Half the entrants had gone down to defeat during the first round that morning, fighting in teams of two until everyone had a go. Cathan’s men had lost only one pair in that time, which even Tavarre allowed was a remarkable feat. Their luck had worsened since then-with so many men remaining, they often had to fight each other-but they still outnumbered any other company by the third round. Now they were deep into the fourth, the sun heavy in the west, and the field was down to the finest fighters in the knighthood.
Every warrior who was not a part of the Divine Hammer was gone, and a field of sixteen remained, seven of them from Cathan’s company-six, now, with Tithian eliminated.
The remainder of the round went poorly, however, and the next as well. Cathan had to fight Marto, and put an end to the big knight’s boasting in less than a minute, giving him such a blow to the head that he could barely get his helmet off after, and had to spit out three teeth before he could find voice enough to yield. The rest of Cathan’s knights lost as well, and the good cheer in the barracks disappeared. By the time the sun set, only Cathan himself remained for the final melee.
“Bad luck,” said Lord Tavarre as he came off the field at the end of the round. He had faced a young knight from Calah and dispatched him with a hit to the chest that cracked two of the other man’s ribs. What was more, he’d barely broken a sweat doing it. He slapped Cathan’s back with a clank of armor on armor. “Down to just us now, and those two other fellows.”
Cathan nodded, tossing the Grand Marshal a skin of raw wine. “Good showing for Luciel, at least,” he said as the old knight drank.
“That it is!” Tavarre boomed. “Between you and your sister, you’ve done well for the memory of our little town, lad.” He lobbed the skin back.
“And you,” Cathan noted.
Tavarre spread his hands. “Of course.”
Cathan chuckled and was drawing breath to say more when trumpets blared outside.
The final was about to begin. Wincing, he grabbed up his helmet and shield. After seven battles today, they looked as battered as he felt.
“Gods,” he groaned. “Just let me live through this.”
Tavarre winked, putting an arm around his shoulders. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go win this thing, hey? For Luciel.”
Cathan nodded. “For Luciel.”
Lord and subject, arm in arm, they walked out into the twilight.
CHAPTER 11
Leciane bowed her head, pinching the bridge of her nose as the crowd erupted again. It seemed the only way to keep her skull from splitting open, and even then the stabbing pain behind her eyes made the world sway and green spots whirl against the insides of her eyelids. She desperately wanted something to wet her throat, but the weakest thing they served in the Patriarch’s private viewing gallery was watered wine. The folk of Lattakay found plain water distasteful. She was beginning to feel the same way about the folk of Lattakay.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d suffered so badly from drink. Certainly it hadn’t happened since her Test, and that had been more than a decade ago. In fact, she couldn’t remember drinking to excess last night, either-a goblet or two, yes, but nothing to cause her still to be so ill. It wasn’t right-and gradually, she’d become more and more certain that there was something amiss. There were spells that might help her figure it out, but even if she could keep her mind from whirling long enough to cast them, sitting near the Kingpriest amid tens of thousands of faithful Istarans was no place to be working the Art.
Never mind, she told herself. The final bout of this interminable tournament was beginning. It would all be over soon, and she could go back to the safety of …
Of her chambers at the manor.
She frowned. She had woken on the floor, still in her robes, the furniture pushed aside.
Snatches of memory flashed through her mind. She grasped at them, trying to get a fix.
The crowd’s shouting grew louder, and thought became impossible again. She looked about, at the lords, ladies and clerics that surrounded her, reclining on padded benches, sipping wine and eating the seeds of pomegranates while the masses shrieked their lungs out. They were all there-Revered Son Suvin, Lady Wentha, the hierarchs, Quarath, the First Son and Daughter. Among them sat the Lightbringer, his regal figure mirrored by that ghastly statue at the harbor mouth. The Istarans had even gotten that wrong-in Ergoth, men built statues at the mouths of harbors too, but those looked out to sea, to welcome sailors as they came to port. This one gazed in at the empire, with its back to the rest of the world.
It was hard to see through the light that shone about him, but Leciane thought the Kingpriest was smiling. Following his gaze, she saw why. Four figures strode onto the sands, their armor blazing red in the day’s last light. These were the only four who had not yet lost a bout. Two were arm-in-arm: Lord Tavarre and Sir Cathan. She hadn’t paid more than passing attention to the day’s endless fighting, but evidently both had made it to the final melee.
She settled back in her seat, rubbing her temples as the crowd roared on. Well, she should probably root for Sir Cathan, her protector. She would try at least to enjoy the game. There would be time to figure things out when it was done.
Blood pounded in Cathan’s ears as the herald, a short man with a long gray beard, proclaimed the tourney’s final bout. Up in the stands, thousands of people were shouting his name-but thousands of others were shouting Tavarre’s, and the names of the other two knights who would soon fight for the title of champion. He looked at that pair, two men he knew reputation only. Sir Erias Thale was a knight from Tucuri, built like a gatehouse, who wielded a two-handed sword as long as he was tall. Lord Barlan Graymantle was a former Knight of Solamnia who had converted to the Divine Hammer. Nearly fifty, he was still in fighting trim, his long white moustaches drooping over a somber mouth. He nodded to Cathan and Tavarre, then turned and bowed to the crowd. The Kingpriest was on his feet now, high up in the viewing gallery. Bright sunlight had kept Cathan from spotting him earlier in the day, but now that evening had come he was easy to see-a shimmering glow surrounded by his advisors. There, at his right hand, was Wentha. She would be calling his name, Cathan realized with a surge of pride. He wondered how many of the others were, too. All four knights had their supporters among the courtiers, particularly Tavarre.
A hard smile found its way onto Cathan’s face as he lowered the visor of his helm and raised his sword in salute. It didn t matter how many were cheering him now as long as they
The herald left, and the trumpets sounded again. The final bout began.
“Together, lad, like I taught you,” Tavarre said just before the crowd’s thunder made it impossible to hear anything else. “We’ll take the two of them first, and then see to each other.”
They charged so abruptly that the other two knights fell back a pace. Tavarre let out a whooping Taoli battle cry, and Cathan echoed it, clashing his sword against his shield.
Erias and Barlan looked at each other, their horned helmets nodding, then came on together as well.
“The big ox is mine,” shouted Tavarre. “You take the old man.”
Lord Barlan swung his blunted blade, and metal rang against metal as Cathan’s shield leaped to meet it, catching the blow on its boss. The crowd’s noise fell away as Cathan focused on the knight in the engraved Solamnic armor. He shoved forward, sending Barlan stumbling back, then followed with a quick thrust that the man barely managed to turn aside. Barlan’s head inclined, acknowledging Cathan’s skill. Cathan did the same, then ducked as a second blow came whistling in. He straightened, snorting, and the two men touched swords-once, twice-then parted, backing away to size each other up.
Beside him, Tavarre was having a hard time of it. For a big man with a big sword, Sir Erias was wickedly quick, grunting as he swept his blade in one vicious arc after another.
