Chapter 5

T he journey over the mountain pass to the Tournament of Gold takes us three hard days’ travel. I barely notice it. My dismay over my shorn hair fades with the plodding of Darkwing’s hooves. It’s replaced by the twin daggers of grief and fury at Adriana’s senseless death, and at the loss of Merritt with his whole life in front of him. Those rake over me by turns, as sharp and jagged as the broken arrow in my saddle bag.

Someone—somewhere—loosed that arrow. And though finding that killer cannot be my focus, the anger that builds within me against the slinking coward who took my brother’s life eventually crowds out everything else…leaving behind only deep, immovable rage.

My left arm throbs every time I jostle it, too, blood seeping out from under the bandages Nazar has carefully fashioned for me. He says it will heal quickly, but I don’t see how. Especially since I shouldn’t have been banded at all. At least I didn’t share Merritt’s crippling sickness when he first bonded with his Divh. He’d been ill for days, a shivering, quivering mess. I only feel pain.

Yet another sign I am unworthy. As if I need more reminders.

The priest ignores me, mostly, for most of the first day. After that, when he speaks at all, it’s to tell me of this city or that, this house or the other, soft murmurs of a world I’ve never known except for the brief scraps of information I’d overheard through the years and ferreted away. No woman needs to learn about the politics and structures of the Protectorate. But first-blooded and firstborn warriors must. And I am a warrior, at least for these next few days. I sop up his every word like it’s my last meal.

At length, I tell Nazar of the man I saw in the forest, dressed in First House colors. He’s shocked, then outraged, of course, and he rails at me, driving nails into the wounds of my own guilt. His sneering rebuke shreds through my weak protests and half-formed defenses as if they were made of cobwebs. He rants for a solid three hours, then abruptly stops, falls silent.

What’s done is done, he says. The warrior can only move forward.

His lessons begin anew—and more of them now, histories and heroes, politics and power. I learn that Lord Rihad may have no sons, but he isn’t without his banded warriors—some of them almost as noble as the Lord Protector himself. He speaks of a nephew yet unbanded, too—Fortiss. A fighter of great renown, from an honored family, who is still without a Divh, for reasons Nazar doesn’t know but which plainly confuse him.

I think of the man I met, his golden eyes, his noble face. Is this Fortiss to blame for my brother’s death? I think of the gray-feathered arrow in my pack, shot true and far into the sky until it buried itself in my brother’s back. It’s finely made by any account, and so was the bow that shot it, I suspect. Not a marauder’s arrow, either. A nobleman’s.

Fury knots within me, as thickly coiled as my cut-off hair, but nowhere near as beautiful.

Gradually, Nazar’s quiet, lulling voice helps me box up the last of my pain, bury it deep. In this sacred soil, I plant iron- tipped resolve, fledgling shoots strengthened by the priest’s stoic presence. I will go to the tournament. I will secure the soldiers we desperately need. Once that is done, I’ll return to my father and face his punishment.

Even if I don’t survive that punishment, I will bring honor to my house.

By the third day of our journey, the pain from my arm has diminished to a dull ache—or maybe I’m simply distracted by the changes all around me. The road we’re following has grown crowded. Excitement rushes through the air, everyone’s tongue bearing tales of the coming Tournament of Gold. It’s to be the largest one ever, they all say, and the boons to the winning houses will be extraordinary. The Court of Talons will be full to bursting with warriors eligible for the winged crown—the award given to the winning warrior, if Lord Protector Rihad judges him worthy.

Nazar never stops to ask for any details beyond what we can overhear. Neither do I, of course. Every time a traveler stares too long at our small company—a boy, a priest and five additional horses, our dusty packs and empty saddles draped in Tenth House green—I brace myself. We are hardly a procession worthy of one of the great houses of the Protectorate. At every sidelong glance I expect to hear the cry that I am a thief, a liar, a criminal wearing the rightful band of my brother.

But no one stops us; no one speaks. Instead, we simply ride.

It’s late afternoon before we crest the final ridge. With a subtle gesture, Nazar points me toward the roped and cordoned campsites clearly occupied by the visiting houses of the Protectorate, their warrior knights and their banded soldiers come to fight in the Tournament of Gold. The lesser houses, like ours, have only one Divh, bonded to the first-blooded and firstborn warrior son of the house lord. The greater houses have more—Divhs that are bonded to lesser noble warrior knights and even to non-noble banded soldiers. The Divhs of the first-blooded and firstborn warrior knights are always the mightiest, by far. But any Divh, even one commanded by a banded soldier, would be awesome to behold.

The campsite’s layout mirrors that of the Protectorate itself: the First House flags flying in the center, surrounded by the Second, Eighth, and Fourth Houses to the west, the Third, Seventh, and Ninth Houses to the south, the Eleventh, Tenth, and Twelfth Houses to the east, and the Fifth and Sixth Houses to the north.

Even now, I can see the red and white banners and tents of the Second, the sky-blue flags of the Fourth, the rich purple of the Sixth House. I’ve only heard of these great houses from the bards. Seeing them now feels wrong somehow, like a story ripped from its pages and scattered on a field. I search to see how large a space was allotted for the Tenth House, and yet—what would we raise? We have no banners or tents, no flags to fly. We’ve barely kept more than our bedrolls and grave shovel.

Still, I can’t dwell on that depressing truth for long. Because beyond these rich encampments, the thriving city of Trilion bursts forth like a swarm of bees startled from its hive…and for a moment, I can only stare. I’ve never seen such a place—never even imagined it.

Trilion isn’t a city proper, Nazar has told me. Now, taking in the buildings and streets below me on the third afternoon since my brother’s death, I understand better what the priest has been trying to explain during our journey.

Most every city, from the capital of the Exalted Imperium on down, is a tightly wound body built around two hearts: its market, and its buildings of official commerce and law. Inns and taverns, shops and artisans’ stalls expand in ever-widening circles around this double-beating center, hemmed in by rivers or mountains or the sea.

But Trilion’s hearts beat differently, and the city that has sprung up around them throbs with a rhythm all its own.

Soaring high above the city is the First House, home of Lord Rihad and the Court of Talons. The First Lord of the Protectorate governs not only the city at the base of his mountain stronghold, but the whole of our border nation; he answers only to the Emperor of the Exalted Imperium, who has not stepped foot in the Protectorate for the past hundred years. At the base of Lord Rihad’s mountain, there’s a wide swath of wasteland—open ground unplowed or built upon, I assume by Rihad’s own decree. Then the city proper of Trilion begins: inns, taverns, shops and smithies, crafts holds and kilns, all of it spreading out in a teeming tide toward the second great structure of the city: the tournament coliseum.

Fully three hundred galloping strides long on each side, the coliseum of the Tournament of Gold consists of two great stands carved out of a bedrock of limestone, reshaping what had once been two bulbous fists of rock jutting out of the earth into massive semicircular foundations for seating.

It’s rumored that a great city once stood on these grounds, and a stadium for sport as well. But unlike the cities tucked into the mountains to the east, still somewhat intact despite the long centuries of rot and decay, the open plains were cruel to all relics of the past.

By the time the Exalted Imperium pushed back its enemies and secured the Protectorate as a buffer zone between the empire and the chaos of the Western Realms, there was very little left of the civilization had existed before. And so the first Lord Protector and the Twelve Houses of the Protectorate built upon those ashes and transformed the limestone monuments into stadiums to celebrate their fabled warriors.

According to Nazar, these stands can hold five thousand souls. Even from this distance, the coliseum seems impossibly huge. Mighty Divhs do battle there, and I clench my fists as I look at the enormous structure in the distance, my pulse pounding. Gent would have competed there, were Merritt still alive.

“Declare yourself!”

The voice is so loud, so close, I nearly fall off Darkwing. As it is, I flinch back roughly, then whip around to gape.

A tall, thin, severe-looking man stands in front of us on the path in richly embroidered robes. Beside him, a shorter, equally thin man in a tunic and heavy breeches holds a massive open book. They are dressed in the colors of the First House—gold and black.

Gold and black! My mind immediately flies to the warrior in the forest, and then to the gray-feathered arrow in my saddlebag. This must be some seneschal of the First House, sent to record all the visiting houses. I could show him the arrow, explain the attack, demand justice for Merritt?—

Except…that won’t work. Because I’m Merritt.

“Declare yourself!” the man barks again, his eyes narrowing on me, not Nazar.

“Merritt,” I blurt, my rough, low voice made harsher with panic. “Lord Merritt of the Tenth House, son of Lord Lemille, first-blooded and—firstborn.”

The man bends over the book to scratch my name onto a page, his assistant holding the tome securely. “Come to enter the Tournament of Gold,” the seneschal says, speaking in a haughty, privileged tone. It’s not a question.

I trade a quick glance with Nazar. The priest’s headshake is only barely perceptible. “No,” I say. “We seek only to hire soldiers this year. No more.”

The seneschal peers up at me, his beetling brows lifting high on his gaunt face, but the next words I hear aren’t from him or his assistant. Instead, a called-out greeting rolls across us with the rich indolence of spilled wine, seeping into all the empty spaces of my life I hadn’t realized were there.

“Merritt of the Tenth House. Well met.”

I turn in my saddle, pulling Darkwing around—then jolt upright.

It’s the warrior from the forest.

I want to scream, to flee, or to faint straight out of my saddle. I do none of these things, instead remaining stoic and still as the warrior stares at me with an insufferably cocky smile. Everything about him is the same: the confident carriage, the broad shoulders, the rich vestments of gold and black. His burnished skin practically glows in the harsh sunlight, his curling black hair lifts gently in the breeze, and his golden eyes seem to see right through me. All the saliva dries in my mouth.

There’s no question, now that I see him in the light. This is a true warrior knight, first-blooded and firstborn, I know it in my bones.

The man is flanked by two attendants—clearly soldiers, with blocky faces and flat eyes—the three of them on snow-white horses that fairly glow in the bright sun. They all wear gold tunics trimmed in black.

Were these attendants also with him in the forest? My mind practically burns with the question. Was one of them the archer who murdered my brother?

“Who…” I begin lamely, but the warrior mercifully cuts me off.

“Fortiss of the First, nephew of the Lord Protector,” he announces, confirming Nazar’s suspicion in one breath. “And of all the warriors in the Tournament, I’m probably the only one glad to see you here.”

Fortiss , I echo in my mind, twin streams of fire and ice stiffening my spine. The unbanded champion of Lord Rihad—his brother’s child? Sister’s? Nazar hadn’t told me this. There’s too much Nazar still doesn’t know about the politics of the First House. I can feel the priest’s keen attention on the man in front of me, for all that he makes no sound.

Fortiss holds his hand out to me, and once again I freeze. I’ve never shaken a man’s hand as an equal. Then Darkwing stamps, clearly picking up on my nerves. I thrust my hand forward, awkwardly clasping Fortiss’s. He clamps it hard, and his grin widens as I jerk my arm back once more.

“Rumor has it your caravan was waylaid by marauders,” he says, false concern shading his words. “Judging from the state of your horses and packs, I believe it. Has your party split up to find lodging?”

I grit my teeth, hearing the lie in his voice. Rumor has it, my ass. He was there in that forest, as sure as he’s standing in front of me right now. Why would he lie about it? “We were waylaid, as you say.” My rough voice slices the air, cold and blunt in the sunshine. “We mourn the loss of many good men, and a woman too.”

“Woman?” Fortiss’s face registers genuine shock, and he glances to Nazar, then to the horses, then finally back to me. “Not your sister, surely? Lord Rihad had wondered if she was traveling with you.”

“No.” There’s really nothing else I can say about that, and no ready lie springs up to explain where in the Light I’ve hidden a full-grown woman and all her wedding hair. Instead, I glare at Fortiss until he shifts his glance again to Nazar.

“Lord Protector Rihad bade me keep watch for any riders in the trappings of the Tenth House green. He’ll be glad to know you’ve arrived safely after your trials on the mountain pass. No tribute will be required of you when you make your presentation to him tomorrow. Rather, it’s his profound hope that you will regain your losses and more in the Tournament of Gold.”

“I’m not here to fight,” I say quickly. “Only to hire.”

“As you say.” Glancing back to me with inscrutable eyes, he gestures to our pitiful clutch of horses. “Again, this isn’t your entire encampment, is it? Your sister—was she hurt? Tell me she is well.”

I am struck dumb, and Nazar speaks in my place.

“She remains at some distance, safe,” he says gruffly. “This is no place for a woman.”

Fortiss barks a sharp laugh. “That’s certainly true.” Does he sound relieved? Dismayed? Or simply astounded that the Tenth House line is still intact?

By now, I’ve finally regained my tongue. “And how has Lord Protector Rihad heard of this attack?” I scowl, glaring at him. “We saw no one but the marauders whose bodies remained after.”

Fortiss only shrugs. “Maybe not, but you were seen. A passing caravan claims they witnessed the attack from high on the pass above you. They shared the breathless tale to any who would listen—including talk of the enormous Divh the Tenth House brought to bear.”

“Too late to save the lives of my people.” My words are bitter and sharp, and Fortiss’s gaze meets mine.

“True enough. But if your Divh is anything like what the rumors say, you can gain more men in the tournament—more, and better men?—”

“ No .” I’m more forceful this time. “I’m here to buy soldiers, not to fight. That can wait another year.” It can wait a lifetime.

Fortiss frowns, then his face clears. “Ah! No wonder you’re so insistent. You don’t know, do you?”

He leans forward again as if to confide in me, and I force myself not to lean in as well, a witless moth to his flame. “The Tournament of Gold—it’s different this year. There are boons to be had by those who win unlike any that have ever been granted. The deeper you get into the tournament, the better your chance for freshly minted banded soldiers—soldiers paid for by the First House, not your own coin.”

I blink in surprise at the unexpected largesse of the First House—banded soldiers we don’t have to pay for? Could that be possible? At the Tenth, my father holds our coin in a tight, two-fisted grip, loath to spend any of it for anything. He would leap at this chance to get able-bodied men for free, I have no doubt.

Fortiss laughs at my expression. I try to school myself back to disinterest, but he’s not fooled. “I thought you’d care to hear that. Far better to keep your coin and get solid men for free, than to spend your money needlessly, eh?”

Unreasonably annoyed by his tone, I return his grin with a growl. “I’m not here to compete, Fortiss of the First.” Once again, I think of the arrow in my saddlebag, proof positive of a grave betrayal among the very houses this tournament celebrates.

Fortiss is the nephew of the Lord Protector, who is the governor of our entire territory, and he was there . I should show him the arrow, demand an explanation—but something stays my hand. I am, after all, a woman dressed as a man…and I am bound with a warrior’s band. If that band was discovered, nothing I could say would change the fact that I’d be arrested, imprisoned, and probably killed.

No. I need a better plan.

I turn to the seneschal, who’s not yet put away his book. “I’m here to buy soldiers,” I reiterate. “Nothing more.”

“Stubborn to the end,” Fortiss overrides the end of my declaration, his voice still maddeningly confident. “While you’re here, though, at least take a look around. The Tournament of Gold begins with a few days of competition among the rank and file; men and boys seeking their fortunes in the garrisons of the great houses. But there will be a warrior and Divh battle or two as well—merely exhibitions—to whet the appetites of the crowds. Something to watch, if you are thinking of fighting in the two-day competition between high-level warriors at the end of the tournament.” He raises both hands at my black look. “Or even if you’re not.”

Throughout this recitation, Nazar has edged forward, and I glance at him, not missing the keen interest in his eyes. “What else should we know about the tournament?” he asks.

Fortiss turns to him then straightens as he takes in Nazar’s deep-blue cloak, flipped back now to reveal its gray lining.

“Priest of the Light, you honor us,” he says. “Forgive me, I didn’t realize?—”

Nazar waves him off. “You say the tournament has changed this year. How, specifically?”

Fortiss remains respectful, but there’s no denying his excitement. His horse stamps and shifts beneath him. “The Tournament of Gold has always showcased the best warriors from all twelve houses—those who participate, of course.” He eyes me as he says this last, and I feel the blood creep up my cheeks. I grit my teeth but say nothing.

“This year will be the greatest spectacle yet. After the preliminary battles among the fighting men are done, the warrior knights and banded soldiers who qualify—if any do—will undertake two days of one-on-one competition. Two men and their Divhs will take the field, face off, and whoever triumphs advances. In that way, the field will be winnowed down from more than fifty to eight.”

“More than fifty,” I echo hollowly. I had no idea there were so many warrior knights and banded soldiers coming here to compete. Most houses have garrisons of men to protect them in the absence of their mighty Divhs, but still, it seems rash to leave so many houses without their warriors.

“The eight remaining combatants will fight in a configuration of Lord Rihad’s choosing—though you can bet it will be tailored to please the crowd—until there remain only two. Those two will fight for the tournament’s ultimate prize.”

“The winged crown?” It’s my voice, not Nazar’s, that breaks in as Fortiss pauses. I grimace at the warrior’s knowing grin.

“Often promised, rarely bestowed.” He nods. “But this year, like I said, is different. The crown brings with it a dozen newly banded soldiers—the top non-noble finalists in the lower levels of the tournament. Something else to consider, no?”

A horn sounds, and Fortiss lifts his head, turning as if he can see who’s making the distant call. His profile seems chiseled in stone, and wariness tightens my stomach. A new, unfamiliar, and definitely unwanted doubt fills me. This is a warrior knight I need to stay far away from. This whole place is a danger I can ill afford.

“New houses arrive,” Fortiss announces, glancing back at me, “and so I must greet them. But welcome to Trilion, Lord Merritt of the Tenth.” He studies me intently for a long moment, then nods. “To Trilion, and to the Tournament of Gold.”