by K. C. Julius
Leif blinked uncomprehendingly. Was he supposed to be Gralian? He looked toward Maura uncertainly, but he was too far from her to get her attention, and she was still in conversation.
Before he could collect his wits, a pleasant voice spoke from behind him. “This lad is from the Valeland, as he said. I believe the Lady Maura is a distant cousin of his and they’ve only just recently met.”
Leif craned his neck to discover Borne standing behind him. “’Lo,” he said, then hiccupped again.
Borne lowered himself onto the bench beside him. “I see that friend Walwynn has been keeping you in mead.” He raised his eyebrows at the knight across from them.
“Leif here’s your staunch supporter,” Walwynn drawled. He made a pass at the pitcher of mead and missed. “We were about t’drink t’your health, and t’yours as well, Lord Roth.” He swiveled toward Nelvor, who recoiled just in time to avoid Walwynn’s sloshing goblet.
The older knight—the one who’d placed a purse on Borne—called down to Lord Roth. “Speculation is high as to which of you will take the prizes of the tourney, my lord.” He raised his goblet politely, but there was something unpleasant in his tone.
Borne’s and Lord Roth’s eyes meet, and Leif thought he sensed a tremor of tension pass through the Branley Torer, although Borne’s expression remained mild.
“I think our young friend has done enough toasting for the evening,” Borne said, placing a firm hand under Leif’s arm and hefting him to his feet. “I’ll see you back to the High Table, shall I?”
Halfway to the dais, Lord Roth appeared on Leif’s right and smoothly took hold of his other elbow. “Allow me to assist you.”
Leif felt Borne’s grip tighten. “We hardly need your assistance, Lord Roth, but then, you know this. I intend just to see Leif back to his place and depart.”
“Intend away, my friend,” Roth replied, “but I shall linger. Lady Maura could do with more stimulating conversation than Brezen’s perpetual portents of famine and flood. Surely it’s a chivalrous duty to rescue the lady from Lord Oscar’s dire weather prognostications.”
“The weather is dire in Karan-Rhad,” countered Borne.
“But surely not as bad as the earl claims. You shouldn’t believe everything you hear in Drinnkastel, you know.”
“Such as about the mysterious disappearances of the å Livåri in the south?”
“Not that nonsense again, my friend. What interest is it of yours, anyway?”
They had come to a halt at the foot of the dais, with Leif suspended between them.
“You heard what those men from Glornadoor said at the Tilted Kilt.”
“I imagine it’s just pub talk, that,” said Lord Roth. “Those people never stay in one place. I think it’s far more likely the Lurkers have taken to greener pastures. Perhaps, with luck, they’ve returned to their heathen lands abroad.”
Leif wished the two men would let him sit down. The room had gone all spinny, and his stomach hurt.
At last Maura caught sight of them, and she half rose from her seat, prompting the men to mount the steps. They deposited Leif in a chair, and Lord Roth flashed Maura a brilliant smile. “If we may join you, my lady?”
Maura nodded, her expression guarded. She shifted her gaze to Borne, and Leif thought she looked almost frightened of the fellow.
“Lord Roth, please,” said Lord Oscar, “do sit down. I was just telling Lady Maura about the unseasonably heavy rains we’ve been experiencing this past spring in Sinarium. The River Hysoss has flooded its banks a dozen times since the turn of the year.”
Leif was struggling to keep everything from moving about. When he hiccupped loudly, Maura’s eyes widened.
“Leif, are you—?”
“Your cousin has been drinking the nectar of the gods,” said Lord Roth with an indulgent smile. “It appears he’s fallen under its spell.”
“Prizes,” mumbled Leif, although he couldn’t imagine why.
To his surprise, the earl of Brezen leaned forward. “The prizes, young man? They’re the same in every Twyrn—tradition, you know. A wand of gold for the knight who strikes the best blow, and a ruby worth a thousand silver groats for the most broken lances.” He rubbed his hands together and shifted his gaze between Borne and Roth. “I admit to laying a wager myself as to which of you two gentlemen might garner them.”
“There are several worthy knights capable of winning tomorrow,” said Roth modestly.
Lord Oscar snorted. “Capable of winning their own contests, but not of beating either of you in the lists. No, it will be either Windend or the House of the Nelvor who takes those honors.”
Lord Roth nodded graciously, but Borne merely made a short bow to them all and took his leave.
“That was rather a brusque departure,” the earl noted. “Who is he, anyway, this Borne Braxton? Is he really Heptorious’s nephew, or is he a by-blow the old scoundrel’s passed off as legitimate kin?”
An awkward moment of silence ensued, and a flush of pink colored Maura’s cheeks. “Is your intention, sir, to dishonor Lord Heptorious and his nephew by doubting the earl’s word?”
Lord Oscar looked stricken. Leif remembered then that both Nelvorboth and Maura were widely believed to be illegitimate. “By no means,” declared the earl hastily. “I—I most humbly beg your pardon…”
Lord Roth clapped his hand on the earl’s forearm. “I believe a man shouldn’t be judged by which side of the blanket he’s born on, but on how he conducts himself in life. I hope I’ve lived up to my father’s expectations in this regard.” He inclined his head toward the departing Borne. “From what I know of Braxton, he’s an honorable man as well, a brilliant swordsman, and unfortunately for me, highly skilled with the lance. He’s also one of the best-educated knights I’ve ever encountered. Why, he even reads in Gralian and Albrenian—a man of many talents!”
“I’m sure he is,” said Lord Oscar. “I meant no offense, my lady…”
“None taken, Lord Oscar,” Maura said quietly. “But now, if you will excuse me, I’ll see Leif to his chambers.”
Her companions got to their feet as well. “Would you like me to escort you?” Lord Roth asked. “I fear your cousin might require some support.”
A flicker of alarm lit Maura’s eyes at the knight’s suggestion. Leif, who’d been taking slow, deep breaths since he’d sat down, was relieved to see that the room had stopped its slow spiraling. “I can manage on my own,” he said, pushing himself carefully to his feet.
Nelvorboth stepped back to let them pass. “If you’re certain…?”
“We’ll be fine, thank you,” Maura assured him, taking Leif’s arm. “And now we’ll bid you both a good night.”
Leif made it out of the hall without incident, but as soon as they gained the corridor, the flickering shadows cast by the torches brought on another wave of dizziness, and Leif’s stomach clenched. The contents of his gut rose into his throat and he retched miserably into a corner.
“I’m sorry,” he whimpered, once he had breath again to speak.
“Never mind,” said Maura, brushing his damp hair from his brow. “A lesson learned.”
Leif hung his head. “How could Rhiandra have chosen someone as foolish as me?”
“Shhhh!” Maura cast an anxious look behind them, then propelled him forward. “No more talking.”
After what seemed an interminable walk, Leif looked up to see Rab waiting outside his chamber door.
“Oh, young sir,” said the valet, taking him firmly by the arm. “What a state! Come, I shall see you to bed.”
“Thank you, Rab,” said Maura, releasing Leif to the man’s care. “If you’re sure you can manage?”
Rab clucked his tongue. “All in an evening’s work, my lady. I’ll take him from here.”
* * *
It wasn’t until the following morning
, after dunking his throbbing head in a basin, that Leif realized what a fool he’d been.
“A fine friend I am,” he moaned as Rab laid out his clothes in uncharacteristic quiet. “I’m certain to have upset Maura, and I’ve made you think ill of me.”
“It’s not my place to have an opinion, Master Leif.”
Leif dragged the towel from around his neck and tossed it in the corner. “Oh, hang it, Rab, don’t be like that. I’d never had mead before! The honeyed wine the el—the, uh, the elders brew at home doesn’t leave a man feeling like he’s being pummeled from the inside out.”
“Perhaps the operative word is ‘man,’” murmured Rab. But his expression softened as Leif made his way gingerly to a chair. “Perhaps eschewing the mead would be a wise choice in the future?”
Leif slipped his tunic carefully over his sore head. “I’ll give you no argument there,” he mumbled through the cloth.
“Ah, well. I’m sure there was no real damage done, except to your head. I passed Lady Maura in the Grand Hall earlier, and she asked after you.”
“You saw her this morning?” Leif set down the boot he’d just lifted. “How did she look?”
“Look? Well, let’s see. She was wearing a sumptuous gown with a white bodice studded with seed pearls, and her sleeves were—”
“Rab! I meant did she look… upset?”
“Lady Maura looked perfectly composed, if a trifle tired. She was under the escort of the king’s heralds on her way to the tourney, turning heads as she passed.”
Leif frowned. If Maura’s looks were drawing such attention, she needed him by her side.
As soon as he was dressed, he hurried off to the lists to find her. By the time he’d passed through the castle gates, the fresh air had eased his sore head, and the prospect of the remainder of the Twyrn had lifted his spirits. The winner of the jousting would be decided after the last contest today, and there was still the melee, the free-for-all mock battle, to look forward to tomorrow. That was sure to be the highlight of the tournament.
He entered the tourney grounds to find the first two knights preparing for their joust. One of them was Cole, the young lordling of Windend, and Borne was helping him don his armor. Leif walked over to them, with a mind to thank Borne for deflecting Lord Roth’s questions the previous night.
“Of course you’ll be a credit to your house,” Borne was saying as he assisted Cole’s squire with his breastplate. “Just sit easy and don’t flinch.”
“It’s not so simple when that lance comes driving toward your heart,” Cole countered.
Borne gave him a playful punch to the chest. “That’s why you strike first—and harder. It’s all in the timing.”
Not wanting to interrupt, Leif hung back as Cole’s helm was lowered over his head.
“I just want to survive to join in the melee,” said the young lord, his voice muffled. “I’m as good as any of them with a sword.”
“And the fleetest of foot by far,” said Borne. “You’ve won every race at the Gatherings for the past three years.”
Cole grunted, then waved to a stout gentleman in the king’s berfrois, who raised his hand in return. “It doesn’t help that my father will be watching,” he muttered.
“Don’t worry—you’ll do him honor and survive.” Borne clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll see you after the joust.”
After helping Cole to mount, Borne at last noticed Leif. “Ho ho!” he said amiably. “I didn’t expect to see you up and about this early. How’s your head?”
Leif returned his grin sheepishly. “It feels like someone rammed it with a lance.”
Borne laughed. “Well then, you’d best find a seat, or you may find yourself the target of a real one. And if either of these two is unhorsed, you won’t want to find yourself under all that armor.” With a friendly smile, he headed toward the pavilions.
Remembering too late that he’d meant to thank the fellow, Leif ambled over to the berfrois, which was already crowded with courtiers and their ladies. Maura was again seated to the right of the king, her attention focused on the jousters about to meet in the lists. Leif squeezed into a place below her near the base of the grandstand.
Cole’s opponent was a knight from Cardenstowe who looked like he outweighed the young lord by at least two stones. Borne’s prediction as to the outcome proved to be at least partly right. Although neither man made contact on the first pass, Cole succeeded in landing a hit on the second while withstanding the Cardenstowe fellow’s blow in return. Unfortunately, on the third pass, Cole waited a fraction too long to lower his lance, and the more experienced knight sent him reeling off his mount. Still, for his first joust, it appeared he’d won the crowd’s approval. They cheered heartily for both combatants as they saluted the king before leaving the field, and Cole’s father looked well-satisfied.
Next to meet in the lists were Sir Wren of Cardenstowe and Sir Lawson, the scar-faced Nelvorbothian whom Leif had met the previous night. Both men found their mark on every pass, but Wren, clearly more technical in his execution, nearly unseated Lawson in the last pass, while Lawson’s lance merely glanced off his opponent’s armor.
The next several jousts included their share of excitement, yet it seemed the crowd was withholding their energy for the highly anticipated matchup between the two favorites, Lord Roth and Borne of Windend, who were slated to meet in the final jousting of the day. And when at last they appeared and moved to opposite ends of the lists, the roar from the stands was deafening.
To Leif, the lord of Nelvorboth looked invincible in his finely wrought armor, which accentuated his broad shoulders and impressive height. His coal-black destrier stood at least sixteen hands high, leaving him towering above Borne, who sat astride his smaller grey courser. Leif would have assumed this put Borne at a disadvantage had he not seen how smartly the smaller horse maneuvered in previous jousts.
When the yellow flag dropped, Lord Roth was first off the mark. As his stallion bolted forward, a collective gasp rose from the onlookers. For Borne remained at the head of the lists, holding his mount in check.
“Why isn’t he riding to meet him?” Leif cried, his words echoed by many spectators around him.
But then Borne’s heels came down and his horse shot along the lists, its hooves pounding the earth as it cannoned toward Roth.
The crack of shattered lances rent the air, followed by the crowd’s bellowing approval. Both men had found their targets. Both had managed to keep their seats. The collision had transpired so swiftly, Leif couldn’t say which was the better hit.
On the second pass, the two horses left their starting points simultaneously. This time Borne gave the grey its head, and it sprang forward as if catapulted. The jousters struck once more with a splintering crack on impact, but while the Nelvor’s strike found its mark on his opponent’s shoulder, Borne’s lance rammed into the heart of Lord Roth’s breastplate. The armor split in two, then spun in pieces to the ground.
“I give that round to Borne!” Leif cried happily.
A red-bearded courtier next to him scowled. “Lord Roth also broke his lance,” he declared.
A nearby observer responded with a derisive hoot. “If not so dramatically. I believe you put a sizeable purse on Nelvorboth, my lord? You’d better hope he bests Braxton on the last run!”
After Roth replaced his breastplate, the riders received their final lances. A hush fell over the crowd as they faced one another down the lists. Sensing a noteworthy spectacle, the official holding the flag aloft drew out the moment. It was so quiet Leif could hear the chirping of crickets in the grass.
Then the yellow cloth fluttered down like a bright fledgling, and the horses surged forward. Leif’s heart pounded to the sound of their hoofbeats as they careened toward one another. The grey courser fairly flew down the lists, her powerful legs propelling her rider onward with blurring speed. Roth’
s charger was at full tilt as well, and both men held their lances steady as they closed the gap between them.
In one fluid motion, Roth dropped the tip of his lance, his timing perfect and his aim true, but before it burst upon his opponent’s breastplate, Borne brought his own lance hurtling down.
With a crashing impact, both riders’ heads whipped back, and they toppled simultaneously from their mounts.
“A double unhorsing!” Leif yelled, joining the other spectators leaping to their feet.
The contestants’ squires rushed onto the field; neither of the felled men appeared to be moving.
“Are they dead?” Leif asked anxiously, but he received no reply.
Roth’s squire removed his helm, and the young lord rolled to his side and retched. After being assisted to his feet, Roth made his way over to where Borne lay still, then dropped to his knees beside him.
“What’s happening?” cried Leif.
“It appears Lord Roth is praying over Braxton,” said the red-bearded man. “Although if he dies…”
“Fie, sir!” admonished his companion. “Think you only of your winnings? A man’s life is at stake!”
Tense moments passed, and Leif could barely restrain himself from running onto the field. But then Borne stirred, and as Roth helped him to a seated position, Leif joined in the ragged cheer that rose up from the berfrois.
A squire lifted off Borne’s helm. And at the same moment, a scream rent the air. Then another.
The crowd turned as one toward Leif, looking at something behind him. He spun around to see both Urlion and Maura on their feet, their fine clothes spattered with blood.
Between them sprawled a man with an arrow lodged in his chest.
Chapter 17
Borne
“Fresh baked bread, a farthing a loaf!”
“Tuppence for an apple, penny for a plum!”
Cole reached over and pinched a handful of grapes off the fruit vendor’s cart. “My man will pay you,” he said, flashing Borne a roguish grin.
