Chapter 7

M y face swells to half again its size by the following morning. Caleb’s gone when I awake, but Nazar doesn’t leave the campsite. Instead, he layers foul-smelling poultices over my face, covering my eyes, and slaps my hands away when I try to pull off the soaked cloths.

“At least now no one will mistake you as a warrior knight,” he says grimly. “Merely an unhoused grit trying for a noble station.”

I manage short sentences, my mouth slowly regaining the ability to form distinct words. “I fought well and hard. Caleb has one arm.”

“It was not your fight.”

“He beat the red knight fairly. The boy came after him. But the fight was already over. It wasn’t fair.”

Nazar hesitates for a long time, and I almost drift off into sleep again. Then his words pull my mind back. “You didn’t draw your sword.”

I snort, half coughing as the air lodges in my swollen nose. “I don’t know how to use it.”

“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said in days,” he snaps, and a moment later, the true source of his anger becomes clear. “You were to meet with Rihad yesterday.”

He catches me before I can lurch upright. “Lie still. I told the men who came ’round that the ride and the attack in the mountains has caught up with you, and that you would honor Rihad more by healing before he sees you. It’s true enough, and the Lord Protector seems inclined to give you both grace and space.” His tone implies I deserve neither, and I wince. He’s right.

“Lance my bruises.” I wave my hand at the poultices. “I’ll heal faster.”

“No,” he retorts, with the sharpness of a teacher driven to the edge of his patience. “You’ll heal faster but imperfectly, with scars beneath your eyes.”

Defensively, I point to my neck, though the blood rushing to my face makes my head throb. “I’m already scarred. What’s one more?”

The priest doesn’t speak after that. I fall into a fitful sleep. At one time, I can almost hear voices. Nazar’s calm and measured tones, Caleb’s—I think it must be Caleb’s—high and earnest patter. But mostly I draw in the fragrant smell of mint and cloves and the strong tang of garlic, so strong I’ll taste it for days, I’m sure.

When I wake again, I don’t move, but Nazar is there anyway. He peels away the top cloth to uncover one eye, and I blink up at him, almost able to see him through the slit that’s opened up. The swelling has diminished. My head is clearer, my senses sharper. I have to be improving.

“Lie still.” Nazar’s words are clipped, and regret scores through me as he resettles the rags. I went out yesterday to buy soldiers, not to get my head bashed in. The priest pulls the cloths off my mouth and wipes at my lower face, then I feel the press of a cup against my lips. The water is clean and pure and tastes like air.

“I’m sorry, Nazar,” I say when he pulls it away. “I only wanted to help Caleb. I was foolish.”

“You fought with your fists and the stave.”

I don’t know how to respond to that, so I consider the soft breeze upon my face instead, the smells of ginger and cloves and cooked meat. I’ve no idea how long I’ve slept, but my mouth feels different now. My teeth are secure in their sockets, my tongue no longer too thick. I blink my eyes wide open beneath the cloths and can see more of the brightness of the full sun. The swelling is nearly gone.

At length, Nazar speaks again. “Why did you fight with your fists? You’re not as strong as a man—or even most boys. You’ll never be as strong.”

I frown. I stretch my fingers out and curl them back again. They’re sore, but nothing seems broken. “I used the stave as well. I’m good with the stave.”

“You’ll never be as good as a trained man with the stave either. At least one wielded by your hands. You’re not meant to attack with such tools. Only defend.”

I wonder if something has gone wrong with my mind. Nazar’s speaking and I can follow his words, but I don’t understand what they mean. I listen to the quiet gurgling of my stomach. I’m hungry, I realize. That has to be good. That has to mean I’m healing. That has…

When I drift back awake again, I’m sitting up. I blink my eyes open and can absolutely see Nazar through my left one. It’s not that difficult. He stands directly in front of me, his lined face not three inches in front of my own. When I flinch back, his eyes crinkle. He straightens and hands me a bowl. “Eat.”

It’s a porridge of rice and honey and gingerroot, and it smells wonderful. “Slowly,” he directs as I take the bowl with shaking hands. “You can eat it all, but not all at once.” The waterskin beside me is full, and at Nazar’s nod, I pick it up too. I don’t deserve his care. My throat closes up, and I focus on the meal so Nazar can’t see my face.

“You know nothing of how a warrior knight fights in a tournament.”

Nazar says the words without censure. They bite just the same. I’m glad my face points away from the priest but wince as embarrassment brings the blood to my cheeks in a flare of pain.

He’s right, of course. I’ve never seen a tournament. I’ve rarely been allowed to hear the tales of the bards firsthand. And I was too proud to ask the servants to recount the tales, contenting myself with overheard snatches of poorly remembered details.

That same pride now stings me to speech. “Tournaments are simple enough. There are knights on warhorses with a lance and a sword. They race toward each other.”

“Yes, for show,” Nazar says mildly. “How do they fight when the parade is done?”

“The parade?” My shoulders drop. I’ve eaten all the rice, but I stare at the bowl, lost. The tournament play I’ve seen in our own yards had been nothing but boys riding toward each other with fake lances and swords. That’s all I’ve seen, in truth. All I’ve been allowed to see.

“True warriors don’t fight with their fists. They fight with their minds.”

I lift my head at that, scowling at the priest. “Caleb wasn’t getting his mind beaten in, Nazar. He was getting pummeled on his actual body.”

“Neither he nor the other boy were true warriors.”

“Well, the other boy had a fine sword and the clothing of the Second House, red and white. He looked like a warrior knight.”

“A warrior knight.” The priest’s disdain is palpable. “Fighting for money against a clearly impaired squire.”

He has a point. “Caleb could have drawn him into a fight for pride or rage.”

“He could have.” Nazar nods. “But if so, the boy is still clearly not a true warrior knight, no matter what his house calls him. Because he would have known better, or at least would have been afraid of what could happen. As you should have known better and been afraid of what could happen.”

“But—” I shake my head, confused.

“His Divh,” the priest says quietly. “If in his panic or pain he summoned a Divh into the center of that crowd…”

My eyes snap wide as Nazar sighs. He seems to make a decision. “You will go to the coliseum today, with coin this time. You can secure the men we need.”

“How will I know what to do?” I ask, finally putting voice to my biggest fear. I can bluff my way through a crowd, fair enough. But I’ve never spoken to true fighting men before—certainly not those who didn’t already serve our house. What will I say? How should I act?

Nazar doesn’t have a chance to respond.

“Merritt!” A bright voice sails out of the trees, and a moment later, Caleb bounds into the center of our camp. He’s still dressed in his hodgepodge of colors, but his cloths are clean and his smile delighted. “You’re awake. It’s about time.”

He looks to Nazar. “I’ve found a group of good prospects. Together, but not together, if you know what I mean.”

The priest nods, and I stare at Caleb in bewilderment. “I don’t know what you mean, no.”

“The soldiers you’re seeking for your house,” he says, puffing up with importance. “You want them coming from different areas of the Protectorate so their allegiance will be to your house and not each other. If we could get a banded soldier, that’d be a coup, but I’m thinking any who’d be allowed to come here are the best and brightest of their houses. Any interest they express in being wooed away from their current patrons would be all for show now—they’d cost far too much, especially if they want to compete in some of the lower tournament games. Toward the end of the tournament, though…” He shrugs, fully the wise sage. “Then there may be a chance.”

“Oh,” I say, as if I understand what he’s talking about. “Of course.”

I straighten my shoulders, ruthlessly stamping down my confusion and weakness. I’ll do this because I have to do this, and Caleb’s words do make a certain amount of sense once I take a breath to consider them. A banded soldier would be a greater boon than I’d thought possible. Not just a fighting man, but one who commanded a Divh, even a small one? That would keep the Tenth House safe. That would keep the border secure too. That would…

“Come on!” Caleb grins at me. “I told ’em you’d be coming and with coin to spend. No one doubts it, what with the marauder attack.”

I blink my itchy eyes, and Nazar talks over Caleb’s chatter, filling in what I’ve missed as I take stock of my arms and legs. Everything seems…better. Even my banded arm no longer hurts.

Then Nazar’s words catch my attention. “The First House isn’t the only party who knows of the attack. It’s reached the people of Trilion as well.”

“ Reached them,” Caleb scoffs. “It’s already legendary— you’re legendary. No one has seen a Tenth House warrior since your father fought here decades ago, and from all accounts, the Divh you’re banded to is far more enormous than anyone remembers! You’ll have no problem finding soldiers—men are lining up just for the chance to serve with such a powerful house and to rout the marauders who dared attack you.”

“Marauders.” I don’t recognize the sudden cold anger in my voice. Caleb flinches, stepping side to side as if ready to bolt.

“Sorry. I know you lost good men,” he says quickly. “But you’ve got more who’re ready and waiting for you. I can tell you exactly what they’re worth too. I know them all.” He shifts his weight again, clearly eager to be off. “We’ve had marauders worrying the edges of the tournament grounds here, too, worse this year than ever,” he says. “It’ll be good to have more men allied with you when you set off for home. For protection.”

I frown at Nazar, but he’s already stepping up to me, handing me a purse heavy with silver. I weigh it in my hands. I’ve no idea how much is in it, no idea what the worth of a good man is. My mother taught me only what was necessary to run a household, what to pay for a chicken or a cow. Surely a soldier commanded more than that.

The priest speaks again. “Remember, this is the full portion we will spend,” he says, as if we’ve already discussed this many times. “Give more weight to older soldiers than young ones. Men of discipline and proven mettle.”

“A few young ones would be—” Caleb shuts his mouth as Nazar sends a stern look his way, then tries again. “Sorry. Old is good. More than good.”

I nod and pocket the purse. Caleb seems honestly eager to help us, but I can’t help but wonder—why? Is it simply that I aided him in the fight? Or should I be warier of his good humor and cheerful prattle? He’s slipped so quickly into our camp…

There’s too much in this place I cannot trust, I feel it in my bones.

We’re ready to go less than a quarter hour later, Nazar distracting Caleb long enough that I’m able to relieve myself behind the horses and ensure my costume is fully in place. Acting the part of Merritt grows more complex with each hour I undertake it, but the task of negotiation, at least, has become clearer. With Caleb along unable to keep his mouth shut, I suspect I’ll learn all I need to know about purchasing soldiers without asking a single question. Maybe that’s why the priest seems willing enough to let the squire help us, even if I’m not as sure.

Nazar goes one further and hands a long green tunic to Caleb before we leave. The look of wonder on the boy’s face knifes through me, chasing away some of my doubt, but I keep my own expression neutral.

“These men know me,” he says to the priest. “They know I didn’t come here with you.”

“Then they can know you’ve become our hired agent,” Nazar replies dismissively. “Merritt is a warrior knight, not a tradesman. You will represent him.”

Caleb nods, swallowing. He pulls the tunic over his shirt, smoothing it down with one dirty hand, for once struck silent as we leave our camp.

He proves his worth nearly immediately.

Setting off across the streets of Trilion toward the immense bulk of the coliseum, Caleb recovers his tongue and strikes up an unceasing commentary. “Nazar didn’t give the rumors justice, I’m telling you straight,” he says. “You’re already famous. That Divh of yours has taken everyone by surprise. The old warrior knights swear that the Tenth House guardian was lighter in color and half the size of what’s being reported, but?—”

“How does anyone know differently?” I interrupt, my words unintentionally brusque as my mind shies away from the images his chatter conjures up. “No one came to our aid.”

He echoes what Fortiss told me not two days ago. “There was a caravan, or so the story goes. High up on the pass, too far away to help. But they heard the roaring of the Divh, saw it from all that distance away. No one knows who first carried the tale to Trilion—Nazar already asked me. But once it reached the city’s borders, it spread like fire.”

I grunt. There was no caravan on the mountain pass. Nazar and I would’ve seen it. Which means members of the attack party itself must have come slinking back to Trilion to report—or Fortiss reported for him. They or their minders planted the story of the marauders, no doubt worried I—well, Merritt, anyway—would come seeking retribution. No one would believe a house broke the most basic of laws of the Protectorate by taking up arms against another house, but someone is making doubly sure the suspicion doesn’t get raised.

Who would care if it did, though?

I lift my eyes toward the high castle stronghold, and Caleb follows my gaze. “Lord Rihad—he’s heard of it too, it’s said. Nazar said he deferred your audience with him with your face all…” He flaps his hand at my head, which needs no further explanation. It still feels like a crushed gourd. “He’s probably waiting until you enter the tournament.”

“I’m not entering the tournament.”

Caleb’s exasperated sigh tells me this isn’t news. Undoubtedly, Nazar has already walked this path with him. “Seriously? Did you not hear me when I told you that the winner of the tournament will get their pick of the top-ranked banded soldiers? You wouldn’t even have to spend your own coin—just enter and win out. The pit fights will be done in a couple of days, then some contests between the banded soldiers who aren’t good enough to compete in the tournament proper—and then the real tournament will begin. All the houses who’ve committed will do battle until only one remains.”

I scowl at him. “I thought no house struck down another house.”

“Well, of course they don’t,” he says. “I mean that one will remain in a figurative sense. Warrior knights can die, sure, but—it’s rare. Very rare. And it’s never on purpose.”

Never . My lips twist. Yet while these honored men don’t strike to kill on the tournament field, some skilled archer from a noble house had pierced my brother’s heart with a featureless gray arrow. Was the archer a warrior knight as well? A banded soldier?

Or merely a guard, a hired mercenary…

No. I discard this last idea as soon as it forms. Merritt’s murder was a delicate act, for all that it was ruthless and of seeming cowardice. Guards fail. Mercenaries can be bought—or they can talk out of spite. To assassinate a warrior knight—and by extension his Divh—would be an act of highest secrecy. It would not have been trusted to someone not in the inner circle.

Is Fortiss my brother’s murderer? Or someone Fortiss knows? He has to know him, which is crime enough—it’s far too much to believe he’s completely ignorant of what happened to my house.

But I can’t ask. I know I can’t ask—and it shouldn’t matter to me. I don’t have the luxury of seeking revenge. Not when I have a house to protect.

And yet… could I seek that revenge? Could I find the low coward who loosed that arrow from the heart of the forest? Could I trick Fortiss into revealing him…somehow?

Or into betraying that he was my brother’s murderer?

“We’ll be gone before the tournament starts,” I say sternly, to banish those thoughts before they can take root. “These…marauders were too bold. There’s no reason they won’t strike again.”

Caleb snorts. “No reason other than their guts turned to milk on seeing your Divh, maybe. That’s why they’re marauders. They can only bite and snap in the shadows; they don’t stand and fight when the odds are stacked against them.”

As we wind through Trilion, the Tenth House’s newest squire keeps up his relentless patter, in between useful observations about the best food carts and drinking houses, what corners to avoid and what warrior knights to recognize on sight. We pass another knot of men haggling in market stalls, and I ask the question uppermost in my mind. “Where are the women?”

He shoots me a startled look, and I know I’ve mis-stepped. I deliberately hold his gaze, daring him to challenge me. Was Caleb hired by some other house to unravel my story? Does someone out there know I’m not Merritt at all, but his untrained sister, desperately trying to protect her house?

Caleb’s expression clears almost immediately, but not fast enough to keep my stomach from rolling queasily. “I keep forgetting, you haven’t crept out of your mountain stronghold in so long, you might as well be from the Imperium itself. Girls,”—he flaps a dismissive hand—“women, whatever, they don’t take part in the trade leading up to the tournament. It’s not their place. You’ll see ’em in the stands, of course, with their husbands and fathers—or at least their guardians—but not out and about. They belong in their tents if they’re near the coliseum at all, I tell you plain.”

I burn with a flash of resentment at this but keep my voice neutral. “Has it always been that way?” I think of my father, the fights I overheard between him and my mother as she pleaded for him to spare my life whenever he found fault in me, which was often. She’d begged him for years to sell me into marriage with another noble house versus kill me outright until he finally, blessedly agreed. I’d never thought about the inherent injustice of her needing to beg so frantically for my life…I’d merely accepted it. But now that I’m being treated as a boy, a man, with respect simply being offered up to me as a matter of course, I’m staggered by the difference.

Caleb merely shrugs. “Long enough. Women are for houses and holdings and the merchant caravans. Trilion is a civilized city. I mean, Lord Rihad does have a woman among his advisors, I hear, though most of the men are priests of the Light. I’ve never seen her, but that’s what I’m told.”

“How exotic of him,” I say drily. It seems that—save for this lone councilor—a woman’s place is as entrenched in Trilion as it is in our household. I don’t know why I’m surprised.

Our conversation ends as we near the walls of the coliseum. Caleb slows, his body going straighter.

“These aren’t all the soldiers available, but they’re the best. They’re trying to get to you first.” He waggles his brows. “You want me to negotiate for you, in truth? I’m good at it.”

I look at him, struggling to keep the relief from my face. “You know these men?” I ask quietly as they notice us. They, too, are standing straighter…because of me, I realize. Or the person they think I am. Merritt, firstborn warrior knight of the Tenth House, banded to a now-notorious Divh.

A sudden, sickening thought riddles through me. What if someone asks me to produce Gent?

Fear stiffens my spine. We need to get these men under contract then get out of this city. As terrible as my father’s retribution might be, being caught in this city as a woman banded to a Divh would be far and away worse. The Tenth House would never get its soldiers then.

I square my shoulders. “I want ten men. Five to replace our fallen soldiers, plus the five we intended to purchase originally. And I want at least half of them young enough to still be trainable.”

“But Nazar?—”

“Half.” Older soldiers can become set in their ways, and I can’t risk Father rejecting these soldiers, no matter what happens to me—or to Gent, when the Divh is no longer banded to me. My father is proud and will want to feel like his power is absolute…especially once he learns of Merritt’s death. I owe him that much.

Together, Caleb and I step forward, and the boy almost immediately starts talking. When it’s over, ten fighting men are dedicated to ensuring the safety of my house. Half of them still green, the other half hard-bitten and sturdy. It’s a good mix.

As the last of the earnest money is traded, the men set off with orders to prepare themselves for travel. I watch the last of them disappear as an earsplitting wail of trumpets sounds. I jerk back, startled, and Caleb laughs.

“It’s beginning,” he shouts, tugging me forward. “The exhibition. Come on—we’ll go see!”

And without another backward glance, we join the crowd thronging toward the first celebrated event of the Tournament of Gold.