Page 89 of Court of Talons
“No—no,” I gasp as the door shuts behind me on the raging sound outside. “The petals—I didn’t mean for that to happen. I didn’t mean it!”
“Too late now.” The guard standing at the top of the stairs is the one who had given me Rihad’s news about Hantor. “He expected you to kill the boy, you know that.”
That stops me short. “Hantor? But this is a tournament.”
“And people die in tournaments. You had every right to avenge your squire.” I feel the sanction in his words and swallow hard, thinking of Caleb’s grin, his irreverent words, his pride. The guard continues as he stomps down the stairs, “I served awhile in the Second House. The boy Caleb wanted nothing more than to be a banded soldier, and failing that, a regular soldier. He was good, he fought hard and well, and he would have done anything for his house. Hantor took that away from him.”
I stare at the man’s back and can feel the other guard’s glare behind me, no less chilling in his censure. Rihad might haveexpected me to kill Hantor, but so had these men. How many others thought that as well?
Any words I would offer die in my throat. I should say something, I know—defend myself, my actions. But what would it matter to this man, who’s already made up his mind about what is right and good? More to the point, how will Rihad choose to repay me for—unwittingly or not—ignoring his demand for blood?
Suddenly, I feel weaker than ever. I just want to be gone from this tower, this coliseum, this Tournament of Gold. There’s a darkness here that is leaching into my very soul, drowning out the Light.
Chapter 37
The remaining battles pass in a haze of enormous monsters and screaming crowds. Everywhere, people are reveling, and there are no more disruptions by marauders. Perhaps they have left after all, as Rihad announces at every opportunity.
I’m called upon to fight twice more, but there are no further messages from Rihad, no personal connections in the battles. One is a warrior from the Third House, like Kheris, but unlike Kheris, he only recently became a warrior. He and his lizard Divh move slightly out of sync with each other—one too fast, the other too slow. Gent beats the great lizard by toppling it over, using his long arms and bony claws to protect himself from the lizard’s skin.
The second combat is with a warrior from the Eighth House and a creature with both wings and furred haunches, his face like that of a great cat. It takes Gent and me several passes to defeat it, and I’m weak with fatigue at its end. But not so weak that I can’t raise my arm to my own beautiful Divh as the world roars around us.
Thankfully, after the first battle, the platform is never again blanketed with petals, and I pray that my misstep has somehowescaped detection. As beautiful as they are, they are yet another marker of how different I am…a marker I can ill afford.
There are no more deaths, but several injuries, and the field of more than fifty men is winnowed down to eight by the end of the day. Tomorrow, these eight warriors will fight as two-man teams, leaving four who will fight each other again in teams, then two for the final match—two men who’ve just fought and won twice by each other’s side, asked to turn on each other and do battle to receive the ultimate prize of the Tournament of Gold.
And then there will be the melee, a mock battle for the ages, where monsters will line up against their fellows and wage brief and brutal war. This is to be the extraordinary capstone to the tournament, and bards are already spinning tales around it to last another quarter century and more.
My mouth tastes like ash.
Whatever Rihad has planned holds no more interest to me. I only want to win whatever I am able, transfer the men and their Divhs to my house, then face the fury of my father. There will be no justice for Merritt and no vengeance for me.
The only regret I harbor is that my time with Gent will be cut short, but there’s nothing for it. He’s carried me through this tournament, yes, but no matter how bravely and fiercely women used to fight alongside Divhs in the wars of three hundred years ago…no woman can fight now. Not with people like Rihad and my father ruling the houses. And Gent deserves an honorable warrior to fight with and for. He’ll get that warrior if it’s the last thing I do.
Itwillbe the last thing I do, I suspect.
At length, the battles are done and we turn toward the warrior’s stage, waiting as our warhorses are ceremoniously walked back out to us. I see Caleb holding Darkwing’s bridle, hisface not stoic like his counterparts. Instead, he’s grinning from ear to ear.
Something seems wrong about Darkwing’s tack, however. I frown, trying to place it. Then the horses reach us, and the procession begins anew, each of the warriors walking down to their mounts, to be assisted by their squires.
“You did it.” Caleb speaks gleefully as Darkwing fusses and stomps, and I miss placing my foot in the stirrup the first time.
“Did what? I can’t even get on my own horse by myself.”
“You won the day, at least as far as the public polls are concerned. You’re the one they’re talking most about, never mind Kheris and his great serpent or Baltor and his fire ape. You’re the crowd favorite.”
“And you’re insane. The battles I fought were no greater than any of the others, and quite a bit lesser, in some cases. Did you see the Seventh House death worm when it burrowed under the tournament floor, only to emerge behind the Fourth House warrior’s Divh? I didn’t even know that was possible.”
Caleb snorts. “The Fourth House’s man didn’t either.” He seats me in Darkwing’s saddle, then pats the horse’s shoulder. “But youarethe favorite, make no mistake. Helps that no one knows you, that you’re from such a small house. You’re the one everyone wants to know everything about.”
That doesn’t sound good, but I suddenly realize what’s wrong with Darkwing’s fine tournament gear. “Where are the remaining sashes?” I point to the spot on the saddle where the long strips of green and silver had hung. “What did you do with them?”
“Oh! Those. Nazar told me to give them out to anyone in the crowd who wanted them.” He grins up at me. “There were a lot of people who wanted them. I ended up having to go back to him for more.”
“For more?” There’s no more time for talking, however, as the great procession of warriors turns to stream out of the tournament grounds. As before, I’m the last of the men, the final warrior from the smallest remaining house, the Tenth. But I don’t mind, I’m glad to finally be shut of this place, at least for another day.
As we ride, I look up and around. There are brightly colored flags for every house—but now there are banners as well, hundreds of banners it seems, and as we ride through the cut in the stands toward the wide-open marshlands beyond, I can see those with the green-and-silver sashes rushing through the crowds toward the stands above the exit tunnel, a school of desperate fish swimming upstream against an impossible current. Shouts of “Lord Merritt! Merritt of the Tenth House!” ring through the air, and I raise a hand as we turn into the corridor leading to escape?—
The sky is filled with petals.