Page 74 of Court of Talons
It isn’t a question.
A sudden chill clamps my stomach. “I hope not.”
Chapter 30
The week passes in a blur of pageants and rumors, and two more hurried, breathless training sessions under heavy cover of night. I make no attempt to re-dress myself as a servant girl and do my level best to be seen by Fortiss on a daily basis as Merritt…but only at a distance. With more warrior knights coming every day, I manage to avoid both Rihad and Fortiss easily—and eventually stop replaying my memories over and over again: the shock of the creature in the fire, my gut-wrenching leap into darkness, and my foolish lapse with Fortiss.
I even try to convince myself the last bit never happened…yet I can’t. When all this is done, and I am dying on some field, I will have the taste of Fortiss’s kiss on my lips to savor, the feel of his long hard body pressed up against mine. I wouldn’t give that up for anything.
The marauders on the outskirts of Trilion seem to have stopped their looting for the moment, and the townspeople hail the might of Rihad for this reprieve. No one speaks further of the servant girl who jumped to her death, and no one has come looking for the robe I stole. I know I should burn it, but I can’t bring myself to do so, wondering if—as Nazar seems to think—I might use it again. Wondering if there’s something I can learn asa female that is barred to me as a warrior knight. With Nazar’s help, I refashion the robe with heavier, reinforced sleeves—so thick from shoulder to elbow that no one could guess the real size of the arm that lies beneath the fabric. The arm…or what might be circling it.
Unfortunately, I must attend tonight’s final feast as Merritt before the tournament officially begins tomorrow, a two-day event of, well, massive proportions. Nazar sends Caleb to fetch me while the sun is still high in the sky. He presents me with a new tunic he’s had sewn in Trilion, made of cloth the deepest forest green shot and with silver in a fine spray over my left shoulder.
“This seems…elaborate,” I muse as Caleb stitches it on.
“It’s expected,” Caleb says. Nazar doesn’t comment. “There will be the official calling of the rolls, plus some special announcements that Rihad has been hinting at all week. If you miss it, you’ll be noticed. And you don’t want to be noticed for anything but how magnificent you look.”
“But why the silver? That’s not the Tenth House color.”
Caleb looks at me oddly. “Because it suits you,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “Believe me, you’ll want to put on a strong showing this night.”
When we reach the great hall, I understand what he means. The First House isn’t entertaining the masses—that’s left for the tournament to follow. This fete is for the warriors and their entourages, allowing all to see who they might face in the days to come. Caleb, Nazar, and I take our seats at the table assigned to us—not the best by far, but there are no bad positions in the hall this night. The only table slightly raised on a small dais is the high table, with the warriors of the First House seated to either side of Lord Protector Rihad.
Food and drink overflow each of the tables, and I grab bread and begin tearing it into small pieces, if only to give myself something to do, until Nazar frowns at me.
“Relax.” Caleb leans close and pats my arm. “I’ve made the rounds once already and will do so again. No one’s talking about anything but the tournament to come, not about the jumper, and definitely not about you, other than rumors and supposition about your Divh. There’s a few mutterings about warriors attacked on the way to the tournament, but those are squelched almost as soon as they start. There will be nothing to mar the glory of Rihad’s hour, I suspect.”
“Good.” I can’t look at Rihad for longer than a moment. Our gazes meet when he toasts each of the tables, but I slide mine away as quickly as propriety allows. He doesn’t look my way again.
The same can’t be said for Fortiss. He stares avidly at each of the tables, mine as well, as if memorizing not only the details of the warriors but our attendants. Unreasoning fear clutches at my throat. He’s looking for me, but I’m hiding in plain sight.
“You’re sure no one’s talking about the missing servant?” I ask Caleb quietly.
“Not a word. That night was dark as pitch, most everyone drunk following the fireworks display. Besides, no one wants to think of scavengers eating dead bodies when we should be celebrating.”
“Well, that’s…reassuring.”
He grins. “I figured.”
Dinner is well underway but nowhere near finished when Rihad stands. The hall hushes with impressive speed.
“Friends and warriors, the First House salutes you!” the Lord Protector calls out, raising his glass. “You represent the best of our men. Men who will stand and fight when the need is great, and men who will gladly give their lives to serve the Protectorate.This Tournament of Gold we host will bring you honor no matter how you fare and could enrich you and your house beyond your greatest expectations.”
A cheer follows that, along with much scraping of boots and cups and benches. The men are restless to get back to their wine. The fiercest battles of the tournament begin tomorrow, so drink and women are heavy on their minds, not speeches from Rihad about the Protectorate.
But Rihad’s next words focus us all. “However, we have a more pressing reason to apply ourselves to winning this tournament with skills and strategy,” he says, and his voice has taken on a note of somber dread. I sit up straighter, wondering if Nazar is paying closer attention too.
“There is betrayal afoot in our own lands, coming from we know not where. Who among us has not heard the rumors of ambush on the roads and byways of the Protectorate? Who among us has not wondered if the rumors were true? Or known, to their greater sadness, the truth of those rumors through the loss of a warrior and the great Divhs we are bound to? And then there is this talk of marauders, marauders possessed of the very ancient demons from the west we’re sworn to guard against—marauders our own strong men have protected us from. Well, I’m here to remind you that we shallnotlet fear grab us by the throat. Fortiss!”
Rihad turns, and Fortiss quickly masks his surprise at being called. He rises. To be singled out in such a way by the Lord Protector is clearly a great honor. Fortiss stands tall and straight, ready to be bathed in glory or to have his head lopped off.
My fingers clench into fists below the table, because I don’t know which it will be. I shouldn’t care, but I do.
“Give the report that we have learned from those loyal to the First House and spare no detail. The warriors of the Tournament of Gold deserve to know what they are fighting for.”
All our heads swivel toward Fortiss—even mine, and I at least suspect what he’s about to say. But as he speaks, detailing the deaths on the roads of the Protectorate, warriors killed in cold blood, I scan the faces of the men assembled. The older the face, the greater the outrage—and something else too. Not fear. These men have reached their majority with a mighty monster at their command. Fear is something with which they have no true experience. But there is a sense of wrongness in their countenances, as if the world is falling away from their feet, and they cannot quite keep their balance.
The names of those killed, when they come, are chilling in their finality.