Chapter 33

T he two-day climax to the Tournament of Gold begins like a forced march to an execution—but with better music.

The trumpeters of the Lord Protector are stationed all along the roadway between the base of the First House’s gates and the coliseum. Every warrior in the tournament is dressed for competition, even those not scheduled today, because we all process in as a great parade, with Rihad at our head.

I think about the symbolism of that, the symbolism that has taken up so much of the tournament so far. Rihad’s sponsored battles in the fighting pits, with the promise of these newly created warrior-Divh partners to be shared among the winning houses of the warrior-knight competition. Fortiss, charged with commanding a Divh that isn’t his own. The novelty of the warriors from the southern realms, many of whom have never fought in the Tournament of Gold. And over all of it, the haunting threat of marauders, both those here at the tournament, and those targeting our best and brightest warrior knights.

Marauders . I know Rihad has ordered the assassinations of the warriors enroute to the tournament. I simply don’t fully understand why. To leave the south, north and the east exposed while he builds up his own strength in the heart of the Protectorate? To put new Divhs in place in those border houses? What could be the advantage there?

Unless…unless he knows how weak we are at the border, and he seeks to reinforce us. I think of my father, walled up in the Tenth, desperately clinging to the old ways. Father would never allow Lord Rihad to usurp his authority in his own house. But without Merritt…without our Div…

I narrow my gaze on Fortiss, well ahead of me at the leading edge of the procession. My stomach knots in equal parts delirium and doubt as I think of what we shared last night.

If he ever discovers who I really am…

But he can’t. No one can. I’ve come to this tournament to seek protection for my family and honor for my house. That remains my primary charge.

Though perhaps, no longer my only charge.

Whether it’s the way of the warrior or not, I want revenge. Justice. I don’t know who killed Merritt among these warriors, but at Lord Rihad’s request, one of the men or boys riding in this procession loosed the arrow that buried itself in my brother’s back. There can be no forgiveness for that.

I hope I’ll be able to fight every last one of the First House warriors until I find my brother’s murderer. If I look across that open space and see the truth in his eyes, know this warrior is the one who killed Merritt, I won’t stand down from my attack, no matter how the horns blow.

And I will win, I resolve. Especially if what I saw in Rihad’s chambers lies in wait for the Protectorate. Especially if the dark tales of the Savasci have any basis in truth. I will win warriors for the Tenth House and for the Ninth and Eleventh, the Fourth and Fifth, to replace their fallen sons. I will win warriors for the Twelfth House too, so they aren’t caught unawares.

I frown, considering the reality of what I seek to accomplish. But Rihad has promised a brace of twenty warrior knights to the winner, and the Tenth House doesn’t need twenty men. We need two. Perhaps three. More than that and we’d need to build a second manor house.

I snort as Nazar rides up beside me.

“Your manner is dark, and your thoughts take you away from the path you must tread,” he says conversationally, as if the words he speaks are of no import. “That’s the way to destruction, both for you and your lord.”

I narrow my eyes at him. He cannot mean Fortiss. The man isn’t a mind-reader. “I have no lord, Nazar.”

“Then all the more reason for you to follow the way of strategy, that you might serve as the lord of yourself and your troops. That you might push yourself nobly to the actions you seek to achieve.”

“It’s one of them, ahead of us, who killed him.” I stare stonily up the long procession, unable to let the thought go. “I can’t tell which one. With them all dressed alike, they’re all the enemy.”

Nazar falls quiet for a moment. “You must think hard on what you say,” he tells me gravely. “Your words contain more answers than you realize.” He waves off my retort. “Your opponents in the coming rounds know precisely what you have shown them, and only what you’ve shown them. What have they seen?”

I sigh. I’ve given this a great deal of thought too. “That I attack quickly, but allow my opponent to regain his feet, so I can be taken down with equal speed.” I shift uncomfortably. “I’ve given them much to work with.”

“Now you must give them something else,” Nazar says. “Something that is most important, given the line of First House warriors you have emblazoned in your mind as your due. They will come at you, in ones and twos or all at once, but you must make your body into rock as well as water, such that no one can touch you, no one can harm you.”

I frown at him as he leans over, fussing with the thick gullet of Darkwing’s saddle. “Harm me or harm my spirit? I thought warriors fight with their minds.”

Nazar straightens, and his face is so intense that I cannot look to see what he’s done to my tack; I can only stare into his hard, gray eyes. “What is the spirit of a warrior worth if there is no body of the warrior for others to see? If you learn to make your body like rock, your thoughts like water, all who see you will know what you do, and will wish to follow a warrior and a lord who can master such an act. You must think hard on this truth and make it your own.”

Nazar peels away from me, and something flutters in the wind as he falls back. I glance down at my saddle. Now, hanging from the saddle in a tight knot is a spray of long, delicate sashes, each stained a deep forest green, painted over with slender silver bands. I know what they are: favors. I reflect on what Nazar has told me. As we near the coliseum, there’ll be more people—people all around, both those waiting to enter the stands and those who cannot afford to enter, the masses of spectators who can still see much of the battle of warrior Divhs simply by looking up to the sky.

They’ve come to be entertained. They’ve come to be awed.

I fan my fingers through the sashes. I don’t think they’ve come to be led, though. Not by me. Perhaps by Rihad…

I frown, peering ahead. Rihad has almost reached the coliseum, where he will honor the fifty-odd soldiers and villagers who’ve fought and earned the right to become banded soldiers.

He will be their sponsor, and…

I blink. He will be their sponsor . Their sponsor and patron, in the end, much like he is to the bards. For all that he is to release these men to far-flung houses, how is there any way to ensure that their loyalty would be to their new lords? None. Not when Rihad is the benefactor who made it all possible in the first place. Not when Rihad has the power to grant men the opportunity to become warriors. There’s no more potent bond of loyalty than when you’ve lifted a man into a new station.

My lips settle into a thin line. I am a fool. A thousand times a fool.

Fighting in the tournament won’t bring back Merritt, and it won’t bring the Tenth House honor. Even if I discover the identity of Merritt’s killer, there will be no justice for my brother.

Winning the tournament won’t even truly bring the warriors we now lack at the Tenth House. It will merely bring spies and minions for Rihad into our home.

I glance sidelong at the armed guards lining the path to the coliseum. They’re here to keep the crowd from us, true enough. But they’re also here to ensure we don’t break ranks. Rihad has carefully orchestrated this day, and he’s certain of its outcome. Just as he’s certain that the bards are in his employ and the warriors of his house will do his bidding without fail. He’s certain of a lot of things.

At last, the coliseum looms high overhead, and in its shadows teem the crowds of Trilion. I gape, startled at how many more spectators seem to be in attendance than even a week earlier. They spill deep into the marshlands, spreading out from the coliseum, and as the first of our line reaches them, the cheers start loud and long, growing with each new warrior that passes by them.

Even though the cheers for Lord Rihad are great and there are many streamers thrown in celebration, the crowd’s shouts boom even higher as the final First House warriors pass. And then come the Second House warriors, well recognized in this place. More streamers and flowers fly through the air along with shouts of encouragement. And on it goes, until finally the Eighth House passes into the crowd, and I eventually pace Darkwing forward close behind the stallion carrying the lone warrior for the Ninth House. My face burns as I worry there will be no one to cheer these smaller houses.

I’m mistaken.

The cheers rise up with what sounds like even greater abandon, urging the smaller houses on to impossible victory—or perhaps the spectators are simply grateful that the procession is drawing to a close. But as I ride, I begin to see makeshift flags, dark green slashes among all the gold and black, orange, sand, and blue.

From my saddle, eager hands pull away the favors that Nazar has given me as well. I stare, trying to make out faces in the crowd. There is more than just the boy from the fighting pits or even his family, there are easily a dozen—a small pittance compared to the rolling swath of gold and black, or even the fiery flurry of the orange…but there are a dozen, definitely.

A dozen souls who hold up a flag for a warrior knight to whom they have no allegiance, who failed in his first trial. A dozen brave bettors who, for at least this moment, think I can progress through the tournament. Think I can battle proudly. Think—possibly—I can win.

Or maybe they just feel sorry for me.

I laugh aloud at the traitorous thought, and several of the crowd nearest me turn and add more gusto to their cheers. All the warriors before me have been taciturn, stoic. Theirs is a sacred trust, and they’ll be returning to their proud houses as victors no matter their efforts here.

I have no proud house, no trust. I have only this: a doomed battle against a stacked field, where the greatest warriors in the land are but the puppets of a larger hand, turning and twirling us for his own dark reasons.

And yet, there are those few green flags…

We make the final turn into the mouth of the coliseum, and if I was surprised at the overflow crowd, I’m completely overwhelmed now. Everyone is on their feet, stamping and chanting, and again, the flags fly at the tips of outstretched hands. Men and even women crane forth, holding up children to see, to experience the glory of this procession of the Protectorate’s finest combatants. These are men charged with highest honor from the Exalted Imperium itself, and handed into service generation over generation, divinely blessed with the obligation to protect and defend.

As we march, the procession splits off, and I pivot to see the outriders shunt away to a cordoned area, to dismount and wait until they are needed. For this, the real tournament, First House guards won’t be required to minister to every combatant, especially those who are injured in battle. No, each warrior will be cared for by his own men, which means Nazar and Caleb can stay close, both to help and to protect me from unwanted attention should I fall.

The procession finally stops in front of a grand new platform that has been constructed before the wooden towers, upon which stand all the councilors and Lord Protector Rihad. We dismount and are escorted one by one to the stage, where we stand in front of the councilors but behind Rihad, looking for all the world like we are foot soldiers to his general.

Rihad holds up his hand, and the crowd stills as criers before each section hold up their hands as well. As impossible as it is for me to believe that mere criers can hold such sway over this enormous throng, I squint more closely and see the guards lining the field to either side of the criers, apparently ready to enforce silence on the tips of their blades.

Rihad drops his hands and shouts out, “Welcome to the Tournament of Gold!”

As the criers repeat the statement, a roar loud enough to be heard in the Imperium capital sails forth. He lets it continue for a time. Then he speaks again, pausing so that the criers can echo his words in an ever-expanding wave.

“First, we honor the winners of the fighting pits. Fifty brave men and boys who have earned the right to fight as banded soldiers. At the end of this tournament, you are the ones who will be feasting in the First House. You are the ones who will bow down beside the priests of the Light, to receive your sacred warrior bands.”

Another deafening roar accompanies this pronouncement. I gaze down over the men and boys assembled before Rihad. The cheater from the first round isn’t among them, and I lift my chin higher at noticing that, sweeping the group with an assessing gaze.

They stare back boldly—some a little awed, some intense, all of them proud and exhausted at once, with the look of souls who’ve been cast one too many times upon the shoals of a distant shore. Their efforts will be rewarded, however. With Rihad as their sponsor, they will get their Divhs. One by one they will be granted a fearsome creature—to the size and manner they deserve.

I look over to Fortiss, standing stoically by Rihad’s side. He, too, deserves a Divh, and not to be simply swept along by circumstances he cannot control. Perhaps his father had died too swiftly, perhaps in great pain. Perhaps he’d thought he would recover…

“Your thoughts betray you, Merritt of the Tenth House.”

Beneath the roaring of the crowds, the voice close to my ear is almost intimate. I stiffen, turning slightly to the side. “Councilor Miriam.”

“You feel pity for Fortiss.” The words aren’t said as a rebuke, but I harden my jaw all the same.

“I have no need to feel pity for the exalted warrior of the First House. He’ll fight nobly and well with Rihad’s Divh. The Tournament is graced by their alliance.”

“He’ll fight nobly and well.” Miriam breaks off as Rihad speaks again, but she doesn’t flow back into the crowd as I so desperately want her to. “But their alliance is no act of grace.”

I can’t help but gape at her then dart my gaze to those around us. But I am the last warrior on the platform, with the Eleventh and Twelfth Houses absent, and Miriam stands between me and the rest of the half circle of men. She turns forward, smiling as Rihad speaks again. Then her words float to me as the men on the field below depart, swamped in a roaring tide of honor and adulation.

“You forget, I have lived long among the council. I have known generations of warriors of the First House, and all the great men as well. Fortiss’s father was both. He was as honorable as his father before him.”

“His loss was keenly felt, I am sure.”

“By most.” She nods. “Not by all.” She slides her glance to me again. “You have great anger within you, Merritt of the Tenth. It surrounds you in a corona of fierce light. Protects you, even. I cannot pierce it as easily as I would like.”

All the saliva dries in my mouth. “You’re a sensitive.”

Even in the backward mountains of the east, I’ve heard of people like her. Not mystics, exactly. Not priests or priestesses of the Light either. But they are highly intuitive, keenly discerning, their skills almost—not quite, but almost—magical. No wonder Rihad has allowed Miriam on the council. Not because he’s so advanced, but because he cannot allow himself to miss out on her insights. And he’s already proven he’s no stranger to magical incantations and premonitions.

What other secrets is he hiding?

More to the point, how is it that Miriam hasn’t already outed me as a woman? Surely, she can intuit that most basic of truths, unless…

I frown. Unless her sight is blinded by the warrior’s band she can sense on my arm? Is she truly so entrenched in the doctrine of the Protectorate that she cannot imagine a woman connected to a Divh? And is that why Fortiss, too, hasn’t seen my truth—when he, more than anyone, should?

If so, this warrior band has been blessed a thousand times by the Light. I will bow to wherever it leads me.

But Miriam recalls my focus. “Such anger as yours leaves a residue wherever you go—not for long, and your anger is so bright that it flares and is quickly gone, like a shadow in the heat of the sun. But it rests long enough for those who know how to look.”

Caution pricks at the hairs upon my nape as she regards me more fully. “You were in the caverns of the First House, weren’t you?” she asks, her words sounding like a death knell. “You saw what lies trapped within our very walls. And you must have asked yourself why. But ‘why’ isn’t the right question.”

I stare at her, my mouth set, my face a winter’s sky. How does she know these things—and what else does she know? I’ve no idea, but I won’t give her the honor of ensnaring me further in her web.

At least now I know why she hasn’t betrayed me, though. She has her own agenda here, her own goal. One that leaves no room for a consideration so banal as my gender, not when the warrior’s band around my bicep fairly radiates with its own sentient energy.

She leans forward and taps my arm where the band cuts into my flesh. “The right question is ‘who’ and then ‘how.’ Who had a Divh and then didn’t…and who should have been chosen by one, and was not? And, more importantly, how was such a deed done?”

The cheering ends, and now Miriam does retreat, leaving me to stare ahead at Rihad—and at Fortiss. The truth I had already suspected now laid bare to me, the cruel deception I had shuddered to imagine brought to light…and brought to light by Rihad’s own councilor. Why?

But as Miriam herself said, why isn’t the question here. But who…and then how.

Fortiss is the son of Toma, once the greatest warrior in the land. Toma’s awesomely fleet and powerful Divh, Szonja—the Divh of a generation, the Divh of a hundred bardic tales—should have died with him or been passed on to his son.

Instead, a creature who is a shadow of that former Divh lies chained in the bowels of the First House, held fast by the Lord Protector, while Rihad wears two bands.

He holds that Divh, without question, through abilities that are not of the Light. Rihad has trapped the most glorious Divh in a century, binding her up in ever-tightening coils of darkness.

He has trapped her, and he has trapped us all.