by K. C. Julius
So Leif happily turned his attention to the standard-bearers trotting toward the lists in a barrage of horns and drums, followed by knights streaming in on high-stepping barded horses. Testing his memory of the sigils they wore, Leif identified the Nelvorboth black panther, rampant on a silver field, Cardenstowe’s three crows on a white field, the red-berried laurel on Lorendale gold, and the grey mullet of Glornadoor. His heart leapt with pride when he spotted Valeland’s eagles.
Then the Lord of Spirit rode to the center of the lists, and the crowd fell silent as the high monter raised his staff.
“In the name of Urlion Konigur, High King of Drinnglennin, Sovereign Lord of the Kingdoms and the Tor of Brenhinoedd, we dedicate this Twyrn to Blearc, the Lord of the Heavens, Styra, Mother of the Earth, Dylar, Divinity of Fire, Alithin, Spirit of Air, and Ursaline, Lady of the Waters.”
Heavy applause rang around the grounds.
A distinguished-looking noble in amaranthine robes rode onto the field and reined in opposite the royal box. Leif guessed this was the judge who would preside over the jousts.
Rab had explained to Leif how the points would be taken. The valet was well-versed in the details of the competition, as his father had been squire to Lord Maglin, who’d won the jousting in the last Twyrn a decade before. Each knight would have three passes, with the object being to strike his opponent directly in the center of his breastplate. The best result was an unhorsing, but a broken lance would also be deemed a successful hit. It sounded quite dangerous to Leif, even though he’d learned the lances were blunted and Rab admitted there had been fatalities in the past.
With the official in position, the first two knights to face off rode out. One was from Cardenstowe, and the other wore the device of Morlendell—a black bear rampant. They came to a halt, side by side, before the judge.
“What has brought you here this day?” demanded the silver-haired arbiter.
The knights responded in unison. “We have come to bring honor to our High King!”
The crowd bellowed their approval as the riders wheeled their steeds and lowered their lances to Urlion, who raised a hand in acknowledgment. In the seats below him, Leif saw several heavy purses exchange hands as bets were placed on the outcome of the joust.
A maiden in a rose gown, seated in the king’s berfrois, held out a broad ribbon of pearly silk. The knight from Morlendell trotted over and graciously received it from her.
“What’s that about?” Leif wondered aloud.
To his surprise, a heavily veiled noblewoman beside him answered. “The Lady Gormlaith of Orlewin has given Sir Darach her token to carry as a sign of her favor. Accepting it means he will strive to do her honor in his performance.”
Leif’s thanks for this explanation was drowned out by cheers as Sir Darach rode to his end of the lists. The dark-haired knight dismounted, and with the help of his squire, he secured his helm on his head and the lady’s token to his arm.
The knight from Cardenstowe was already in position when Darach got back on his horse to face his opponent down the long, narrow corridor. The knights held their lances poised, as if to pierce the clouds, and a hush fell over the crowd as all waited for the judge to release the flag, signaling the charge.
The yellow cloth dropped. The two opponents thundered toward one another, and the crowd roared its approval.
As the distance between them narrowed, the two knights brought their lances parallel with the ground. They came together, and with a mighty thwack, both their heads simultaneously whipped back and their shattered lances were jarred from their hands. Yet despite the force of the impact, neither knight was thrown from his mount. Sir Darach slid sideways in his saddle, but he managed to snatch the reins and right himself.
“A fine start to the Twyrn!” declared the swathed lady beside Leif. “That was an impressive strike for both contestants, although Sir Wren kept his seat better.”
Leif kept his eyes glued to the two combatants, who now had their second lances tucked under their arms and pressed against their horses’ flanks. Once more the flag dropped, and the storming horses pummeled the earth as they surged forward. This time Sir Darach brought his lance down slightly earlier, only to have it parried by Sir Wren, who struck a glancing blow off Darach’s breastplate.
“Sir Wren is the better of the two!” Leif pronounced as the knights reined in and turned their horses once more.
“It appears so,” said the lady beside him. “But the third and final pass is yet to come.” Her companion, equally swaddled in veils, had not said a word, but she leaned forward, her posture suggesting rapt attention.
Leif held his breath, waiting for the signal from the judge, and when it came, he shouted as loudly as any. The roar was deafening, yet still it was not enough to entirely drown out the splintering crack of the knights’ collision. As on the first pass, both men found their targets, and once again Sir Darach received the worse of the blows. For a moment he hung suspended, halfway off his saddle… then he reeled sideways and toppled to the ground.
Leif leapt to his feet. “He’s won! Sir Wren has won!”
A titter of laughter around him drew his attention to the fact that he was the only one standing. He dropped to his seat with a shamefaced grin.
“I share your enthusiasm,” said the veiled lady, “for it was an exciting joust. But Sir Wren’s win today is not conclusive; he’ll have to face another successful knight tomorrow.” She gestured toward the next two riders being announced. “Now this should prove to be an interesting match-up. I don’t know the knight from Palmador, but the one on the black charger is Lord Roth.”
The name was familiar to Leif. “Is he good?” he asked, studying the broad-shouldered knight with interest.
“We shall see.”
Lord Roth trotted his horse over to the royal box, where he dismounted and made a graceful bow to the High King. Then he turned his attention to Maura.
Leif straightened in his seat.
“My lady,” Lord Roth said, his pleasant voice clearly audible to all on the berfrois, “would you do me the honor of allowing me to carry your token into the joust?”
All Leif could see of Maura was the back of her head, but he heard her reply. “I… I have no token to give you, sir.”
King Urlion laid a ringed hand on her sleeve. “But of course you have, my dear. If it please you, you can give this knight a ribbon from your hair.”
When Maura hesitated, the king murmured something even Leif’s ears couldn’t catch. Then she unwound one of the bright bands of silk from her coiffure.
Roth bowed gallantly as he extended his lance so that she could drape the ribbon over it.
Leif had a sudden urge to scrabble down and snatch it back. “Who is this Roth?” he demanded of his companion. Then remembering his manners, he added, “I mean… I’m just wondering what you might be able to tell me about him, my lady?”
The woman seemed to have taken no offense. “I’ve never met him,” she replied, “but I knew his grandfather, Marroc, as well as his parents, Nandor and the Princess Grindasa.”
Recognition dawned. Roth of the Nelvor. Master Morgan had spoken of the fellow the night Leif had taken his vow to support and defend the heir to the Einhorn Throne. The wizard believed the Nelvorbothians were striving to position Roth as that heir. And to gauge from the lusty cheering, the Nelvor lord clearly had the support of those in attendance here today.
Leif’s heart sank; here was yet another dashing young man seeking his Maura’s affection.
When the signal flag dropped, the two knights pounded forward, sending clouds of dust spiraling in their wake. Leif found himself willing Roth’s opponent to prevail, but at the moment before impact, the Palmadorian knight flinched—and it proved to be his undoing. Under Lord Roth’s perfectly executed assault, the knight toppled backward. He lay still on the ground as his horse trotted on.
Pages ran to the fallen knight, and Master Tergin rose as well. But the king’s physiker was not required, for the Palmadorian was hauled to his feet, unsteady but apparently unscathed. He managed to salute both the king and his worthy opponent before being supported from the lists.
Lord Roth modestly acknowledged the cheers that still rang out from the stands. A number of ladies seated in the berfrois waved their black and silver tokens, offering to favor him in his next joust, but Roth seemed not to notice. He dismounted, laid his hand on the scarlet ribbon Maura had been forced to surrender, and bowed low toward the royal box.
After that, some of the pleasure went out of the day for Leif.
Not all of the jousts were as exciting as the first, in any case. One pair of sparrers was eliminated when they completed their three runs without any contact at all, and another managed only a single strike between them. The highlight of the day, at least judging by the crowd’s reaction, came when a young knight, Kenndrik of Tyrrencaster, succeeded in unhorsing the favored Sir Jurrien. As the giant crashed to the ground, the man seated in front of Leif declared it was sure to be the upset of the tourney.
The last joust of the day featured the golden-haired young man from Branley Tor.
Leif turned to his helpful companion. “Do you happen to know the name of that knight?” he asked.
The lady shook her head. “I do not, much to my dismay, for he cuts a fine figure on his horse. Indeed, he looks like a slightly younger version of Lord Roth.”
Leif frowned and wondered if the Branley Torer would be yet another contender for Maura’s attention.
The man was to ride against a short knight, hailed by his supporters from Langmerdor as Sir Quesen. When the two contestants trotted to the royal box, Leif steeled himself, fearing Maura would be coerced into handing over another of her ribbons—but both contestants simply made respectful salutes to the king. The Branley Torer did, however, make a show of slipping a creased packet inside his breastplate.
So he’s already carrying a lady’s token. That brightened Leif’s spirits, and he decided the big man seemed a good sort after all.
“I hope the northerner wins,” he declared.
He learned the man’s name when a number of supporters began chanting in support. “For Windend! Borne Braxton!” But when the riders took their positions at opposite heads of the lists, the spectators fell silent.
The flag dropped.
Borne’s grey courser, the lighter of the two mounts, made a slow start, but as the two knights approached striking distance, the horse suddenly picked up speed. This appeared to catch Sir Quesen off-guard; he lunged with his lance but missed his opponent’s breastplate altogether. Borne’s weapon, meanwhile, connected with force.
“Woohoo!” cried Leif happily. “He’s ahead!”
On the second pass, Quesen was better prepared, and when Borne’s mount surged, the shorter knight lowered his lance. But Borne struck him soundly again, leaving Quesen twisting in his saddle, his weapon chasing a target that had already shot past. And on the third and final pass, Borne outright unhorsed the unfortunate Quesen with a clean strike. The resultant cheering was even louder than it had been for Lord Roth.
As the noise subsided, Leif heard a soft titter. It took him a moment to realize it was the veiled lady who was laughing, ever so softly, to herself.
For no reason Leif could name, it sent a chill down his spine.
Chapter 16
That evening, Leif was seated on the High King’s dais for the gala feast, though he was some distance down the table from His Majesty. Maura, on the other hand, sat at her uncle’s immediate right, a pointed mark of favor that was clearly noticed by the rest of their dining companions. Unfortunately, Leif found himself surrounded by old men; he would have much preferred the company of the lively young knights and damsels at the lower boards.
The king barely spoke during the meal and retired after the meat courses were served. Leif thought it was a pity he’d miss the potage of raisins and the cherry torte laced with ginger and sweet wine, but the man looked haggard and beyond tired.
After her uncle’s departure, Maura was left in conversation with one of His Majesty’s courtiers, an aged gentleman with a sparse, greying beard. Leif would have liked to have joined them, but even he knew better than to perch on the vacant seat of Drinnglennin’s sovereign. Stuck as he was between two elderly knights—who had paid him scant attention throughout the meal—he contented himself with admiring Maura, who was by far the most beautiful woman in the hall. The gems on her aquamarine dress sparkled in the candlelight, and her magnificent mane of hair was caught up in some sort of gossamer netting from which a few tendrils had fetchingly escaped. He was relieved to see that she had some color back in her cheeks.
She seemed to be finding the old man entertaining, for she was smiling at whatever he was saying. Then again, Leif supposed her gentle manners would compel her to give her best attention to any dinner partner, regardless of how dull he might be.
A shout of laughter rose from a table below, at which both Borne from Windend and Lord Roth of Nelvorboth were seated. Lord Cole was also there, attempting to keep aloft several small balls that he must have confiscated from one of the roving jugglers. Borne seemed intent on foiling his efforts by pelting him with cherries from the centerpiece. With a scowl, Cole lobbed the balls at Borne’s head; the fair-haired fellow caught them easily and proceeded to set them spinning in perfect arcs.
Grinning, Leif glanced over at Maura, but she was still engaged with the greybeard. He itched to leave his seat and venture to the lower boards, but she’d cautioned him about his penchant for mingling with everyone. “That’s all well and good in Mithralyn,” she’d said, “but it’s best to remain as unobtrusive as possible here at King Urlion’s court, at least until we understand it better.”
Well, Leif reasoned, he wouldn’t learn anything where he was. Surely to converse with the other revelers wasn’t forbidden! And Maura would want him to enjoy himself, wouldn’t she?
He slid discreetly from his place, then descended from the dais and wended his way past the servants clearing the trenchers to take an empty seat at the end of the jolly table. By now Borne had managed to add a small purse and a bread roll to the spiraling balls he kept in the air.
Grinning with delight, Leif made eye contact with a curly-haired man opposite him.
“Come, my friend,” said the fellow, lifting the pitcher between them. “We shall drink to the fair maidens of Drinnkastel!” He filled two goblets, slid one over to Leif, then lifted his own and drained it.
Leif obligingly gulped down the sweet liquor. He was pleased to discover it tasted even better than beer.
“I’m Walwynn of Lorendale,” said the knight, offering his hand. “Not the Lorendale, mind you. My father is vassal to the newly proclaimed Lord Nolan.” He refilled his goblet, sloshing some of the golden liquid onto the table. “Let us drink to my lord!”
Leif drank again, and felt a glow of happiness to have found a friend.
The knight to Leif’s right introduced himself as Ryley. “And who might you be, young sir, to be so favored by our High King?”
“I’m Leif of Valeland, but not the Valeland.” He hoped this would suffice as an explanation. “And I’m only honored by King Urlion because I came with my cousin, the Lady Maura.”
“Ah, the mysterious Lady Maura.” Ryley raised his gaze to the dais. “They’re saying she’s the daughter of the High King’s late brother, Storn. Is it true?”
Leif nodded. “It is.”
“Let us drink to Lady Maura!” cried Walwynn, so loudly that heads turned. Leif was relieved that Maura’s wasn’t one of them. He lifted his cup again.
“You’ll not be fit to joust tomorrow if you keep this up, Walwynn,” Ryley cautioned.
“All the better for me,” sneered the thin-faced man seated
next to Walwynn. A jagged scar ran from his temple to his chin. “I’ve drawn him for the first round. Thank the gods I’ve not been matched up with my lord Roth, or Borne of Windend.”
Ryley laughed. “I’ve put my silver on Lord Roth to win the jousting. Borne rides and maneuvers well enough, but he hasn’t Nelvorboth’s experience.”
“Well enough, do you call it?” growled an older knight, leaning toward them from a bit farther down the table. “He’s got the instincts of a cat and the power of a bull, has young Borne. I’d reconsider your wager, if I were you.”
“I’m for Borne,” declared Leif boldly. “He’s a northerner like me.”
“I’ve bet on him as well,” said the older knight. “I hail from Morlendell myself.”
The emptied pitcher of mead was replaced by a full one, and more toasts were proposed. Leif drank to various kingdoms, to a maid named Noraline, and to someone called Safron, whom he later learned was Walwynn’s horse. After a time, Leif found himself blinking at the designs on the mosaic floors, which appeared to be shifting. He looked up to point this out to Walwynn, but met instead the light blue eyes of the lord of Nelvorboth, who was resting his elegant hands on the shoulders of the scar-faced man.
“Introduce us, Lawson,” Lord Roth said with a smile, “if you would be so kind.”
Lawson straightened in his seat. “I’ve not introduced myself, my lord.”
“Allow me, Lord Roth,” said Ryley politely, since Walwynn didn’t look up to the task. “Leif of Valeland, Lord Roth of Nelvorboth. The Nelvorboth,” he added with a wink at Leif.
Remembering his manners, Leif rose—aided by Sir Ryley’s steadying hand—and made what he thought was a gallant bow. “Pleased t’meet you, my lord,” he mumbled, then plunked back onto the bench.
Nelvorboth looked amused. “Are you related to our sovereign lord as well?” he inquired politely.
Leif hiccupped. “Me? No, sir. I’m a cousin on Maura’s—hic—mother’s side.”
“Ah, but that would mean you are of Gralian blood?”
