Chapter Four

The first two of the Potentials arrived the next day, along with their families and gaggles of servants. The third was due to reach Saravar that evening, much too late to bother presenting themselves for dinner. Or, as some of the byr around Fox quietly insinuated, the delayed appearance was a calculated effort to keep Domvoda waiting and pique his interest.

The day was dedicated to feasting and long walks in the garden once Domvoda’s possible fertiles had settled in. Fox got to sit, at least, in a chair in the corner behind Domvoda, and played lightly throughout the sumptuous and elaborate midday meal designed to impress families who, to Fox’s mind, did not need much to impress them. They’d go along with Domvoda’s wishes even if they were given plain mutton stew.

The courses were served especially slowly, allowing more time for conversation while Fox played music designed to grant some privacy and perhaps soothe nerves. Halfway through the meal, a servant brought him a plate and he thanked them without looking to the one person who would think to remind the busy servants of Fox’s existence. Fox didn’t have much time to eat anyway, mostly snatching grapes or a small tomato now and then, but he planned to take the plate with him when the feast was finally over.

He was even grateful to be relegated to the background, because his sleep had been abruptly ended before dawn that morning by the sound of bickering and what his confused, sleepy senses had thought was an actual fight between some of the knights quartered across the hall… or what had been an actual fight but one quickly snuffed out. It had been followed by doors slamming open and a lot of hollered greetings and complaints about cold water or stiff muscles before most of the knights woke up and made their way outside.

Knights apparently rose early. And either the noise that morning was the anxious rowdiness that Conall had warned him about or that was normal for knights and the hall was only going to get louder as more knights arrived. Regardless, Fox had not been able to go back to sleep and was glad he wasn’t expected to be clever at the moment. He’d rather observe anyway.

The first Potential was younger than Domvoda, possibly Fox’s age or older than Fox by only a year or two. An interesting choice for Domvoda to have made from whatever lists had been presented to him by his advisors. Domvoda grew bored easily. Or decided to grow bored easily.

That assessment felt unfair, yet also correct. Fox let the thought exist without delving too much into it. This Potential, Byr Din Stilbis Zilbici et tzuks, had marvelously long, shining black hair and a tail tip of such gleaming red that it appeared suggestively wet in the light. His family was from far in the north and the gorgeous doublet and wrap he wore were of a thick fabric that could not be comfortable in the heat.

The second, a byr in rank if not in official title, was from the neighboring realm of Kanzarn and the court of their telinya, which was apparently a word for ruler in a slightly different version of the ancient tongue. The second Potential’s exact position among the Kanzarn nobility was difficult for most of the byr around them to determine because the Kanzarn did not give all of those of noble blood the same honorary title as the byr.

Fox suspected the byr could determine where Matlin Loriloft stood in the Kanzarn hierarchy, and were both displeased at the idea of different and distinct ranks within the noble class and the fact that, by this reckoning, Matlin Loriloft likely outranked most of them. The minor and ever-changing differences the byr used to determine status would never matter to her or to her family, which, from what Fox could grasp, was closely related to the telinya.

Fox rather liked the byr confused and discomfited by someone uninterested in being one of them, but it also unfortunately meant that Matlin Loriloft spent most of the day unsmiling and not deigning to speak with anyone who wasn’t the king or closely connected to him. She did speak to Byr Conall, though whether that was due to his reputation having crossed borders or the prominent position he had at Domvoda’s table, Fox couldn’t tell.

He also couldn’t determine if Domvoda favored one of the two yet. The king was at the center of his table, sipping wine without overindulging and responding politely to whatever conversational gambits his Potentials offered, but Fox couldn’t see enough of his face to guess at what he thought. He was probably amused to see the byr floundering and maybe also at the open ambition displayed by the visitors to have the one he chose be from their families.

Fox did wonder about Matlin Loriloft being from such heights yet putting herself forward as a mere bearer. After all, there was no guarantee Domvoda would marry or bestow any official status on his chosen fertile. Maybe it was some political ploy to gain a foothold in this kingdom. If so, she’d have to do something to seize Domvoda’s interest and Fox didn’t think she had yet. Domvoda’s family would have thoughts on that they would share in private, although the choice was ultimately the king’s.

Domvoda had glanced to Fox once, but Fox when bowed his head to him without approaching him, Domvoda had turned back to the table and his guests. He might have only wanted to ensure Fox was paying attention.

If he thought jealousy burned in Fox’s breast, he was incorrect. More likely, he was going to ask for the Clever Fox’s thoughts on the Potentials. He would not necessarily listen to them, but he would ask. Tail relaxed, gaze bright, tone casual, he would inquire what his Fox thought of each of them in order to drive an imaginary knife into Fox’s chest… or simply to know Fox’s opinion, which Fox sometimes suspected Domvoda did value though he pretended otherwise, only to then be convinced moments later that Domvoda did not value him even a little.

That was the trouble with Domvoda; for all that he could be distant and cold, the country functioned and lived on. Threats, dragon or otherwise, were fought. Conditions were good enough, though Fox believed they could be better. But he also knew the histories, well, the histories in songs and stories, and there were plenty of foolish rulers since the empress who had nearly brought it all to ruin. And from the sound of it, even the empire had fallen, so someone in charge had done something disastrous. Domvoda was many things, but he was not one of those rulers destined for such a catastrophe. But at the same time, the country could be different and would never be, because Domvoda would not allow it.

Without any answers and his mind spinning, Fox also spent the feast trying to observe the families of the new arrivals, wondering if any of them would be in the market for a musician with a smart mouth to entertain at their homes. It was unlikely, since most of those who could afford to throw feasts and massive parties would simply pay musicians as needed, but Fox idly considered it, and what it might be like in the courts Matlin Loriloft was used to.

He trailed out into the gardens after everyone when the meal ended, stopping to wolf down the rest of what was on his plate and to snag a few more pieces of fruit from the still heavily laden tables. He walked in his finest slippers and spoke to no one for hours, keeping an eye on the rolling clouds above.

His skills were requested again for the later meal, a smaller, more reasonable affair since the Potentials were weary from their travels and had retired early. The usual byr were in attendance, which meant Byr Conall was not. Fox felt Domvoda’s gaze on him more than once although Domvoda did not address him.

By the end of the night, Fox’s fingers hurt and his stomach had gone beyond growling complaints to a vague sickness. He fell into his bed without bothering to do much more than pull away his doublet and shoes and attend to the minimum of his nightly routine, and slept until woken in the dark hours before dawn by the angry squabbling of some sort of knightly love triangle.

Conall’s firmly voiced command for the lovers to take it outside was like balm on a scratch from fire nettles. The lovers evidently obeyed and Fox drifted back into a deeper rest until the usual sounds of morning in Kaladas roused him.

He was grateful at being granted a few more hours of rest when it became clear that it was going to be a hot day with heavy, wet air and he learned Domvoda planned to take his Potentials, and therefore most if not all of the court, out to the fields to watch the knights spar as the various seating boxes and tents were being built.

Rising early meant Fox had time to attend to his hair and to bathe, although if he’d known that the knights disinclined to head to the main castle for proper baths had set up a system to rain cold water on themselves, and that this system was behind one of Kaladas’ tower walls but otherwise open to the air and anyone passing by, he might have taken less time with his hair and opted for Saravar and a proper bath. Admittedly, if he were a knight who had been sparring for hours in the sun or dealing with horse muck, then a cold-water shower probably would have been wonderful. As for the rest of the situation, knights did not seem to have much sense of modesty. Fox imagined they saw their bodies more as tools, or perhaps as a weapons, although not in the same way that the alluring receptives at court viewed theirs.

All that meant was that none of the knights so much as glanced at Fox while he shivered under the water alongside them. He was grateful for what was clearly an established courtesy of not looking, but also vaguely wished someone had at least wanted to look. Making another knight blush would have helped him face what was going to be a trying day. But he returned their courtesy and kept his gaze up while dreaming of warmer waters.

By midday, he was dreaming of the cold-water showers again. His suspicion that he would need to look his best had led him to dress in a fetching new outfit of black, with visible white underlayers and berry-pink and leaf-green trim. He had assumed Domvoda would sit under a temporary shelter to keep out of the direct sunlight, but Domvoda, for some perplexing reason, had not ordered one to be set up.

Fox had an idea that this was meant to make the Potentials and courtiers, also in their best or some approximation, sweat more. Maybe Domvoda wanted to see what they would do when their starched lace drooped or their faces turned red. Fox was glad he’d darted back to his room at the last moment to dig out the sunshade he’d had made after last year’s tournament. It was a construction of white cloth and wood, with a wooden handle, and was built much like the sunshades set up over the stalls in the market but meant for one person to carry with ease. As such, it did not offer much relief to anyone else but no one would have stood with Fox anyway.

Domvoda had smiled slightly at seeing Fox with it and even greeted him, although he had not commanded Fox to play any music. Fox’s lute stayed strapped to his back, creating a horribly sweaty patch in his underlayers. The laundries were going to be overrun when everyone returned to the castle, which was visible in the distance.

If they could have, the byr would have demanded Fox’s shade from him. As it was, they would all be having them made soon enough and never acknowledging where they got the idea, as ever. Fox stayed mostly out of their sight just in case, keeping to the side of the group around Domvoda as everyone made their way across the fields to where the grass was being thoroughly trampled by knights, horses, various assistants, and builders attending to their work.

The seating for the tournament had not been finished. Some of the workers seemed to be marking where the squares or small arenas for the individual tournament competitions would be. Some of the tents—actual tents, made of cloth—Fox saw were probably for the knights who might be driven indoors if the rainstorms came to pass. More of them would arrive within the next day or two. He tried not to worry about it and if even his new home would be taken from him.

What should have occupied more of his thoughts, aside from keeping a wary eye on Domvoda, was Potential Number Three—Byr Falnya Ovitos Telect et atilli.

There was nothing particularly beautiful about Byr Falnya, which meant most of the court had dismissed him instantly. Fox had not. Byr Falnya, from a remote region in the mountains, had trained with several scholars, according to what Fox overheard. More importantly, Byr Falnya observed and paused before speaking.

Exactly the sort of person to be watched, Fox thought while glancing across the fields since his shade granted him the ability to covertly do so. Byr Conall appeared to be guiding some of the knights, or soon-to-be knights, too young to compete but old enough to learn, through the motions of one of the weaponless combat arts.

Fox did not allow his attention to linger, cautious even with the shade to conceal him. He studied Byr Falnya, in a light shirt and no doublet, startlingly out of fashion but undoubtedly cool and noticeably not perspiring, and a traditional val around his waist, rendering his tail impossible to read. Fox couldn’t tell if that was intentional or if Byr Falnya had been hot upon waking and didn’t care for current styles. The wealth of his region was apparent in his jewelry, however, glittering in his short, straight hair and around his throat.

Byr Falnya had turned a few times, following Domvoda’s gaze and finding Fox. Fox would incline his head politely to Domvoda and Domvoda would smile again. Then Byr Falnya would be slow to return his attention elsewhere.

Fox kept his tail in a neutral, easy pose. The Lazy Beast, whispered to have once been called the Lazy Dragon for the way the creatures were said to sleep, meant his tail up with the tip resting in the crook of his arm as he held his shade.

One of the times he caught himself being studied, Fox dared to look at Byr Falnya first and gave a visible start when Byr Falnya inclined his head in greeting. Fox had quickly glanced to Domvoda. Domvoda’s tail was still as their eyes met but his smile grew.

The king was enjoying himself, testing his possible bearers and consort as well as Fox, although Fox didn’t see how he should play into it. Unless even those in the mountains had heard rumors about Fox and Domvoda, and Byr Falnya and perhaps the others thought Fox was still ensconced in Domvoda’s bedchambers or only recently sent away from them. Which made Fox either a threat or a pathetically pining figure.

His face burned for a reason other than the heat and he lowered his shade a fraction to put it between himself and Domvoda as much as he dared. He stared ahead, although he did not like to watch fighting, even practice fighting. But he supposed the view this one time made up for it.

It should not be soothing to merely look upon one person, and it wasn’t… not precisely. Like some of the other knights, Byr Conall had removed his doublet, and the shirt beneath was thin and damp and stuck to his skin. He had rolled up his sleeves as well, and Fox, long overdue for a fucking, was mesmerized. But though the sight made Fox burn, it also helped him breathe again. Byr Conall was a reminder that others defied Domvoda all the time. Well, one other here, and he was rather special, but many others did not come to court at all because they had no wish to bend to Domvoda’s whims. Conall attended on the king when at court but otherwise did as he pleased.

Fox couldn’t hear what Conall told the younger knights but they seemed to respond well to it, tying up their thick, protective leather doublets despite the heat and reentering the ring of older knights observing them so they could pummel one another. Fox looked away once the actual contest began and found that Domvoda had moved. He and the court had approached the practice fight without getting too close. Fox dashed after them, trying not to run but very aware of the eyes on him when he stopped.

They were amused that he’d had to hurry. As if they weren’t all pressing closer so they could ogle knights in various states of undress or trying to inch over to Domvoda’s side now they’d clearly decided the third Potential was a failure. They would ignore all of that and joke about Fox running to be there. He would be panting after knights in the rumors now.

He held in his sigh only because it wasn’t entirely incorrect. He should have known better than to accept Conall’s offer. Anything Fox did was subject to scrutiny, so it wouldn’t take much for the court to decide Fox was lifting his tail for a particular knight or two. He had been so smart and so cautious and it was all for nothing, because Fox was red-faced and damp and they all wanted to fuck the knights so they would say Fox wanted the same.

“Byr Conall,” Domvoda called out, nearly making Fox startle again, certain Domvoda had read his thoughts, “I don’t believe you’ve met my guest, Byr Falnya Ovitos Telect et atilli.”

Conall looked up, gaze sweeping over the cluster of nobles around Domvoda before locating the unfamiliar person standing not far from the king. He bowed his head, some of the knights around him doing the same.

“Byr Falnya,” Domvoda went on, oh so pleasantly, “this is the famous Dragonslayer, the favorite to win many of the tournament events. Although we’ll see if he can this year. Perhaps,” he rolled on as if delighted to make the introduction, “if he does, my Fox will write a new song for him.”

Suddenly, there were eyes on Fox again.

“If you like, my king,” Fox responded, “and if the Dragonslayer does not mind.”

The tiniest ripple of surprise carried through the crowd, as if no one had considered the Dragonslayer’s opinion in some time. Or ever.

Byr Falnya, unlike his two rivals, was eyeing Fox, not the king. He probably should have.

Domvoda was no longer smiling although his tone remained pleasant. “Byr Conall, what do you think? Would you like yet another song about your deeds?”

Conall started forward, likely not wanting to shout matters that should be discussed quietly.

Domvoda waved for Conall to stop before he could take more than a few steps. “Really, Conall, there’s no need to join us. Especially in that state.”

Fox tightened his grip on the handle of the sunshade. Conall paused then bowed his head before returning to his work of helping the others. Fox could not, would not look at Domvoda after that. He left the king to his Potentials and stared at the sparring as if it wasn’t stomach-turning play violence. It was still easier to look at than Domvoda’s amused expression.

If the other knights had similar thoughts, they did not speak them or wisely kept their voices down. But, unless Fox imagined it, they stepped closer to Conall. Conall showed no reaction, neither anger nor fear. He focused on the sparring, calling a halt to it so he could pull the training knights apart and talk to them.

“They could at least tell us all what’s going on,” someone in the crowd complained.

Fox sneered to himself. The nobles all watched and gambled during tournaments. Surely they must know something of the rules of fighting.

“This move has to be fast and you have to get it right,” Conall said, louder as if he’d heard, although he didn’t look at anyone in the crowd. “In the heat of things, even during a contest, your mind will narrow, your heart will race. So you have to trust your body to follow through without thinking. Which means practice and more practice until you don’t need to consider an action to follow through with it. So that you’ll act even when you want to freeze, or curl into a ball, or run home to your bearer. You do that because your opponent will do the same, and you want to be the one to strike them when the time comes. If they freeze, you will move. Do you understand? You practice so that whoever, whatever you face, if you need to, you will strike first. That’s how you survive. Is that not so, Fox?”

Fox sucked in a breath. The tip of his tail tapped against his arm, showing nerves where no one else could see. Conall did not even glance at him.

“I’m no fighter, Byr Conall,” Fox reminded him. He didn’t think he sounded breathless but he felt lightheaded. “But I believe those who run sometimes also survive.”

The laughter from the crowd was a mix of shocked and genuinely amused. Fox stayed focused on Conall, who finally looked at him, warm as not even the sun could be. “Although,” Fox added, brighter inside and out, soothed despite himself, “it helps to have a brave knight nearby. Perhaps we should stop interrupting all of you at your work so that there might be more fully trained knights in the future.”

There was a bit more shocked laughter.

“A thoughtful Fox today,” Conall answered, praising Fox like Fox was one of those he was teaching. “Who nonetheless strengthens my lesson; you have to be quick, even around brave knights.”

Fox nearly gave his sunshade a twirl, fifteen again whenever Conall was involved.

For the same reason, Fox lagged behind the others as Domvoda walked on to inspect where the shaded box for the king and his guests to sit during the tournament was being constructed. The box did not look as if it would be spacious. Some of those fawning over Domvoda now would be out in the sun or seated elsewhere, or expected to stand near the royal box, but not in it. All of the byr present should be wondering if they would have a seat. Possibly they were, as Domvoda wanted them to.

With the Potentials and perhaps some of their families, Fox didn’t think the box would fit more than ten or fifteen others, and twelve would be close. It would have byr sitting pressed together like the commoners who would travel to watch the tournament and stand or sit in rows farther from the action.

The byr around the king were going to be insufferable in the next few days as they vied for seats in that box. Fox was already exhausted as the realization hit him, and tilted his shade down so he could look back to the sparring ring, which was more peaceful to contemplate.

He nearly dropped the shade. Conall was finishing tying up leather padding on himself and was now in the center of their informal ring. Whatever he said was not audible at the distance, but he appeared to be addressing the others. No one had ever said a word about Byr Conall instructing the younger knights and trainees, although why would they have mentioned it, and to Fox? It seemed natural now, the sort of thing someone patient and watchful like Conall ought to do.

Fox frowned, considering for the first time that Conall could do the same with children of his own and yet did not. He did not have any young that Fox knew of despite being byr and from a well-known family. The matter of bearing should have occurred to him if it had occurred to Domvoda, although Conall might have siblings to attend to such things and therefore no need or drive for young of his own. But Fox was vaguely certain that Conall was important, as byr went, as important as they could ever truly be when they did not do the farming and herding on the fields they claimed. Conall, if he was that respected a byr, should be on his lands more than he should be waiting on Domvoda. He should not be staying with the younger knights, and he should have sought out a bearer, or a partner if he was one for marriage—a mate, if he had been so blessed.

The thought was barely more than an uncomfortable, fleeting possibility, then it was forgotten. Fox gasped when Conall suddenly moved, lightning fast and brutal as he hit another padded knight several times before sweeping them off their feet. Whatever he did to compensate for his limited range of motion, Fox couldn’t tell. He turned his head from the sight, willing his heart to slow.

“So that is the Dragonslayer?” Byr Falnya asked, far more level than Fox could have been in that moment.

Fox gave a twitch, facing the byr who had moved to be next to him. Despite keeping pace with Fox, Byr Falnya did not look at him.

“Oh, yes.” Thankfully, one of the other byr answered so Fox could compose himself. “He’s the favorite to win in several of the events… because he usually does. But I don’t know if he will win the tournament overall this year.” Winners were determined by a strange tally of audience appreciation, the support of the other knights participating, at least one victory in the individual events, valor in the large mock-battle the second day of the tournament, and Domvoda’s favor. Fox did not know which factor mattered the most, but assumed Conall remained skilled and favored.

Well, he had assumed that until that moment.

“There are new contenders,” Domvoda announced slyly. “Younger contenders. Some have even seen some significant fighting already. There are dragons enough for them to battle.”

“Byr Conall’s injuries will hinder him more, since by now, everyone knows the tricks he uses to manage around them,” the first byr continued with some relish. “I’m surprised he even entered at his age. Oh,” the falsely apologetic tone was perfect, Fox had to admit, “I don’t mean to say he’s not perfectly capable in the everyday, but tournaments are for the younger set for a reason.”

That reason was why Fox avoided watching the tournament if he could. To him, it was nothing but people getting battered and bloodied, or—rarely but not impossibly—worse than that. To the knights, it was a way to earn a living by collecting prizes and enhancing their reputations. To the rest of the nobles, it was entertainment.

“But, you see, there are larger prizes this year,” another byr added cattily. Byr Agnis, who had visited Domvoda’s bed once and thought she might still be consort someday. “Byr Conall cannot afford to sit out. I only hope he doesn’t make too much of a fool of himself.”

“My coin is on him, all the same,” the first byr added. “More to lose means he’ll fight harder, and we all know how he can act in a crisis.”

Fox made his face as blank as possible while the verses of The Song of the Dragonslayer played in his mind. He had seen dragons twice in his life, both times when the dragons had been passing over the countryside and apparently uninterested in conflict. One glittering under the sun’s rays, the other a silvery-dark shape against the moon, both terrifyingly massive even at a great distance. Scales like armor, in an array of colors that faded after the dragon’s death in a way the colors of the eggshells did not. Wings of leather, or sometimes feathers, Fox had heard, although he wasn’t sure he believed a dragon might have wings like a bird. Impossibly sharp claws longer than most people stood tall. Teeth like daggers—in the stories at least; Fox hadn’t seen those for himself outside of tapestries and paintings. He had seen the hard, pointed tip of each dragon’s tail, gleaming like jewels even when miles away, and knew the dragons could use those tails to smash through walls of stone without showing signs of injury.

They had cunning. Every older knight loved to speak of it, the shrewd, canny look in the eyes of the beasts even as they sent people fleeing before them. It took a full complement of knights and soldiers to fend one off, or, if they were very fortunate, slay it.

Fox couldn’t help but think that the dragons could easily destroy the kingdom if they wished to, although he knew not to speak it aloud. It discomfited commoners and byr alike. But the creatures weren’t unthinking animals. They had reasons for what they did, although Fox didn’t understand those reasons. And one of them had taken—tried to take—Byr Conall.

Fox imagined Byr Conall as the lyrics of the song painted him—dangling far above the earth, but climbing, climbing, until he reached scales, and then digging and tearing with bloody fingers, his teeth, whatever it took to pry away scales so he could stab with the one weapon he’d had left, a simple knife, while the dragon screamed and they both plummeted to the ground.

“My cousin also competes this year,” Byr Falnya offered. “She has no hope of winning, not realistically, but the largest prize is quite the sum and she wanted to travel with me. She also was excited at the possibility that she might face the Dragonslayer.”

“I hope she won’t be disappointed,” Domvoda returned, “and he is able to compete throughout the entire tournament. He should win an event or two, in any case, if you are looking for where to bet your coin. You too, my Fox.”

Fox did not startle. “You know I don’t care for tournaments.”

“But this is likely the Dragonslayer’s last,” Domvoda chided, meeting Fox’s eyes. “If there is a tournament to watch, it is this one.”

Fox nodded, accepting the implicit order to attend. There was little else he could do.

“She does not expect to win against him.” Byr Falnya calmly interrupted the moment, glancing back toward the sparring again. “My cousin. I believe she will be honored to lose to him because she will learn from it. What, I admit I am not entirely sure.”

Survival. Fox kept the thought out of his mouth. The answer was right there in the song, which was probably part of why Conall disliked it so much. Sheltered, pampered byr would never understand something like that.

“I don’t understand,” Fox broke in lightly, foolishly, “why he has to compete?”

Domvoda was happy to answer. “The money, my Fox. A few generations ago, his family’s lands were quite ravaged by dragons and the family fortunes have not recovered.”

The statement did not shock Fox but the snorts and giggles from the assembled byr made his stomach turn. Byr did not get thrown from their lands when they had no money, but they also apparently could not expect help from the other byr. Despite how any of them could have suffered the same fate. Despite the fact that Conall was their hero, who had defended them and would defend them even when he was no longer able to play in their tournaments.

Fox took a deep breath. “Will you laugh so freely when the great beasts do the same to your homes?” He kept the shade behind him so they could all see his face. “And the knights meant to save you are too injured from playing your games to truly help?”

The only one who laughed this time was Domvoda.

“Sleeping near the knights has made the Fox decide to play knight as well,” Domvoda remarked for everyone to hear. “Will the Fox take on a dragon next?”

Nervous, cackling laughter erupted behind him as the other byr finally got their chance to sink their teeth into Fox with the king’s approval. Fox kept his tail motionless and his hold on the shade handle steady, and stared back at Domvoda despite his stinging cheeks.

Domvoda’s gaze glinted like the darkest and shiniest of dragon’s egg shells.