Chapter Twenty-Two

The mock-battle began once the sun had fully risen and from there carried on without end, a cacophony that could not be ignored no matter which direction Fox turned. His neck ached, then his shoulders with how stiffly he sat. He kept to the back of the king’s box, gaze down, fiddling with the shade he’d left there the day before. He tried to keep his tail still, but when he couldn’t, swept it safely out of sight behind his seat. He barely noticed the heat although his skin prickled with sweat beneath his doublet.

The day had to be hotter than the day before, a fact which should have meant the battle would finish earlier with more knights falling victim to fatigue. Should have, yet did not.

The others in the box felt the heat as well, or maybe that was the rising tension as the contest continued. Some mock-battles in the past had lasted until sunset. Fox and everyone else had been informed of this by the oldest of the knights in the box. Fox assumed the fact was meant to be comforting, a testament to the skill and determination of all the knights on the field.

Fox had found himself exchanging a glance with Byr Falnya before he’d turned away again.

He was grateful he didn’t own a far-glass to better watch the action, and that for some of the battle, Domvoda would ride out to observe from less of a distance; a privilege afforded the king and certain members of the byr who could not be told no.

Several of the others in the king’s box had far-glasses, including two of the knights, who provided more details of the battle to entertain those like Fox who could only see the broad strokes: a charge, a surge through a line, a rescue. The quartet of knights jumped to their feet often, sometimes in concern when someone was thrown or knocked from a horse, other times to shout encouragement the knights on the field couldn’t possibly hear. Then, of course, concerned with Fox’s delicate nature, the older knights would turn around to explain to him what had happened.

It was cute, in a way, that they earnestly believed Fox in need of care. It was also irritating, since Fox had told them several times that he did not find it soothing to have events described to him, much less hearing about injuries so he would “know he had little to worry about.”

At least they didn’t pretend there was nothing to worry about. Bruising was inevitable, both glancing and deep. Sprains as well, along with pulls, aches, and cuts. That was the worst of it… at first. Then the heat and the exhaustion began to wear on even the youngest and strongest knights. They slowed. They made mistakes. Some grew careless.

The mock-battle, like a real one, did not break for rests or meals. It would stop when victory was achieved.

Hours passed.

Sometimes, Fox stared at the knights charging and flowing around smaller, individual fights like currents in a stream moving around rocks. He tried to distinguish who was who despite the distance and the mud and dust now coating much of their armor, but even the blue and white of their surcoats were blurring to brown and gray with occasional splashes of red, a sight which made Fox turn away again. Conall was in white. Fox knew because his older knight honor guard had mentioned the colors for each side.

Only the Lorilofts seemed able to hold any sort of conversation that did not pertain to the fighting. Fox couldn’t use that as a distraction because he was not invited to speak with them, and also in all honesty, he found them dull. People who didn’t care about anything other than themselves were not terribly interesting. The battle itself was also loud: clashing and shouts, sounding signal horns. Talking had to be done at a high volume and Fox didn’t want to strain his voice.

He started reciting ancient songs in his head when the older knights spoke to him, smiling politely the whole time so they wouldn’t be offended. Knowledge would enhance the horrors in his imagination. Byr Falnya had no such protection and sat with his hands in his lap, wringing a cloth that might have been a handkerchief before Falnya had begun to shred it. However, his expression was admirably calm, as if he was only mildly concerned with the outcome of the battle.

Fox wondered if Byr Shine was on Conall’s ‘team’ but of course, that didn’t really matter. All of the knights wanted to be on the winning side, but most of this contest was about comporting themselves well before the eyes of the king and many powerful byr, like horses being paraded before potential buyers.

Another thought for Fox to keep to himself.

When Domvoda decided to ride out for a closer look, Fox took his chance to walk to dispel some of his nervous energy. He also dutifully sat at the king’s table for the meal that the audience was free to enjoy. He went through more of the ancient songs he knew, reconsidering every song that mentioned someone withering away from worry, since he had no desire to eat and couldn’t focus on anything but the noises of the mock-battle. The older knights seemed to have also taken it upon themselves to ensure Fox got some food in him and there was no escaping them short of snapping, which they did not deserve though Fox would have found it satisfying.

He eventually sent them after Byr Falnya to give himself some room to breathe. It was the last moment of peace he was granted.

He didn’t think it was his imagination that it was an especially prolonged and brutal campaign on both sides this year; Drashnal with something to prove and Conall fighting for his future. Many were carried off the field or stumbled from it, injured and lightheaded from struggling for hours under the sun. More of the injured seemed to wear white than blue, although Fox was half-turned away and could have been mistaken. The older knights began to speak in hushed, worried tones, whispering their concerns before sharing some of them with the rest in the box.

Domvoda was openly frowning, which was the strongest indication that Fox was right and this battle was harsher than usual. The knights were not supposed to cause each other real, lasting harm. Certainly not to so many. That benefited no one.

Eventually, Fox got up and sat next to Byr Falnya, which made the Lorilofts cluck and ruffle their very noble feathers. He shot a smile to Byr Din and stared innocently back at Domvoda when Domvoda looked to him in question. Domvoda chose not to comment, returning to his far-glass when Fox asked Falnya about the lovely lily design on his hose and then, though Fox did not give a single fuck, also turned to Din and asked him about lilies, the real ones. Fox preferred Byr Din’s excited talk about flower varieties to the anxious muttering of the older knights.

Domvoda glanced over more than once to quirk an eyebrow at Fox and the two Potentials now sitting with him. Water with ice was ordered and offered to everyone, the king’s doing, although he said nothing of it and took none himself.

Fox was contemplating Falnya’s increasingly wan appearance, and if Domvoda had ordered the water for him and what that could mean, when the oldest of the knights let out a shocked gasp that silenced everyone in the box. Domvoda, watching the battle through his glass, seemed to turn to stone.

Fox jerked around to look over the field but couldn’t see much more than a crush of knights in the rough shape of a circle being eagerly swarmed from all sides by their opponents. The inner circle was shrinking, tightening in on itself. Fox told himself that this was not real, that—injuries aside—this was play and no one was about to be killed. To those knights in graying, dirtied white it mattered more that they were seen as going down while on their feet and fighting the remaining force of their opponent.

The older knights rose from their seats, frantically passing their far-glasses back and forth. Fox scanned the field to see what they saw and then found it, although he didn’t quite understand what he was seeing: a new press of knights flowing from their smaller battles around the field and surrounding the group besieging the tiny stand of knights in white. The new press of knights turned from wherever they had been, whoever they had been fighting, riding or running fast to envelop the group had only a few moments before seemed like the victors. Even many of those on the side of the field who Fox had supposed injured moved forward almost as one, as if all this had been planned and the initial small defeat and resistance had been false.

To convince an entire ‘army’ into committing so much of their force to such an attack, they would have had to offer that army the possibility of a true victory. The lure would have to be nearly irresistible, especially at this point in an endlessly brutal day.

The opposing side’s war-leader would have been enough even if that war-leader were not also the famed Dragonslayer.

Conall had to be in that original group of desperately fighting knights. He would have planned everything, including using himself as bait. A decision possibly made out of exhaustion, betting that the other side was also exhausted and wanted this to end and so would seize such a chance.

The remaining stands of knights in blue on the outside had little hope of breaking through the ring of knights in white, and the ones caught in the middle were now fighting on two fronts, one of which included Conall and whoever he had chosen to take with him. The move was clever and ruthless. What everyone but Fox—and apparently Drashnal—had expected from Conall.

Fox closed his eyes but could not ignore the cheers in the box. The older knights were arguing over whether calling up the injured in a move like this was sporting, although Fox wondered how many had been truly injured in the first place. He bit his tongue on that and how in a real battle the injured might not have had a choice.

Then someone tapped his knee, Falnya very likely, and Fox opened his eyes in time to see Domvoda stand up and lower his far-glass. The battle was either over or all but over.

Fox felt no relief. Maybe that would come later.

Domvoda ordered wine for everyone in the box. The spectators streamed out from underneath the shades to walk around and get drinks. Others went to the boundary markers for the field and passed them; no one would stop them now. But most others began to congregate around the king’s box, waiting for the leaders of the knights to stand before Domvoda for their accolades once they had rested and cleaned up enough to be presentable.

Fox took the wine he was given and downed it.

It earned him a sharp stare from the king, and then Byr Din, sweetly earnest, leaned closer to Fox to say, “I brought some of the tea for you in case it was needed. You seemed better today, but that wine won’t help.” Unexpectedly bold, Byr Din then called to a servant, handed them the packet, and gave instructions for the tea without asking if Fox would like it.

Fox thought he should object. He mostly blinked a few times, dizzier now, as well as much hotter with the wine in him. Not long after, he found himself sipping from a cup of tea under Din’s surprisingly stern glare. Fox was not the only one in the box to be rendered temporarily speechless by this, including Byr Din’s family, who tried to scold him for it until Domvoda irritably told them to lower their voices.

The tea did help, or Fox was merely comforted by having something to hold when Conall, Drashnal, Rolfi and several others who must have served as battle counselors finally approached Domvoda. They looked, each of them, worn to the bone, with darker or reddened skin and sweat-matted hair. Their surcoats were more stains than clean cloth, and they had mud and dust in the hinges and joints of their remaining armor, although they had already taken some of their gear off, probably to help them cool down.

Fox was vaguely aware of the sound of Byr Din tutting to himself, probably thinking of what herbs would help with sun-fever.

Not one of the knights had taken time to see to any wounds, if they needed that. All of them were almost certainly bruised beneath what armor remained. None of them were standing especially straight, even Conall, who listed to one side and then was nudged upright by Byr Drashnal of all people.

Spectators crowded closer to cheer them, which would have been the last thing Fox would have wanted in the knights’ place. Their ears were probably still ringing from the clash of weapons and now they had to deal with hollered questions and shouts from all directions. It was unharmonious, jarring chaos until Domvoda got to his feet.

“That was more than we asked of you,” he said quietly, the crowd calming the moment he had risen. “You should all be proud. There were no serious wounds?”

The knights shared a cagey glance. “Nothing too serious, my king,” Byr Rolfi answered. Fox didn’t know if it was true, but Rolfi said it convincingly.

Fox finished his tea to keep himself quiet. There were broken bones; he would bet on it. Perhaps slashes and stabbings. Some cracked ribs and concussions, or old injuries hurt anew.

Domvoda studied Byr Rolfi for a few moments longer, probably as doubtful of his word as Fox was, but finally turned to Byr Drashnal.

Those who had not been to the capital would never know how Domvoda terrorized the byr of his court from how warmly he spoke of Byr Drashnal’s stamina and skill.

“The true honorable behavior of a knight,” he continued after a slew of compliments, possibly a comment on Conall’s bit of trickery. “You’ve truly earned your prize and a place at my table during the feast tonight.” Both war-leaders received a prize, entirely separate from the overall purse each knight had been hoping to earn this year. “But of course, if you would rather make merry with your friends and enemies, there will be wine and food aplenty all through Saravar tonight, as well as tomorrow after the prizes are given out.”

For the first time, Fox wondered how many knights were able to even stay awake the night after the battle to enjoy the festivities. He would guess most did not make it to midnight.

“Conall,” Domvoda turned to day’s champion, forgoing the ‘byr’ honorific and startling Fox by smiling. “Your family would be proud. Foxlike indeed.” Several people glanced to Fox at those words and Fox fought not to sink down. He had nothing to do with Conall’s family name but naturally people would connect it to him once reminded of it. “Our Dragonslayer.” Domvoda’s smile faded although this made the crowd cheer again.

Conall bowed his head respectfully.

“He has done well,” Falnya observed in a whisper.

“Yes.” The pride in Fox’s voice was unmistakable. He hoped it didn’t travel far, because he couldn’t take his eyes off Conall, which was obvious enough.

“I have consulted with my advisors,” Domvoda carried on, performing his part exactly as his people expected of him. He indicated the knights beside him, the knights Fox now realized had been there to offer their knowledge so Domvoda could make his judgments. “You have outdone yourself this year and I could hand over this tournament’s grand purse to no one else.” He had to pause there for more cheering, but to his credit, didn’t as much as twitch his tail to indicate this annoyed him. “But even with that, I have another honor to offer you.”

Fox straightened. Conall raised his head with an expression somehow both blank and curious.

Domvoda extended one hand in a graceful gesture. “The Warden of the King’s Knights intends to spend the sunset of his life with his family away from the capital. I would like you to stay in the capital and take his place overseeing the knights there.” He meant the knights who protected the king and his family. Those knights were considered the best in the kingdom, although once committed to their duties around the king, they were forbidden from risking injury in tournaments. That lack of opportunity was balanced out by their new position being at court, which meant they could rise in power and influence as other knights could not.

It was not a small offer and it made sense for Conall. If Fox had known Byr Forian was leaving his position, he would have assumed the job was Conall’s without being told. Under other circumstances, Conall might have even wanted it.

Conall was openly surprised, as if the one who had planned that foxy maneuver on the battlefield had not anticipated being rewarded for it.

That was likely true. He had firmly decided on his dream and his plan to achieve it, so staying in the capital would not have occurred to him as something to strive for. But he was thinking of it now, Fox could tell. The honor, the power it offered, the increased pay, the comfort. He might not want it, but the offer would have tempted anyone. Even Domvoda’s tantrums might have been worth such a life. A position like that would still enable Conall to help his family and the other knights, though less directly, so he might wonder if it was worth the loss of his dream. Or maybe he was simply dead tired and formulating some sort of polite refusal was taking more effort than it should.

Maybe, Fox thought. Then Conall glanced to him, as if Fox were one of the points being tallied behind Conall’s eyes and one sign from Fox meant Conall would take the position and stay.

Ridiculous. Yet Fox’s stomach churned despite the tea.

Conall looked back at Domvoda and licked his lips before parting them to speak. He was going to say yes, or say maybe, and that maybe would become a yes, and then he’d be at court for years more, dealing with Domvoda’s moods. For what, for the few weeks or months before he grew tired of Fox? And what of the knights behind him, his friends looking to him for their futures? He dreamed of his estate restored to what it should be, with a new, built family around him.

A home. He deserved that.

Fox lifted his chin. Coolly, as if speaking to Domvoda but clear enough for the line of weary knights and possibly some spectators to hear, he asked, “How many years are even left in him?” Falnya’s indrawn breath could not stop him. Fox held the cup so tightly it should have shattered. “He ought to take the purse and keep his dignity.”

Conall’s head snapped back.

The line of knights stirred. Domvoda turned to Fox with amazement in his wide eyes because that had been cruel even for the Fox.

Conall moved his gaze to Domvoda and kept it there. “The Clever Fox is perhaps right,” he said quiet and even the way he was for the king at his worst, “as he often is.”

“The Clever Fox…” Domvoda began, only to look to Fox again, skipping Fox’s pink face to find his tail, sweeping the floor of the box in agitation. Then he faced Conall. “You do not have to decide now,” he declared generously. “In the meantime, there are rivers of wine waiting for you all.”

“And rest to be had,” Rolfi muttered as all of the exhausted knights bowed their heads and moved to leave as the crowd chanted and sang them off.

The byr around Fox rose to their feet, ready to join the crowd or return to Saravar to prepare for the feast. No one spoke to Fox, not even Falnya. It was Domvoda who waited by Fox’s chair and finally said, “Come along, my Fox,” and put Fox in his carriage with him for the ride back to the castle.