Chapter 12

T he entire length of the great tournament field is teeming with cheering, shouting people. The place smells of sweat and hysteria. Tight around my left bicep, my warrior band begins to chafe against my skin, and I shake the feeling off. This is not my place.

Easily a hundred platforms have been erected across the space, each surrounded by rings of people. There are no women here, I notice instantly, but men and boys of every age, all seeming to shout at once.

“Look, look!” Caleb tugs my arm and points to the nearest platform. Two boys, barely older than fifteen, grapple with each other in an almost brutal frenzy. “You have to be twelve to enter the pit fighting rounds for the first time, and no older than twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five?” I look at him in horror. “They can’t put those children against grown men.”

“They don’t. There’s an overall winner, but also age winners. Everyone gets a chance, if they’re good enough.” His smile goes a little sideways. “Well, almost everyone.”

A scream to my left draws my attention. One of the boys struggles upright, wheeling away from the first and holding his nose. Blood gushes between his fingers, and his eyes are wide and glazed with pain. My stomach churns as the first boy also staggers to his feet. He clenches his hands into unsteady fists, but a bell clangs to the side as he surges forward. Both boys stiffen, and a man wearing gold and black swings up onto the platform. He says something I can’t make out over the cheering crowd and points at the boy whose nose wasn’t broken.

While that one lifts his hands shakily above his head, the other boy seems to come back to himself. With a snarl of pure rage, blood still streaming down his face, he launches himself at the first boy again, and the two of them go down, kicking and punching. Caleb pulls me away as I see the first boy’s head crack against the surface of the platform once, twice.

“No good can come from that,” he says. “Let’s move on.”

“But the fight—it had stopped,” I protest. “How can they keep fighting if the fight had stopped?”

He shoots me another odd glance, and once again I realize I’ve said the wrong thing. Panic pools deep in my stomach as Caleb eyes me, clearly expecting me to say more. When I don’t, he fills in the suddenly fraught silence between us as if there’d never been a pause.

“You’re looking at it the wrong way. Pit fights are supposed to mimic war, not some stupid game. While men still stand, they can fight. The official was slow and stupid, or he had a dog in the hunt, to handle the end of the round that way.”

“A dog.”

Caleb shrugs. “If he bet on the boy with the busted nose, he would’ve wanted to see him win. But once a fighter is dazed like that, the fight should be called. It’s not interesting to watch anyone pummel a sack of meat.”

Despite my best efforts, I make a face, but Caleb isn’t looking at me anymore, thank the Light. He’s on his toes to see the next platform. “If he wanted the boys to keep fighting, he got his wish, is all I’m saying. We should come over this way. There’s something strange up there.”

Conversation proves impossible as we plunge back into the crowd. Since we’ve entered in the center of the stadium grounds, we’re relatively close to the two large wooden towers and stone overlook where the Lord Protector had loomed above the banded soldiers in the first Divh battle. I stare up at the towers, stunned by their size. They’d seemed big from my vantage point in the stands, but with me on the ground, they dwarf me. Everything at the tournament is built to an impossibly large scale.

Caleb beats me on the shoulder. “Not up—over there. That’s a sight, isn’t it? Something big has to be happening for Fortiss to be?—”

“Who?” The name jolts me to my toes, and I turn to where Caleb’s pointing. My eyes round as I take in the gold-and-black bedecked figure standing in the center of a stage that apparently had been erected overnight, along with all the pit fighting rings. The platform is nearly four times the size of the small stage the boys were grappling on.

I frown. “I thought Fortiss was a warrior knight. What’s he doing in a fighting ring?”

“That’s not a fighting ring. It’s for announcing the winners.” Caleb stiffens. “Hold your ears. I hate it when they do this.”

Horns suddenly blare around us, so intense, my bones vibrate. Agreeing with Caleb’s suggestion, I clap my hands to my ears and screw my eyes tight against the pain.

As quickly as the blast begins, though, it’s over. In its wake, utter silence reigns.

I peek once more at the stage. A man now stands beside Fortiss. He’s as big as a bull, dwarfing the younger warrior, but Fortiss remains the more menacing of the two. Fortiss stares out at the crowd as if it’s offended him. He nods to the giant, and the man puts his fists on his hips, then cries out in the loudest voice I’ve ever heard a man utter.

“Men of the Tournament of Gold, the First House commends you,” he shouts, and a quick cheer rises up, cutting off sharply as the man-bull lifts his hands. “The Lord Protector seeks a new army of the best and strongest soldiers. Men who will be sanctified to band with the Divh. You are here because you think that there will be twelve such warriors accorded to your winning house, and eighteen more to the other top houses. But I say to you there will be fifty , apportioned to the highest-ranking combatants of the Tournament of Gold—and twenty to the house of the warrior who wears the winged crown!”

A wave of excitement sweeps through the camp. So not thirty, but fifty? With fifty banded soldiers in play, and if the warriors weren’t distributed equally, one house could easily take over the others, if it wanted to—especially whoever won the winged crown. I’ve never even considered the possibility of house striking house before these past several days, but now it weighs on me heavily. By Protectorate law, the First House would never allow such a transgression—for no sooner would one house fall than others would band together in side alliances, to either defeat the original attacker or join forces with it, intending to establish a new ruling order. The First House wouldn’t—couldn’t—want that.

Then again, it’s the First House who’s proposing this new infusion of warriors, which will almost undoubtedly alter the balance of power among the houses. So…why?

If other houses have my same worry, then there’s no way they agreed to this new influx of warriors—even those houses who are already represented in the Tournament of Gold. And for houses like my own, tucked into the mountains, far away from tournaments and monsters four times the size of our original Div… How could they even know what was happening until some new, unexpected army landed on their doorstep?

I’m not alone in my concern, it seems. Throughout the field, warriors dressed in formal livery stare at the First House crier, their faces stony. This is clearly news to them as well.

The giant isn’t finished, though. “And who will rule this new army of soldiers? Who will claim these banded soldiers and their Divhs for their own house?”

He raises his hands again, but it’s Fortiss who stands forward, his voice loud and clear, echoing across the tournament ground.

“Warrior knights of the Protectorate, I salute you,” he cries out. He claps his right hand to his left bicep, and I’m jolted by the reaction in my own, an answering tremor that shoots down my arm, even though Fortiss is not truly banded. “You are the greatest collection of warrior knights of our generation. Whoever of your number is the winner of the Tournament of Gold, to his house will go fully twenty of these newly created banded soldiers. Twenty! Then seven to those who follow in the second and third positions, then five and then four, three, two, and one each to the final two place holders. Each house will see gain if they win at least one round in the tournament. And for your trouble, you will be awarded the best banded soldiers assembled in all the Protectorate!”

A cheer rolls forth, and I find my own voice raised as well in salute to the Lord Protector for his ample generosity. In truth, though, my head’s still spinning. Fifty new warriors equipped with Divhs?

The horns sound once more, and I turn, then turn again. The battles have recommenced all around me. Men fighting each other if not to the death, then it might as well be, all of them under the careful or not-so-careful eye of the First House officials. Even given the possibility of graft, as Caleb suggests, there can be no disputing clear winners. Eventually, the cream of the crop will rise and be awarded a Divh. Even those who aren’t made into banded soldiers will be invaluable as foot soldiers and guards.

Fifty banded soldiers. Fully twenty to the winning house. What would the Tenth House do with twenty banded soldiers—or even seven? Seven warriors with the protection of Divhs remotely close in size to Gent? We wouldn’t need to worry and wait, hoping that marauders didn’t come up from the south, or refugees from the east looking to escape the laws of the Exalted Imperium. We wouldn’t need to cower in fear because my parents are too old to bear another son.

No. With twenty, seven, or even three banded soldiers in addition to the soldiers I’ve just purchased, my father could rule for years yet. Perhaps in time, a cousin would step forward, prove his worth, and my father would agree on a successor. With banded soldiers, he has options. With banded soldiers, our house will truly be safe, even without my brother.

Without my brother.

My mouth flattens, my fists clench, and I have to force myself to focus on what Caleb is saying now, hissing in my ear.

“—take it lying down, I tell you plain.”

“What?” I blink at him. He’s staring at me now, shaking my arm. “Take what lying down?”

“Fifty new warriors? That’s not in accordance with Protectorate Law—and I know that law, I learned it back when I thought…” He waves off his own words. “Never mind. But I know it. Which means that the Exalted Imperium needs to sanction such a decision. Do you see anyone from the Imperium here? Because I don’t.”

I squint up to where Fortiss and the big bull of a man still stand. The battles roil around us, but Fortiss isn’t watching them, exactly. He has the sense of presiding over the entire field, but he’s not identifying the most viable men battling each other on their platforms. I pivot to track his gaze, noting as it shifts around the field, from man to man.

I’m right. He’s not watching the fighters. He’s eyeing the warrior knights. It’s easy to pick them out, of course. They sit atop their warhorses, a wide berth given to them and their steeds. There are easily two dozen of them. None of them wear gold and black except for Fortiss…the sole representative of the First House, keeper of the law, upholder of the Protectorate’s most sacred traditions.

Traditions. Anger spikes anew. There must be justice for Merritt’s death in the First House, somehow. Rihad surely can’t already know that one house has struck another. Once he does, how could he not help me? “How do you get inside the First House?”

“By showing up with a Divh on its doorstep.”

I glance down at Caleb. “What do you mean?”

“I mean if you’re a first-blooded warrior knight, you’ll be welcomed with opened arms. You and your entourage given top-drawer treatment. The Lord Protector isn’t an idiot. He wants to keep warriors of worth coming back, so he’s going to treat them well. And once this new rumor spreads, I bet we’ll see the last of the missing houses come out of the woodwork. The prize of more soldiers, especially banded soldiers, isn’t one lightly made, for all that it’s illegal. Unless there are agents of the Imperium up there in the First House, anyway.” Caleb purses his lips, clearly considering the possibility.

Agents of the Imperium. I hadn’t even imagined that. Would they…could I go to someone like that, tell them what happened to Merritt, show them the broken arrow? Would they hear my case, help me find justice? Perhaps even offer protection to the Tenth House?

Or, more likely, would they kill me on the spot for daring to wear the warrior band as a woman? The same as Rihad would, if he ever discovered my secret. Fortiss too.

Without warning, another blast of the trumpets nearly levels us.

“I hate that!” Caleb spits as we both slap our hands to our ears. We turn as one with the rest of the field, even the men on the fighting platforms breaking apart to stand at attention.

Fortiss calls again, his voice carrying over the silent crowd. “All warrior knights are honor bound to take part in the Tournament of Gold, for the glory of the Protectorate and the service of our people. Assemble now, that you may be officially entered!”

I freeze, even as Caleb bounces on his feet, his chatter starting up again. “Oh, that’s good, that’s smart. That’ll reel in the ones on the fence, encourage more warriors to come running. Not all of them are here, of course, but a lot of them are. Even the Fourth House and Sixth House are here, you see?” He points. “Sky blue and purple.”

“But the Sixth House already beat the Fourth.”

Caleb shakes his head. “Solely a demonstration. If pressed, either side could say that they were acting for the entertainment of the crowd.”

“Acting.” I scowl. “The warrior for the Fourth House was bleeding by the end of that demonstration. That was no act.”

Caleb shrugs. “I told you, he wasn’t hurt that badly. And the exhibitions aren’t official. Until the Tournament of Gold begins in earnest, everyone is on a level playing field. Even if they lose during the demonstration rounds.”

I miss what Caleb says next as a large figure in red and white shoves me to the side, bowling me into the spectators surrounding us.

“Move aside, runt.” He smirks with what seems like unreasonable malice, his teeth blackened and foul smelling. I’m not sure what he’s been chewing, but he reeks of heavy spices and sweat.

“And you.” He rounds on Caleb, who stands his ground, though his face has gone pale and bloodless. “I heard what you pulled with Hantor. Unless you want your other arm cut off, you’ll be smart to stay out of the pits.” He sneers. “Not that you’d have a chance anymore. Divhs thrive on strength, not pity. And pity is all you’re good for now, isn’t it?”

“On the stage, Jank,” another man in red shouts down from the main stage, laughter in his voice. “You can taunt the horde another time.”

The burly warrior grins and holds up an arm. His fellow Second House warrior pulls him up with a hearty tug. The second warrior’s gaze falls on Caleb, and his face shutters. He looks away quickly, like a dog who’s been whipped. Then, as if he’s forced, he looks back, nodding at Caleb’s green tunic. “You’ve found a new House. That’s good.”

“It is good.” Caleb’s voice is cold as flint, but there’s still no color in his face as I glance sideways. What’s going on here? Are these men responsible for his injury?

“Warriors of the Second, Fourth, and Sixth Houses, honor the Exalted Imperium!”

A roar goes up from the crowd, and I stare at the men upon the stage as they raise their left hands high into the sky, their right fists against their hearts. These aren’t boys, in the main, though in their midst I spy the young Hantor, whom Caleb fought. Most of these warrior knights are grown men of twenty, even thirty years. Men who have trained to fight these battles, and who’ve trained the boys in their ranks.

My own arm band tightens painfully as my thoughts shift from the lines of men on the stage to the looming castle of the distant First House, high in its mountain embrace.

“Warriors of the Seventh, Ninth, and Eleventh Houses, honor the Exalted Imperium!”

I swallow hard as a second round of men on the stage raise their left hands, with more coming in from the crowd to clamber up. I’ve no idea which houses are still on their way to the tournament, or which won’t send representatives at all. And, of course, the Tenth and Twelfth Houses have no representatives. The child warrior of the Twelfth House is probably still waiting for his bride in the northeast corner of the Protectorate. While the warrior of the Tenth House…

Anger boils up within me, thick and hot. “Don’t enter the pits,” Nazar had said. That wasn’t my place. But these men aren’t standing on the fighting platforms. They’re standing above them, on a separate stage. Honored by all who see them.

Honored.

I remember Merritt’s words, so full of life and excitement. “But I’m going to enter the Tournament of Gold and bring honor to our house…”

A surge of emotion assaults me, leaving me dizzy with both a hollow grief and a razor-pointed rage. One of the houses on this stage took my brother from me. Took his dreams, his hopes and boyish fantasies, and speared them on the tip of a dead gray arrow. One of these houses committed the ultimate crime and would never pay for that crime unless I…unless I…

I wheel to Caleb, who’s staring at me intently, the ghost of a smile curving his lips.

“Go ahead,” he says, his certainty sending icy shivers along my warrior band. “This platform is your place, really and truly. Even Nazar knows it. He wouldn’t have sent you here if he didn’t, and he’s smart, I’m telling you. I think he’s really smart.”

Fortiss’s voice rings out again. “To all who would?—”

“Wait!” shouts Caleb, before I can stop him. My heart thunders, but he’s no longer standing beside me. Instead, he kneels and offers me his hand and shoulder and—almost without thinking—I step into his grasp and leap to the central stage as he stands again.

I land lightly on my feet. The men all turn, surprise evident in their features, and Hantor’s reedy whine comes first.

“You! Get off the stage, you have no right?—”

Fortiss’s raised hand freezes everyone. This close, the head warrior of the First House looks impossibly perfect, chiseled from stone. His steady golden eyes take me in.

“Warrior Merritt of the Tenth House,” he says, clear curiosity in his voice.

I nod hurriedly, and he smiles. An entirely different and unwelcome emotion punches through me. No one has ever smiled at me with such focus. I don’t know what to do, how to act. It’s all I can manage to keep my expression fixed and stolid.

“Warrior Merritt of the Tenth House, we’re honored to have you fight in the Tournament of Gold,” Fortiss says, bowing slightly to me. “You and your company shall join us tomorrow night in the great hall of the First House, to present yourself to Lord Rihad and partake of the warrior’s banquet. Prepare your men.”

Desperate not to betray myself, I stare gravely back, then bow my head as well. I can feel the outrage spilling off Hantor and Jank like spoiled wine, but they’re the least of my problems.

Somewhere on this stage might be the man who killed Merritt. Who even now seeks to kill me, believing I’m my brother. And that murderer has me at a grave disadvantage, given how little I know about fighting and Divhs and…well, everything about this world of warrior knights. What am I doing up here? What was I thinking?

Then Fortiss turns to the crowd, and all my fears, my worries and denials are suddenly too late.

“To all you soldiers who would join these men,” he cries, “I present you the warrior knights of the Protectorate. In the coming days, they will fight with their mighty Divhs to win your respect!”

A resounding bellow sweeps through the throng, practically lifting us off the stage. It’s a cry of battle lust and excitement, and the band around my left arm spasms, a living thing.

As one, the warriors on stage lift their left arms high above their heads, their right hands crossed to their chests, fists to heart. We turn toward the mountain stronghold of the First House of the Protectorate and join our voices to the roar.

I have entered the Tournament of Gold.