Chapter 30

T he week passes in a blur of pageants and rumors, and two more hurried, breathless training sessions under heavy cover of night. I make no attempt to re-dress myself as a servant girl and do my level best to be seen by Fortiss on a daily basis as Merritt…but only at a distance. With more warrior knights coming every day, I manage to avoid both Rihad and Fortiss easily—and eventually stop replaying my memories over and over again: the shock of the creature in the fire, my gut-wrenching leap into darkness, and my foolish lapse with Fortiss.

I even try to convince myself the last bit never happened…yet I can’t. When all this is done, and I am dying on some field, I will have the taste of Fortiss’s kiss on my lips to savor, the feel of his long hard body pressed up against mine. I wouldn’t give that up for anything.

The marauders on the outskirts of Trilion seem to have stopped their looting for the moment, and the townspeople hail the might of Rihad for this reprieve. No one speaks further of the servant girl who jumped to her death, and no one has come looking for the robe I stole. I know I should burn it, but I can’t bring myself to do so, wondering if—as Nazar seems to think—I might use it again. Wondering if there’s something I can learn as a female that is barred to me as a warrior knight. With Nazar’s help, I refashion the robe with heavier, reinforced sleeves—so thick from shoulder to elbow that no one could guess the real size of the arm that lies beneath the fabric. The arm…or what might be circling it.

Unfortunately, I must attend tonight’s final feast as Merritt before the tournament officially begins tomorrow, a two-day event of, well, massive proportions. Nazar sends Caleb to fetch me while the sun is still high in the sky. He presents me with a new tunic he’s had sewn in Trilion, made of cloth the deepest forest green shot and with silver in a fine spray over my left shoulder.

“This seems…elaborate,” I muse as Caleb stitches it on.

“It’s expected,” Caleb says. Nazar doesn’t comment. “There will be the official calling of the rolls, plus some special announcements that Rihad has been hinting at all week. If you miss it, you’ll be noticed. And you don’t want to be noticed for anything but how magnificent you look.”

“But why the silver? That’s not the Tenth House color.”

Caleb looks at me oddly. “Because it suits you,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “Believe me, you’ll want to put on a strong showing this night.”

When we reach the great hall, I understand what he means. The First House isn’t entertaining the masses—that’s left for the tournament to follow. This fete is for the warriors and their entourages, allowing all to see who they might face in the days to come. Caleb, Nazar, and I take our seats at the table assigned to us—not the best by far, but there are no bad positions in the hall this night. The only table slightly raised on a small dais is the high table, with the warriors of the First House seated to either side of Lord Protector Rihad.

Food and drink overflow each of the tables, and I grab bread and begin tearing it into small pieces, if only to give myself something to do, until Nazar frowns at me.

“Relax.” Caleb leans close and pats my arm. “I’ve made the rounds once already and will do so again. No one’s talking about anything but the tournament to come, not about the jumper, and definitely not about you, other than rumors and supposition about your Divh. There’s a few mutterings about warriors attacked on the way to the tournament, but those are squelched almost as soon as they start. There will be nothing to mar the glory of Rihad’s hour, I suspect.”

“Good.” I can’t look at Rihad for longer than a moment. Our gazes meet when he toasts each of the tables, but I slide mine away as quickly as propriety allows. He doesn’t look my way again.

The same can’t be said for Fortiss. He stares avidly at each of the tables, mine as well, as if memorizing not only the details of the warriors but our attendants. Unreasoning fear clutches at my throat. He’s looking for me, but I’m hiding in plain sight.

“You’re sure no one’s talking about the missing servant?” I ask Caleb quietly.

“Not a word. That night was dark as pitch, most everyone drunk following the fireworks display. Besides, no one wants to think of scavengers eating dead bodies when we should be celebrating.”

“Well, that’s…reassuring.”

He grins. “I figured.”

Dinner is well underway but nowhere near finished when Rihad stands. The hall hushes with impressive speed.

“Friends and warriors, the First House salutes you!” the Lord Protector calls out, raising his glass. “You represent the best of our men. Men who will stand and fight when the need is great, and men who will gladly give their lives to serve the Protectorate. This Tournament of Gold we host will bring you honor no matter how you fare and could enrich you and your house beyond your greatest expectations.”

A cheer follows that, along with much scraping of boots and cups and benches. The men are restless to get back to their wine. The fiercest battles of the tournament begin tomorrow, so drink and women are heavy on their minds, not speeches from Rihad about the Protectorate.

But Rihad’s next words focus us all. “However, we have a more pressing reason to apply ourselves to winning this tournament with skills and strategy,” he says, and his voice has taken on a note of somber dread. I sit up straighter, wondering if Nazar is paying closer attention too.

“There is betrayal afoot in our own lands, coming from we know not where. Who among us has not heard the rumors of ambush on the roads and byways of the Protectorate? Who among us has not wondered if the rumors were true? Or known, to their greater sadness, the truth of those rumors through the loss of a warrior and the great Divhs we are bound to? And then there is this talk of marauders, marauders possessed of the very ancient demons from the west we’re sworn to guard against—marauders our own strong men have protected us from. Well, I’m here to remind you that we shall not let fear grab us by the throat. Fortiss!”

Rihad turns, and Fortiss quickly masks his surprise at being called. He rises. To be singled out in such a way by the Lord Protector is clearly a great honor. Fortiss stands tall and straight, ready to be bathed in glory or to have his head lopped off.

My fingers clench into fists below the table, because I don’t know which it will be. I shouldn’t care, but I do.

“Give the report that we have learned from those loyal to the First House and spare no detail. The warriors of the Tournament of Gold deserve to know what they are fighting for.”

All our heads swivel toward Fortiss—even mine, and I at least suspect what he’s about to say. But as he speaks, detailing the deaths on the roads of the Protectorate, warriors killed in cold blood, I scan the faces of the men assembled. The older the face, the greater the outrage—and something else too. Not fear. These men have reached their majority with a mighty monster at their command. Fear is something with which they have no true experience. But there is a sense of wrongness in their countenances, as if the world is falling away from their feet, and they cannot quite keep their balance.

The names of those killed, when they come, are chilling in their finality.

Marcus of the Ninth House.

Bertrand of the Eleventh.

The party—but not the warrior—of Merritt of the Tenth House

And on they go. The Fourth, the Fifth…and rumors of the Third. So Rihad’s final prophecy came true, it seems. Convenient.

During Fortiss’s recitation, Rihad stands with his mouth drawn down, his brow furrowed, as if this travesty is something not of his doing, but an atrocity and a curse.

When Fortiss finishes, Rihad steps forth again. “So now you see, there’s more to fight for than the simple honor of reaching the Court of Talons or being granted new warriors to strengthen and sustain us. We must fight to hone our skills. We must better ourselves so we can protect our holdings and people. We must strive to present a united front against any that should stand in the way of the Protectorate!”

Anger and fear crash together in the room, and the cheer the warriors give this second time is louder and bolder than that which came before. Fists and cups pound on the tables, boots stamp on the floor. All are in agreement with the First House.

After a long moment, Rihad lifts a hand to quiet the men. “I’m too old to fight,” he says, placing a modest hand on his chest. “And too vain to lose to warriors who are my betters.” Laughter crackles through the room, but curiosity too. “But I would make an example to all House lords, that they might follow my lead. Bards!”

Always at the ready, the bards jump to their feet and stare at Rihad eagerly, each striking exaggerated poses. More laughter sounds at their antics, but I don’t mistake the bards’ actions for simple artifice. There are eleven of them present—a number that’s clearly not accidental. One for each of the remaining houses present in the Tournament of Gold. Rihad means for his pronouncement to be shared with all the land.

His words bear me out. “Travel fast and well and give my news to all who would hear it. In the Tournament of Gold, Lord Protector Rihad of the First House pledges the finest warrior of my house to fight in my place…and with Akrep, the most deadly Divh in all of the Protectorate!”

Fortiss’s head comes up, but his face shutters instantly into a mask of obedience. Still, murmurs spring up throughout the hall at the idea of this Akrep Divh taking the field—some excited, some aghast, some curious.

Rihad allows the rumble of words to ebb and flow before plunging on again. “Those who know the great Divh I command also know its might and cunning. But its obedience is its greatest asset. Obedience to my mind, and to my will. It will fight for Fortiss, and I challenge every lord unwilling or unable to take up the fight himself, who yet remains unwilling to give up the Divhs which are our destiny either to make way for a son or a chosen warrior, to heed my words. Your Divhs are an asset to the Protectorate , not your personal right.”

His words pierce me like a sword. I’ve been a warrior for only a few days, but I do know this—my bond with my Divh is my own. Not the Protectorate’s. And certainly not Rihad’s.

The Lord Protector, however, barrels on. “By my example, you shall see the truth of my words. Through the force of my mighty connection with my Divh, Fortiss will take the field with Akrep—a Divh banded to me, where none is yet banded to Fortiss.” His grin is almost feral. “And I’m not going to lie. My money is on Fortiss. Who will take me in this bet?”

Another rousing cheer goes up. Such a wager is something the men understand. Even Caleb leans over and starts jawing with one of the pale-green-garbed soldiers of the Fifth House who already has a money bag out on the table and is protesting loud and long that it can’t be done, a warrior knight being able to guide a Divh who isn’t his own. It simply can’t.

But my gaze isn’t on any of them. It’s fixed on Fortiss, standing in the full light of scrutiny of Rihad and the councilors, not to mention the warriors of the Tournament of Gold. He’ll be allowed to fight, it appears, but with a Divh not his own. I didn’t even know it was possible for a warrior to command his Divh to fight with another—and one who bears no band, at that. Rihad is positioning it as an honor, but knowing what I know now, it’s totally not. Merely another breadcrumb to a warrior who has yet to be granted the right to bond with his own Divh.

And Fortiss can’t deny Rihad’s command, can’t oppose him. He can only fight in whatever way his lord commands, and hope that—one day—it will be enough.

There’s no need for him to wait, though. There’s a perfectly powerful Divh in this very fortress who needs a warrior. And he’s practically standing on top of her.

“The rolls for the Tournament of Gold are set. Tomorrow we shall honor the victors from the fighting pits—the future banded soldiers of the Protectorate. They will have a stadium-side view for the contests to come, so they might see more closely than ever what their strength and cunning has brought them. And then the true competition will begin. Every hour, we will delight those who have traveled from all corners of the Protectorate to bear witness to the powerful creatures and men who stand between the people of the Protectorate and all that would attack us. Our role here isn’t merely to test each other’s mettle—but to awe our audience. To inspire in those watching, the belief that all is safe, that they are protected, and that the Protectorate is a powerful force in its own right.” By now, Rihad is practically roaring. “No one shall make the best and the boldest of our houses cower in fear—instead, they shall feel our wrath!”

I keep my face carefully neutral as Rihad finishes, and all the men around me chant and howl their approval. This isn’t the whipping up of nationalistic fervor, this is the goading of men to battle— true battle, not merely the sleight of hand that the Tournament of Gold has become over the last few centuries. What is Rihad’s game? And how much of it does Fortiss know?

I can’t forget the creature I saw in the fire in Rihad’s private chambers. A hooded figure with a face buried in darkness, heavily cloaked in a robe of fire, snakes roiling at his feet, twice as tall as Rihad and as broad as an oak.

I know the barest details of the Exalted Imperium’s attempt to breach the Western Realms, of course. But I have never heard stories of a creature such as what I saw in Rihad’s chambers—not even from the lands of the southern houses, and they have snakes to spare. That Nazar hadn’t seemed to recognize it either merely adds to my horror. Had I really seen what I thought I had?

As the crashing of the feast begins again and more wine flows, I bid my leave of Caleb and Nazar, claiming fatigue. My attention flicks to the forced merriment animating the unluckiest of all warriors in this hall, Fortiss. There are deep shadows in his already pale eyes as he drains his tankard.

Fortiss might be too proud to talk to Merritt about his pain, but I am a warrior who follows the way of strategy. According to the teaching of that way, I should look at Fortiss not as my enemy but as one of my own troops, someone I can guide and push and harry into whatever position I need, allowing me to make my attack.

And in this case, an attack against Fortiss in his moment of weakness is one against Rihad. The only attack I can make right now. The only way I can learn more of what is truly going on in the First House.

I slip out of the feasting hall and run to the barracks. It doesn’t take me long to do what I need to do.

When I return to the feasting hall, I am once again wrapped in a servant’s robes and golden chains…and this time, ready for war.