Chapter 19

“ M erritt. I wondered where you’d gone to ground.”

I turn as Fortiss’s bold voice cuts across my nerves but seeing him here doesn’t make me any happier. I’m arguably the least of the warriors in this room, and the First House’s number one knight is tracking me down? That’s dangerous interest to court.

“Fortiss.” I nod, holding my ground as the First House knight and his gaggle of companions stride closer. Without hesitation, Fortiss hands one of the women toward me. I experience another excruciating moment of embarrassment as I grapple with her hand, finally succeeding in placing it on my arm. She’s as delicate as an orchid, and just as beautiful, and she stares up at me with wide, trusting eyes.

Councilor Miriam’s warning still rings in my ears, and I still almost fall for the act.

“This is Gemma,” Fortiss says, nodding to the fair-skinned brunette. Her eyes have the same dark intensity as Nazar’s, but she’s petite where he is rangy, and soft where he’s as weathered as an old tree. “And Elise. They both wanted to meet you.”

He grins broadly, but the woman on his arm doesn’t look at me when she smiles, but at Fortiss. Her eyes are even sharper than Gemma’s, and she tilts her head up with a careful precision, maximizing the beauty of her profile.

Heavy with beads and sparkling crystals, Elise’s blonde hair drops in thick coils over her shoulders and down to the hem of her fine dress.

Gemma, in contrast, has nothing in her hair but a delicate spray of white flowers at her crown. Her hair isn’t coiled either, but hangs in a straight dark fall down her back. She’s not as highly ranked among First House families as Elise, I think, but she’s lovely all the same.

I straighten, thinking of my own hair. I don’t regret lopping it off. The burdens of men are less tangled by far than those women must bear.

Gemma squeezes my arm. “You know this man who speaks of the eastern borders?” she asks, and her voice is as ethereal as the rest of her.

I send a look across the hall to Blackmoor. It’s a risk to disavow him, but I have no choice. “Not well,” I say. “And I’ve been traveling. There’s much to keep us busy at the Tenth, even when the bards come calling.”

The mysteriousness of my answer isn’t lost on her, and I see it again, the hint of shrewdness before it’s masked in dewy-eyed interest. “Travel is good,” she says softly. “I traveled long and far before arriving in this house.”

“Shh,” Elise says from Fortiss’s side. “He’s starting.”

My heart in my throat, I turn toward the bard.

“The eastern borders, I’m here to say, are far worse than the western, and even the south, though there is neither monster nor sand nor brutal heat and savage cold. But they run thick with forest and mountains, ridgelines cutting through your path in a thousand different places. You can pass a settlement like the Tenth House and never know you missed it.” He shakes his head. “It was luck alone that got me there. The storms were torrential, and the skies seemed especially dark that fell eve, taking me deep into the mountain hold.”

I keep my face placid, though it takes some doing. When Blackmoor visited us, it had been the very edge of spring into summer. The mountains were in blossom and the breezes light, the days growing long, and the cloudless nights filled with stars.

“It sounds very grim,” Gemma murmurs, and I pat her hand.

“It’s home.”

“The generosity of the Tenth House was great, for all that their holding is small,” the bard continues, the backhanded compliment earning him a round of laughter. With Gemma pressed tightly to my side, I dare not stiffen. Blackmoor, emboldened by the response, presses his advantage.

“It would have to be great, else no one would ever venture so deep into the mountains to find them. They boasted only one warrior, too, the son of Lord Lemille. And he was no warrior such as we have in this grand hall.”

I stiffen. What on the blighted path is this? How dare he speak of Merritt this way?

As if feeling the weight of my stare upon him, Blackmoor turns toward me. I try to press back into the shadows without moving, glad the bard is all the way across the hall. My disguise cannot fail here as it failed with Caleb. Instead, I pray that Blackmoor only registers the fa?ade I’ve worked so carefully to create. I’m wearing Merritt’s clothes, my hair is cut like him, my face similar enough…for me not to be Merritt would be unthinkable, impossible. See what I want you to see , Blackmoor, I silently beg.

The bard’s eyes go wide, his face a comic show of surprise, and my heart shrivels for a half-second more before he speaks.

“Why, Lord Merritt!” he cries, falsely aghast. Clearly, he’s already marked my presence. “You’re here!”

A raucous round of laughter surges forth, and the bard suddenly grins. I nod my head graciously toward him, acknowledging the joke and hoping desperately he doesn’t seek to prolong it.

I call out my response, pitching my voice as close to Merritt’s as I can. “The houses of the eastern border don’t host grand tournaments, Bard Blackmoor—or any tournaments at all, as you’ve seen for yourself. I’ve had no chance to try my skills against my peers. As luck would have it, I’m here to do just that.”

I look around the room, trying to read the faces watching our exchange. Some are eager, some sated, some interested, some bored. None look like the face of a killer. My gaze finally reaches the warriors of the First House, standing at their ease before the high table. I swallow then force myself to remember that Merritt would be brash, bold. Even foolhardy—and he had lost good men on the road to this tournament.

I plunge on. “In the Tenth House, we are born to honor and raised to battle. May the warrior knights at every house always prove to be so noble.”

Not all the men, but some, give the slightest glance my way, too sharply to be idle curiosity. Beside me, Fortiss has gone as still as stone. My heart hardens in my chest as Blackmoor’s gaze intensifies. He’s another spy for Lord Rihad, has to be. He took our food and money, drank our wine, entertained my father and Merritt with talk of exploits and even this cursed tournament. Yet all the while, he’d been gathering information for Rihad. Information for what, I have no idea. Had he shared our family’s wedding plans with some other house? Do I have him to thank for feeding this conspiracy of murder?

“It will be a tournament that we’ll sing about for generations to come.” The bard turns quickly round, as if this is part of his standard performance, his arms wide. But the movement serves to break our eye contact, and I allow myself the smallest satisfaction that he sought to do it first.

“In that, you’re certainly correct.” Lord Rihad’s voice draws everyone’s attention once more. “We have a great fire here already, and we would do well to build the blaze yet higher. The men in the fighting pits have labored long this week to vie for a place among the most elite warriors in the land. We should give them more of an understanding of what they are aspiring to!”

Lord Rihad turns and considers me, and I feel the trap closing in. But I can’t run, I can barely move as Gemma’s fingers clutch me like iron claws, and Fortiss hems me in on the other side. I don’t know where Miriam has gone, but now I understand her calling out to me, stringing me along with her talk of spies, when I should have quit this room for air and peace. I’m part of their trap, without question. And now that trap is about to spring.

“I propose a new exhibition to entertain the crowds thronging in the coliseum, for demonstration only, a chance for our warriors to show what sets apart the truly great from those who merely fight,” Rihad continues. “And you, Merritt of the Tenth House, you will have the honor of being a combatant in that exhibition.”

I stand frozen, knowing I have no recourse. I’m at the mercy of a man bent on entertaining the masses and, perhaps, on making an example of those who dare speak out of turn.

But I’ve barely connected with Gent, and that’s a problem. I’m no more his master than I am Rihad’s. Now, if Rihad has his way, Gent will be lining up at the edge of a battleground, expecting me to guide him during a fight—a fight that’s happening far too early! Gent, who seems more at home with his arms flying in the wind than he is attacking something else, is about to be tested. And so, it appears, am I.

“And who shall we pit against the new blood from the Tenth House, I wonder?” Rihad stares around the room, clearly relishing his role. There’s a shift in the crowd, and I see Caleb again. He’s no longer laughing with his new friend but watching me proudly. Nazar stands beside him, smoking a long pipe. I watch the pattern of smoke curl and eddy around his face, and lose myself in the wisping curls, even as Rihad’s voice shouts on.

“Kheris, I think, of the Third House.”

“Challenge accepted.” An enormous warrior from the center of the Third House gathering pounds the table and stands, grinning at me across the space. “You’ll see how we fight in the Southern Realms, boy. A lesson you won’t soon forget.”

The room erupts into cheers, and suddenly my back is being clapped hard, and I’m congratulated from all sides. Even Fortiss grasps my shoulder above my warrior band. The bolt of awareness that shoots through me at his touch startles me from my reverie.

“It’s an honor to fight in an exhibition,” he says, tightening his hand briefly. His face seems sincere, but everything is turning around on itself. There’s no way I know who to trust, or how much weight to give to their words. “Though I’m well past the age to claim my own Divh, I’ve not yet been granted that boon.”

I nod, trying desperately not to betray that I already know this information. It’s even more difficult to hide my pity. Fortiss is the favored warrior of the Lord Protector, and his nephew in form if not by blood, which makes him as close to first-blooded and firstborn as the First House has, since Lord Rihad has no offspring. Why hasn’t he been granted a Divh?

Fortiss doesn’t seem to notice my silence. His face is set beneath his cheerful grin, and his eyes are a shade harder. Clearly, there’s some dark reason Rihad has not allowed him to claim his own Divh, but that’s not for me to prize out of him. All I know is, I don’t want the “honor,” he seems to value so highly. But I say nothing. I understand an order when it’s given, and I understand a punishment when it’s meted out, even if it seems a blessing.

The crowd quiets at last, and the next bard strides forth, a young man freshly returned from the northern frontier. There’s naught to the north, however, but snow and steadily worsening weather, and the bard’s only saving grace is that he makes the crowd laugh with the tales of his travels.

Meanwhile, I disengage myself from a curious-eyed Gemma as soon as I’m able and bid my leave of Fortiss. As I weave my way back to Caleb and Nazar, I sense I’m being watched—and not just by random members of the crowd either. With experience born of my time in the shadows, hiding from my father’s sharp gaze, I sense the attention at the side of the great hall, from the small knots of warriors and from the high table itself. Rihad and Miriam are tracking me. I deliberately loosen my stride and square my shoulders, a young warrior eager for the chance to show the world what he’s made of.

In my case, however, I know I’m made of lies.

I reach Nazar and Caleb, and the priest continues to smoke his pipe, indicating for me to stand at his side as if at my leisure. I do this, breathing in the soothing smoke as I turn to watch the farce of the final bard. Nazar pauses in his draw only briefly, long enough to pull the pipe from his mouth and murmur to me, “Consider what you have learned tonight. The right man, with the right sword, can be as ten thousand men if he follows the way of the warrior.”

He goes back to smoking his pipe, and I scowl into the empty air before me, hoping that my expression isn’t being taken for the blind panic that it is.

Consider what I’ve learned tonight? I’ve learned that I have no allies outside this room. Councilor Miriam had seemed to seek me out…but only to hold me in place long enough for Fortiss to intercept me. Fortiss appeared likable, even friendly—yet had served to hem me in when the bard began speaking of the eastern borders and, far worse, when Rihad announced the next day’s battle. The women of the First House were beautiful, sure, and yet they trapped me as effectively as Fortiss had. And warriors of multiple houses had seemed visibly uneasy about my participation in the Tournament of Gold. Especially those from the Second House.

Is it because they’re the ones who slaughtered the Tenth House retainers, and who then witnessed a much larger Gent rise up in outrage against them? Are these the men who thought they’d killed Merritt and now don’t know what to think about his return from the dead with an even more powerful Divh? And if those murderers are from the Second House, not the First, why was Fortiss so close by?

Too many thoughts race through my mind, twisting around on themselves.

I’ve also learned that I’ll be pitted against the largest man I’d ever seen. Rough skinned, beefy, and dressed in heavy sand-colored silk, the warrior Kheris has a broad, open face and a booming laugh. He’s laughing again now, gathering the women close as they simper and fawn over him and his men. Watching him, I realize I’ve made a tactical error in abandoning my own female companion.

Just then, as if reading my mind, Gemma sways into my vision. “It’s tradition for a favor to be granted from a warrior to his favorite of the court,” she says, dimpling. “I would be honored to receive your favor.”

Nazar’s quick brush against my hand is the only warning I have, and then I’m lifting the sash, as surprised as Gemma, who stares at it, then me, as if I’d just conjured the cloth into being. It’s a long slender strip of green silk, painted with a thin silver tree branch. At the top of the tree branch is a fat little bird, nestled into its own feathers.

I cock a glance at Nazar but can only spare a moment before I have to start apologizing. Gemma stands stock-still, gaping at the cloth as tears pooled in her eyes.

“Gemma—I am sorry,” I stammer quickly. “Forgive a fool who doesn’t know the ways of such a large house.”

“No—no—” She looks up at me, and her eyes are mirror bright, the smile blooming on her face as fresh as a new flower. “It’s beautiful . It reminds me of a long-ago time. You could not—” She shakes her head. “You couldn’t have known. Forgive me.”

She holds the cloth to her breast. “I’m grateful for the honor,” she says, and her voice has a strange aspect to it as well, the same as her smile. This is the same girl I’d watched smile archly at me across the room, clearly targeting me, but now her face is open, her lashes blinking too quickly. She bows once, then again, and she turns away from me slightly, then whirls back to kiss me on the cheek. The movement is so fast, I can barely track it, and her words in my ear are equally rapid, as rushed as a moth’s wings.

“You will win ,” she says urgently.

I smile wryly as she pulls away. She has to know by looking at me that I’m a long shot against the powerful Kheris. But Gemma’s face is resolute, her eyes shining. She bows again, and I bow in return.

I watch bemusedly as she turns and flees back across the room, clutching her favor close.

“So, can you explain what that was—” I stop as I turn to the side. Nazar is gone.

“That was unexpected , is what that was,” Caleb says instead, snapping his fingers in front of my eyes to refocus me. I scowl, batting his hands away. “But I’ll tell you what I saw—that priest had three different sashes at the ready and pulled out the silk one only after it was clear which girl had latched on to you. He’s a sly one.”

I stare at him. “Three?”

“Three,” Caleb nearly crows, bouncing on his toes. “And I hope you’ve gotten caught up on your sleep, because you’ll have precious little tonight. Nazar told me you’ll have to practice in the barracks for tomorrow’s fight, where no one can see.”

“The barracks.” I blow out a breath. “That won’t be enough, Caleb. That can’t replace practice on a real open field.”

He shrugs. “It’ll have to be enough. You’ve already given Gemma your favor.” He grins at my glare. “You don’t want to make the girl cry twice.”

I open my mouth to offer my thoughts on the subject, but the flicker of Caleb’s attention stops me, and I stiffen as his eyes go wide and urgent. I don’t have to turn to know who’s approaching us with his long-legged stride.

I turn anyway and greet Fortiss with my best, most confident—and hopefully most Merritt-like smile.

“I thought we could talk at last, Lord Merritt.” He nods to Caleb, then me. “Alone.”

He turns on his heel and keeps walking. I meet Caleb’s wide-eyed stare, then follow.

Here we go .