Page 84 of Court of Talons
He pushes back from the table and stands, a little wobbly.
“I think we might be good without the wine.” I glance around, but Nazar still hasn’t joined us. The priest isn’t my servant, of course, despite the charade we’re carrying on. He doesn’t have to inform me of his actions.
Still, I find I miss the old man and his counsel as I look around the lavishly decorated grounds.
Once again, Rihad has spared no expense…or someone hasn’t. I can’t fathom how much coin such an encampment costs. Great flowing tents of thick cloth drape the grounds outside the coliseum, one for each house, even all the waydown to the lowly Tenth. Unlike in the procession, however, we aren’t segregated by size. That means I’ve been sandwiched in between the Third and First Houses. Now I stare again at the warriors who eat and drink with abandon, welcoming Fortiss back into their midst. There are a dozen of them, ranging from a boy barely older than Merritt to dark-eyed, dark-scowled men in their thirties. I drink from my cup, regarding them all more carefully.
Think of yourself as the enemy,Nazar told me, and I allow my gaze to swing from man to boy and back again. Who would I choose to kill a first-blooded and firstborn warrior knight? Who would I trust among my own company to not only be able to shoot with flawless accuracy over a great distance, but to be able to pull the longbow taut in the first place?
Not a boy.
One by one I rule out the younger members of the First House’s warrior knight base—those who seem too small or weak, or too wide-eyed. Neither bodes well to carry out a murder, especially murder by loosed arrow. And while I never caught sight of the archer who killed my brother, I believe without question that it would be someone who could be trusted implicitly. Someone who has served long and well. That means someone older. Experienced. Comfortable with the idea of taking a man’s life in cold blood, and with following whatever order I give. Someone who understands how to keep his mouth shut.
I sip my wine and gaze out over my enemies. They are many, I realize—the members of the shooter’s caravan who fled when Gent appeared behind me during the attack in the mountains, even the soldiers who were sent out to kill the other warrior knights beyond Merritt of the Tenth. But for now, I cannot think of anyone but the man who was directly responsible for my brother’s death.
It must be one of the three older warrior knights of the First House, I decide. There is no other possibility. I could be facing one of these men across the tournament field tomorrow, looking into the face of a killer. Not just a killer, but a cowardly one. A weak, slinking snake who slithered through the forest on a mission to sacrifice a boy—and would have sacrificed more, I was certain, if he’d waited around to see me hold Merritt in my arms. But he hadn’t waited around. He’d assumed there was no more threat from the Tenth House.
He’d assumed wrong.
Still, to shoot an arrow that far—it had been close to a quarter of a mile—would have taken tremendous strength. That leaves two of the men. Both of those warriors watch everyone around them, especially Fortiss, but they don’t drink. Both of them have food upon their plates, but they don’t eat. Idly, I push my own dish away, my appetite curdling even as I realize that the time for vengeance is not yet here. I will meet them on the battlefield, or I will meet them in the shadows. But I cannot stomach seeing them unharmed and unpunished across the luxurious tent camp.
I step away from the table. I need to breathe the sharp, crisp air of open grounds. Even in this outdoor camp, I feel confined.
No one tries to stop me as I stride quickly between the large tents. I don’t actively try to avoid anyone, be they councilor, warrior, or hired man. But I don’t seek anyone out either. My mind is too full of possibilities, my thoughts too full of poison. I picture the two men of the First House in my mind. Which one killed Merritt? One tall and thin but with deceptively broad shoulders, one built like an ox, his neck as thick as a tree trunk. Which?
I’ve almost reached the outer perimeter when I hear a familiar voice calling to me from behind.
“Merritt! A moment, let me catch up.”
My heart skips three beats, maybe four.
It’s Fortiss.
Chapter 35
“Well met, Merritt! How goes the day now that the tournament has begun in earnest?”
Fortiss is practically bursting with good cheer, but all I want to do is get away from him. How can he not know…how can he not recognize me? We were wrapped in each other’s arms less than a full day ago!
The band, I remind myself, straightening with spine-cracking severity as I smile grimly at Fortiss. The band protects me. Now I just need to protect myself. “Well enough,” I grunt, trying to damp down his exuberance. “I’ve never seen battles such as these.”
Fortiss doesn’t seem to notice my sour tone. “Of course you haven’t. Rihad is constantly seeking to improve the Tournament of Gold, Merritt. He seeks to make us stronger, to challenge our abilities.”
“He’s allowing warriors todiehere.How is that making any of us strong?”
Fortiss’s expression flickers, but he sets his mouth in a hard line. “The Tournament of Gold is a sacred charge, butnot all houses answer its call. As tragic as these deaths are, they do show that not all the legacy lines have maintained their dedication to their calling. Divhs are awarded each to the strength of their warrior. You see your own Divh—its size, its strength. All the men here are those that should be here.”
Anger stirs anew, but I snap my mouth shut. I can’t convince Fortiss of my position—I shouldn’t try. Because, despite his words of Protectorate glory, that’s not why I’m here. I’m here to protect my house…and my people.
“Perhaps you’re right,” I say at length. “It’s hard to accept, especially when you also consider the death of the warriors from the Ninth and Eleventh Houses. They were young and untested, with families and houses to protect.”
“I know.” Fortiss lifts a hand to my arm. “But Rihad won’t leave the houses unprotected. He has structured the Tournament of Gold this year to install warriors where they would not have been accepted otherwise, whether for pride or honor or vanity. Think of the Twelfth House, where a lord has not allowed his son to take his place. I cannot think Lord Orlof is battle-ready any longer, yet his pride holds his son from his position.”
I grunt. The Twelfth House’s son is fourteen years old, and Fortiss has already told me his father is a brute. The boy can wait a few years more. Still, I cannot gainsay Fortiss’s words. I don’t know much about Lord Orlof other than what my mother instructed me years ago in how I should act as the wife of his son. And that, of course, doesn’t recommend the old man. He seems to be cut from the same bolt of cloth as my own father, which would make him everything that Fortiss has said: prideful, vain, and stuck in moldering tradition.
But I’m grateful for that, anyway. Orlof’s vanity has kept his son safe from Rihad’s arrows. Not even the Lord Protector willattack a sitting lord in his own house, it seems. So Rihad still has some restraint.
For how long, though?