Page 75 of Court of Talons
Marcus of the Ninth House.
Bertrand of the Eleventh.
The party—but not the warrior—of Merritt of the Tenth House
And on they go. The Fourth, the Fifth…and rumors of the Third. So Rihad’s final prophecy came true, it seems. Convenient.
During Fortiss’s recitation, Rihad stands with his mouth drawn down, his brow furrowed, as if this travesty is something not of his doing, but an atrocity and a curse.
When Fortiss finishes, Rihad steps forth again. “So now you see, there’s more to fight for than the simple honor of reaching the Court of Talons or being granted new warriors to strengthen and sustain us. We must fight to hone our skills. We must better ourselves so we can protect our holdings and people. We must strive to present a united front against any that should stand in the way of the Protectorate!”
Anger and fear crash together in the room, and the cheer the warriors give this second time is louder and bolder than that which came before. Fists and cups pound on the tables, boots stamp on the floor. All are in agreement with the First House.
After a long moment, Rihad lifts a hand to quiet the men. “I’m too old to fight,” he says, placing a modest hand on his chest. “And too vain to lose to warriors who are my betters.” Laughter crackles through the room, but curiosity too. “But I would make an example to all House lords, that they might follow my lead. Bards!”
Always at the ready, the bards jump to their feet and stare at Rihad eagerly, each striking exaggerated poses. More laughter sounds at their antics, but I don’t mistake the bards’ actions for simple artifice. There are eleven of them present—a number that’s clearly not accidental. One for each of the remaining houses present in the Tournament of Gold. Rihad means for his pronouncement to be shared with all the land.
His words bear me out. “Travel fast and well and give my news to all who would hear it. In the Tournament of Gold, Lord Protector Rihad of the First House pledges the finest warrior of my house to fight in my place…and with Akrep, the most deadly Divh in all of the Protectorate!”
Fortiss’s head comes up, but his face shutters instantly into a mask of obedience. Still, murmurs spring up throughout the hall at the idea of this Akrep Divh taking the field—some excited, some aghast, some curious.
Rihad allows the rumble of words to ebb and flow before plunging on again. “Those who know the great Divh I command also know its might and cunning. But its obedience is its greatest asset. Obedience to my mind, and to my will. It will fight for Fortiss, and I challenge every lord unwilling or unable to take up the fight himself, who yet remains unwilling to give up the Divhs which are our destiny either to make way for a son or a chosen warrior, to heed my words. Your Divhs are an asset to theProtectorate, not your personal right.”
His words pierce me like a sword. I’ve been a warrior for only a few days, but I do know this—my bond with my Divh is my own. Not the Protectorate’s. And certainly not Rihad’s.
The Lord Protector, however, barrels on. “By my example, you shall see the truth of my words. Through the force of my mighty connection with my Divh, Fortiss will take the field with Akrep—a Divh banded to me, where none is yet banded to Fortiss.” His grin is almost feral. “And I’m not going to lie. My money is on Fortiss. Who will take me in this bet?”
Another rousing cheer goes up. Such a wager is something the men understand. Even Caleb leans over and starts jawing with one of the pale-green-garbed soldiers of the Fifth House who already has a money bag out on the table and is protesting loud and long that it can’t be done, a warrior knight being able to guide a Divh who isn’t his own. It simply can’t.
But my gaze isn’t on any of them. It’s fixed on Fortiss, standing in the full light of scrutiny of Rihad and the councilors, not to mention the warriors of the Tournament of Gold. He’ll be allowed to fight, it appears, but with a Divh not his own. I didn’t even know it was possible for a warrior to command his Divh to fight with another—and one who bears no band, at that. Rihad is positioning it as an honor, but knowing what I know now, it’s totally not. Merely another breadcrumb to a warrior who has yet to be granted the right to bond with his own Divh.
And Fortiss can’t deny Rihad’s command, can’t oppose him. He can only fight in whatever way his lord commands, and hope that—one day—it will be enough.
There’s noneedfor him to wait, though. There’s a perfectly powerful Divh in this very fortress who needs a warrior. And he’s practically standing on top of her.
“The rolls for the Tournament of Gold are set. Tomorrow we shall honor the victors from the fighting pits—the future banded soldiers of the Protectorate. They will have a stadium-side viewfor the contests to come, so they might see more closely than ever what their strength and cunning has brought them. And then the true competition will begin. Every hour, we will delight those who have traveled from all corners of the Protectorate to bear witness to the powerful creatures and men who stand between the people of the Protectorate and all that would attack us. Our role here isn’t merely to test each other’s mettle—but to awe our audience. To inspire in those watching, the belief that all is safe, that they are protected, and that the Protectorate is a powerful force in its own right.” By now, Rihad is practically roaring. “No one shall make the best and the boldest of our houses cower in fear—instead, they shall feel our wrath!”
I keep my face carefully neutral as Rihad finishes, and all the men around me chant and howl their approval. This isn’t the whipping up of nationalistic fervor, this is the goading of men to battle—truebattle, not merely the sleight of hand that the Tournament of Gold has become over the last few centuries. What is Rihad’s game? And how much of it does Fortiss know?
I can’t forget the creature I saw in the fire in Rihad’s private chambers. A hooded figure with a face buried in darkness, heavily cloaked in a robe of fire, snakes roiling at his feet, twice as tall as Rihad and as broad as an oak.
I know the barest details of the Exalted Imperium’s attempt to breach the Western Realms, of course. But I have never heard stories of a creature such as what I saw in Rihad’s chambers—not even from the lands of the southern houses, and they have snakes to spare. That Nazar hadn’t seemed to recognize it either merely adds to my horror.Had I really seen what I thought I had?
As the crashing of the feast begins again and more wine flows, I bid my leave of Caleb and Nazar, claiming fatigue. My attention flicks to the forced merriment animating theunluckiest of all warriors in this hall, Fortiss. There are deep shadows in his already pale eyes as he drains his tankard.
Fortiss might be too proud to talk to Merritt about his pain, but I am a warrior who follows the way of strategy. According to the teaching of that way, I should look at Fortiss not as my enemy but as one of my own troops, someone I can guide and push and harry into whatever position I need, allowing me to make my attack.
And in this case, an attack against Fortiss in his moment of weakness is one against Rihad. The only attack I can make right now. The only way I can learn more of what is truly going on in the First House.
I slip out of the feasting hall and run to the barracks. It doesn’t take me long to do what I need to do.
When I return to the feasting hall, I am once again wrapped in a servant’s robes and golden chains…and this time, ready for war.
Chapter 31
The flowing wine and ale is having its intended effect, and the warriors have gotten louder, if anything, and certainly freer with their hands. Dressed in my serving robes but with my eyes now heavily outlined in kohl and red salve on my lips, I put myself to work fetching more wine almost as soon as I reenter the great hall. Cups and flagons change hands across each table, and the demands grow brasher and more boisterous by turns.
It takes only a few trips back and forth from the kitchens to position myself in front of Fortiss. When I lean forward, he looks up with a jolt. “You…”