Page 81 of Court of Talons
Winning the tournament won’t even truly bring the warriors we now lack at the Tenth House. It will merely bring spies and minions for Rihad into our home.
I glance sidelong at the armed guards lining the path to the coliseum. They’re here to keep the crowd from us, true enough. But they’re also here to ensure we don’t break ranks. Rihad has carefully orchestrated this day, and he’s certain of its outcome. Just as he’s certain that the bards are in his employ and the warriors of his house will do his bidding without fail. He’s certain of a lot of things.
At last, the coliseum looms high overhead, and in its shadows teem the crowds of Trilion. I gape, startled at how many more spectators seem to be in attendance than even a week earlier. They spill deep into the marshlands, spreading out from the coliseum, and as the first of our line reaches them, the cheers start loud and long, growing with each new warrior that passes by them.
Even though the cheers for Lord Rihad are great and there are many streamers thrown in celebration, the crowd’s shouts boom even higher as the final First House warriors pass. And then come the Second House warriors, well recognized in this place. More streamers and flowers fly through the air along with shouts of encouragement. And on it goes, until finally the EighthHouse passes into the crowd, and I eventually pace Darkwing forward close behind the stallion carrying the lone warrior for the Ninth House. My face burns as I worry there will be no one to cheer these smaller houses.
I’m mistaken.
The cheers rise up with what sounds like even greater abandon, urging the smaller houses on to impossible victory—or perhaps the spectators are simply grateful that the procession is drawing to a close. But as I ride, I begin to see makeshift flags, dark green slashes among all the gold and black, orange, sand, and blue.
From my saddle, eager hands pull away the favors that Nazar has given me as well. I stare, trying to make out faces in the crowd. There is more than just the boy from the fighting pits or even his family, there are easily a dozen—a small pittance compared to the rolling swath of gold and black, or even the fiery flurry of the orange…but therearea dozen, definitely.
A dozen souls who hold up a flag for a warrior knight to whom they have no allegiance, who failed in his first trial. A dozen brave bettors who, for at least this moment, think I can progress through the tournament. Think I can battle proudly. Think—possibly—I can win.
Or maybe they just feel sorry for me.
I laugh aloud at the traitorous thought, and several of the crowd nearest me turn and add more gusto to their cheers. All the warriors before me have been taciturn, stoic. Theirs is a sacred trust, and they’ll be returning to their proud houses as victors no matter their efforts here.
I have no proud house, no trust. I have only this: a doomed battle against a stacked field, where the greatest warriors in the land are but the puppets of a larger hand, turning and twirling us for his own dark reasons.
And yet, there are those few green flags…
We make the final turn into the mouth of the coliseum, and if I was surprised at the overflow crowd, I’m completely overwhelmed now. Everyone is on their feet, stamping and chanting, and again, the flags fly at the tips of outstretched hands. Men and even women crane forth, holding up children to see, to experience the glory of this procession of the Protectorate’s finest combatants. These are men charged with highest honor from the Exalted Imperium itself, and handed into service generation over generation, divinely blessed with the obligation to protect and defend.
As we march, the procession splits off, and I pivot to see the outriders shunt away to a cordoned area, to dismount and wait until they are needed. For this, the real tournament, First House guards won’t be required to minister to every combatant, especially those who are injured in battle. No, each warrior will be cared for by his own men, which means Nazar and Caleb can stay close, both to help and to protect me from unwanted attention should I fall.
The procession finally stops in front of a grand new platform that has been constructed before the wooden towers, upon which stand all the councilors and Lord Protector Rihad. We dismount and are escorted one by one to the stage, where we stand in front of the councilors but behind Rihad, looking for all the world like we are foot soldiers to his general.
Rihad holds up his hand, and the crowd stills as criers before each section hold up their hands as well. As impossible as it is for me to believe that mere criers can hold such sway over this enormous throng, I squint more closely and see the guards lining the field to either side of the criers, apparently ready to enforce silence on the tips of their blades.
Rihad drops his hands and shouts out, “Welcome to the Tournament of Gold!”
As the criers repeat the statement, a roar loud enough to be heard in the Imperium capital sails forth. He lets it continue for a time. Then he speaks again, pausing so that the criers can echo his words in an ever-expanding wave.
“First, we honor the winners of the fighting pits. Fifty brave men and boys who have earned the right to fight as banded soldiers. At the end of this tournament, you are the ones who will be feasting in the First House. You are the ones who will bow down beside the priests of the Light, to receive your sacred warrior bands.”
Another deafening roar accompanies this pronouncement. I gaze down over the men and boys assembled before Rihad. The cheater from the first round isn’t among them, and I lift my chin higher at noticing that, sweeping the group with an assessing gaze.
They stare back boldly—some a little awed, some intense, all of them proud and exhausted at once, with the look of souls who’ve been cast one too many times upon the shoals of a distant shore. Their efforts will be rewarded, however. With Rihad as their sponsor, they will get their Divhs. One by one they will be granted a fearsome creature—to the size and manner they deserve.
I look over to Fortiss, standing stoically by Rihad’s side. He, too, deserves a Divh, and not to be simply swept along by circumstances he cannot control. Perhaps his father had died too swiftly, perhaps in great pain. Perhaps he’d thought he would recover…
“Your thoughts betray you, Merritt of the Tenth House.”
Beneath the roaring of the crowds, the voice close to my ear is almost intimate. I stiffen, turning slightly to the side. “Councilor Miriam.”
“You feel pity for Fortiss.” The words aren’t said as a rebuke, but I harden my jaw all the same.
“I have no need to feel pity for the exalted warrior of the First House. He’ll fight nobly and well with Rihad’s Divh. The Tournament is graced by their alliance.”
“He’ll fight nobly and well.” Miriam breaks off as Rihad speaks again, but she doesn’t flow back into the crowd as I so desperately want her to. “But their alliance is no act of grace.”
I can’t help but gape at her then dart my gaze to those around us. But I am the last warrior on the platform, with the Eleventh and Twelfth Houses absent, and Miriam stands between me and the rest of the half circle of men. She turns forward, smiling as Rihad speaks again. Then her words float to me as the men on the field below depart, swamped in a roaring tide of honor and adulation.
“You forget, I have lived long among the council. I have known generations of warriors of the First House, and all the great men as well. Fortiss’s father was both. He was as honorable as his father before him.”
“His loss was keenly felt, I am sure.”