softly down over my head and shoulders, drifting over my horse’s thick mane.
Flower petals.
The roar of the crowd pounds through my ears as we flee the coliseum.
Chapter 23
The long ride back to the First House starts out in a throng of people, all of them shouting at once, cheering on the warriors of the tournament. My pulse pounding in my ears, I stare straight ahead, desperately hoping that no stray flower petals remain on my livery or on Darkwing’s tack. My gaze flicks down as the road curves, raking across the horse’s mane. It’s clear, thank the Light.
As we move slowly through the crowd, I try to keep from openly flinching every time Darkwing jerks the reins. My shoulder throbs, and I’m convinced the wound will bleed through my clothes at any moment, though a quick glance down confirms my tunic is still pristine. I haven’t had a chance to speak with Nazar—I can’t even see him yet, in fact. I assume the retainers will join our procession out on the open plains once we break free of Trilion.
Darkwing tosses his head, and I gasp with sudden pain, blinking quickly at the unwanted tears that spark behind my eyes. I have tofocus. I am Merritt, warrior knight…
I set my jaw against a fresh wave of pain, this one having nothing to do with my shoulder.Merritt…
We pass a wide space that separates the main road from one of the dozens of spectators’ encampments, a warren of carts and tents and makeshift wooden walls. Even at this distance, I can see it’s teeming with people. It seems to have grown a third larger since the scant day I last rode past it, its proximity to the tournament coliseum apparently making it a prized location.
But even as I gaze across the open space, I can tell something’s wrong. A commotion is unfurling deep in the heart of the encampment, walls swaying, the peaked tops of the tents shuddering back and forth, as if a stampede of horses is passing through the crowded maze. For the barest moment the disturbance is silent, then screams of outrage and fear swell up as if on the wind, strange shouts of “Hai! Hai!” ringing out. A whoosh of fire erupts on the heels of those shouts, a tent clearly having caught ablaze in a sudden and shocking inferno.
“Marauders!” someone yells close to me. Our procession abruptly falters, men and horses falling out of line—some to the left toward our own crowd and safety…some surging to the right, toward the conflagration.
“For the glory of the First House!” A rush of guards sweeps by me, but it’s not only guards that are charging across the open field. Kheris has wheeled his mighty warhorse and so have half a dozen other warriors—warriors! Charging their ornately decorated steeds into the deathtrap of narrow passages and too many people. I stare in amazement for another breath. What are theydoing? All this to rout out a handful of thieves?
But where they go, I have to follow, I know instantly, as the crowd around me bursts into excited cheers. I’m a warrior knight, a descendent of the ancient protectors of the Exalted Imperium. If I don’t race pell-mell into the same chaos the other warrior knights have entered, it will be noticed. Remarked upon.
I can’t afford that.
And more than that…what if Nazar and I have been wrong all along? Even now I am almost certain it was a warrior knight, but what if itwasmarauders who killed Merritt, with their despicable gray arrow? Though surely it can’t be an archer from this same group, the idea of hunting down any outlaws who would dare attack so boldly, and in broad daylight, fills me with renewed determination. The pain in my shoulder is staunched by fury and even hope, that someone—anyonewill be made to pay for everything my brother suffered, everything he didn’t live to see.
The throng is now overrunning our procession to press close enough to the encampment to see the hated marauders get cut down. Swallowing my own panic, I turn Darkwing into a run across the open field behind the others, leaning close over the stallion’s mane. Silently I pray that no child or stray dog is foolish enough to cross my path—I won’t be able to stop. Light, with the smoke from the fire now spreading over the encampment, I can barely see as I plunge down the same wide track the other horses have taken.