by Phil Tucker
“Interesting approach,” said Ser Wyland mildly, watching as the next knight approached the stands.
Asho fought the urge to scowl. Only a lifetime of dealing with such humiliations allowed him to maintain his poise. “I wish I could say I’m not used to such treatment.”
“Let’s both pretend you were being purposefully cunning,” said Ser Wyland. “I think you’ve succeeded admirably in convincing everybody that you’re not a threat. Well done.”
“Thank you.” Asho squirmed in his saddle. The trumpet blew again, and another knight rode forth. “Bythians are nothing if not unwittingly devious.”
Ser Wyland laughed. “I approve. But when they sound the charge, let’s exchange deviousness for lethal boldness, shall we?”
“Just you watch. They’ll underestimate me at their peril.” Asho placed his helm back on and finally allowed himself to scowl.
The eight visiting knights were introduced in short order, none having any accomplishments to their name, all having assumed the position of a fallen Black Wolf. Asho saw one banner after another displaying all manner of heraldry, their names familiar though their faces weren’t.
Ser Wyland shook his head. “I can’t believe we lost every Black Wolf.” He was watching the new lords with a hard expression. “Twenty-five of the greatest warriors, wiped out of existence just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Damned Sin Casters. These children and uncles won’t come close to replacing them.”
The eighth knight rode up. He was the man in the battered armor. There was something about him, thought Asho, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. He should have been laughable in his ancient suit of banged-up plate, but nobody was smiling. There was an intensity to him; he projected a wicked sense of competence simply in the manner in which he rode his mount. He had no banner, no emblem, and the Menczel looked at him in confusion before turning to the stands.
“This knight has offered no name or coat of arms. He asks only to be known as the Black Knight, and seeks our Lady’s permission to enter the tournament as such.”
Whispers filled the stands. One of the newly arrived local knights called out, “Black Knight? Rusted Kettle, more like.” Laughter rippled through the crowd, but it was uneasy.
Lady Kyferin studied the Black Knight and nodded. The man dipped his helm, then turned his destier and rode calmly to the side.
“Black Knight?” asked Asho, leaning over to Ser Wyland.
Ser Wyland didn’t seem fazed. “It happens. Men will sometimes seek to hide their identity so as to be judged by their skill at arms. The Virtues themselves are said to roam the land during times of peace, entering tournaments anonymously. Knights who would not dare raise a weapon against them thus give them a fair fight.”
Asho stared at the Black Knight, who was sitting calmly on his mount off to the left. “He doesn’t look like one of the Virtues to me.”
“No,” said Ser Wyland. “To me either. Still, the more knights on our side, the better.”
“Ser Laur,” called Menczel as Lord Laur’s son rode forth. His armor was almost a work of art, so beautifully enameled that it gleamed with a slick, nacreous sheen. Menczel called out his accomplishments, and they were impressive; he was undefeated in battle, having won each of the six major tournaments that he had entered, including the Great Ennoian tourney that was held only once every five years.
“No real combat, however,” said Ser Wyland out of the corner of his mouth. “Interesting.”
Then came the older knight, Ser Olbrecht, whose list of accomplishments were second only to Ser Wyland’s. He was followed by the twins Ser Cunot and Ser Cunad, and finally the massive, ram-horned knight Ser Bero. Three other knights from Lord Laur’s retinue were introduced, but Asho barely heard their names, so intent was he on examining the first five.
“His best knights. He’s held nothing back in reserve.”
Ser Wyland nodded. “Eight men. He’s clearly playing a strong hand. He wishes to win, but not embarrass Lady Kyferin too badly. He’s asserting himself as the greatest power present.”
Asho felt restless, energy rising within him like a fire beginning to race through a dry forest. “It will be a pity to disappoint him.”
“Oh?” Ser Wyland turned to him. “You aim to defeat them all?”
“What? No. But if I take two, you’ll take the rest, won’t you?”
Ser Wyland arched an eyebrow, then laughed loudly. It was a confident laugh, and it set Asho at ease. “But of course! I like your confidence in me, Ser Asho. You take two, and I’ll take care of the other six. Sounds just about right.”
Menczel stepped out to face the stands. “All the knights are present and ready to do battle in order to earn your favor, Lady Kyferin.”
The crowd stirred as if a wind had passed through it, voices rising in anticipation. Several of the knights’ steeds picked up on the tension and nickered, side-stepping and fighting their reins.
Lady Kyferin rose so that Menczel might announce the tourney prize. Asho’s heart began to beat faster. His mouth was dry. It might be just a tournament, but he knew that much more was at stake. Soon he would be put to his first great test.
“Wait!” A voice rang out through the brisk morning air. Everyone stopped, heads turning toward the tents. Slender and clad in a strange combination of shining mail, leather, and plate, a knight came cantering forth without banner or coat of arms. Asho bolted upright in the saddle, disbelief, horror, and astonishment seizing him by the throat.
Though the slender knight was covered from head to toe in armor, he knew immediately who it was.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Kethe took a deep breath and fought the urge to run. It wasn’t too late. She could hear the crowd as it took the stands, the words and catcalls, the shouts and laughter. There was still time to slink out the back of her tent, to make her way up the slope and slip back into the castle like whipped dog.
No.
She closed her eyes, pressed both hands over her mouth and held her breath, willing her heart to still. This was the moment she’d been waiting for all her life. Her moment of truth, when she would prove to herself and the world that the past few years had not been just idle fantasy, had not been a series of games and make-believe.
She opened her eyes and stared at the canvas side of her tent. Elon had erected it first thing that dawn as he’d set up his smithy, ostensibly to house his materials and gear. He’d also brought down a specific bundle that she’d entrusted to him the night before. He’d been unwilling, reluctant, but she’d used every tool at her disposal. Begging. Wheedling. Flattering. Commanding. He’d stood immovable, aghast, until at last she’d taken his massive paw of a hand and held it with both of hers, looking up at him with mute appeal. He’d sighed and hung his head, and she knew she’d won.
Now here she was. There were real knights out there. She’d spied Lord Laur’s arrival through a seam and knew that he’d brought a dangerous retinue with him. Her own uncle—not that she’d ever liked him much. He’d always teased her when she was little, and had made wagers with her that he’d refused to honor when she won. Would he protest? Would he sway her mother to deny her request? Possibly. But she’d not let him. She’d not let anybody.
Turning, she unrolled her bundle. Metal gleamed. Suddenly exhilarated, she stripped off her gown and pulled on her thin woolen undershirt and leggings. She had to struggle into them, so tightly did they fit. Then she picked up her leather jerkin, tailor-made by a man in Emmond to her exact specifications. She slipped her arms into the sleeves, then exhaled and sucked in her stomach so she could wrap the front right side around to where the buttons ran up the length of her left ribs. The leather was cured and stiff, tough enough to turn a blade. She pulled on a pair of leather breaches and grinned.
Next came her hauberk, her pride and joy. Again she struggled, swimming into it as she pulled it on over her head and fought to get her arms through the sleeves. Her leather armor caught numerous times, but she worke
d steadily and patiently until at last it fell down to her thighs. She shrugged, windmilled her arms, and twisted about until it was settled in place.
Then she took up her chest plate. She’d had Elon customize it to her demands. Instead of covering her from abdomen to neck, it only covered her from clavicles to her lower ribs, leaving her torso free. Her back plate was of the same design, and it took ten minutes of swinging it around and trying to catch the straps before she was able to lock them both in place. She cinched them tight and then pulled on a leather gorget that swooped up her neck and came right up to her jaw.
She spent another five minutes buckling on her steel pauldrons over her shoulders, each of which had overlapping plates that ran down to her elbows. Then she buckled on her belt, scabbard hanging low over her left hip, and took up her metal gauntlets that reached up to cover her forearms.
When each had been pulled on tight, she paused. She was encased, yet eminently flexible. She’d seen her father’s men fight all her life. Trapped in their suits, they relied on the impenetrable nature of their plate armor to compensate for their clumsy stiffness. Not her. The last thing she wanted was to feel trapped. With her helm, half-cuirass, pauldrons and gauntlets, she’d still be resolutely shielded. Her hauberk would protect the rest, with her leather beneath to provide a final protective measure.
Best of all, she could still move. She fell into a crouch, then leaped up into the air, twisted, reached for the top of the tent, and swung her arms around. Perfect. She took up her helm, forged in the modern barbute manner, smooth and circular all around but for a Y-faced slit in the front that would allow her to see and breathe easily while protecting her nose.
She could hear the knights being introduced outside. This was it. This was her moment. It was now or never.
Kethe pulled the barbute down over her head and onto her braided hair which she had coiled atop her crown so as to provide extra cushioning. Fully armored, she slid her new blade into her scabbard, took a deep breath, and stepped outside.
Elon was waiting for her, arms crossed, and she studied his expression carefully. “Well?”
He smiled reluctantly. “You look good. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were some kind of knight.”
“Just wait,” she said. “You’ll find out exactly what kind soon enough.”
“Here,” said Elon. “I’ll help you up.”
“No need.” She stepped up to the destrier confidently. With all the Black Wolves gone, there had been a surplus of these great beasts waiting unclaimed in the stables. While she’d been riding all her life, she’d only taken to practicing on these massive animals these past few months. Mexus, a former destrier of Ser Merboth, had been the smallest in the stable, but still it towered over her at fifteen hands. She eyed the saddle. It seemed to float high above her. Grabbing the pommel, she leaped up and swung her leg over the cantle. Mexus didn’t even register her slight weight.
Elon held up her lance. She’d had little time to practice with it, but she’d known there would never be enough time.
“Last chance,” said Elon softly. “It’s not too late to stop this madness now.”
“I’ll never forget your role in all this,” she promised him.
“That’s what I’m worried about,” he sighed, and then despite himself he smiled. “I’ll be watching. Send them through the Black Gate, my Lady. Show them no mercy.”
“I won’t.” A shiver ran through her, and she saw Menczel step out onto the field to announce the tourney prize. She urged Mexus forward, digging her heels in so that he broke out into a canter. “Wait!”
Hundreds of people turned to stare at her as she rode out into open view. She knew she cut a strange sight, her custom armor completely unlike the great beetle plates of the others. She didn’t care. She rode, head high, right up to the stands, supremely aware of her every movement, the weight of the chain, how her leather vest constricted her breathing, how her sword bounced against her thigh as Mexus cantered.
Her mother was lowering herself into her seat, face guarded. Her uncle was watching her with open curiosity and amusement. Neither had recognized her yet. She pulled lightly on Mexus’ rein, leaning back in the saddle, and he stopped before them all.
“I wish to enter the tourney,” she said, suddenly breathless.
Recognition dawned on her mother’s face, followed closely by alarm. She bolted to her feet. “What is this?”
Kethe felt madness seize her. Madness and anger and determination so pure nothing could stop her. She reached up and pulled the barbute free. She heard the gasps but ignored them. Her eyes were locked on her mother’s. “I demand the right to serve as one of your knights.”
“This is preposterous,” said Lady Kyferin. “Kethe, have you lost your mind?”
“No,” she said. “The exact opposite. I want this. I will have it. I will serve you with my sword.”
Snickers and laughter came from the audience, but just as many hissed at them to be silent.
Lord Laur stirred in his seat. “Niece. It’s a pleasure to see you, though I must admit to being somewhat… surprised.”
“Lord Uncle,” she said, bowing her head. Then she turned back to her mother, who had grown pale. “You cannot deny me this. You’ve always told me that women are the equal of men in all matters. That we need but the courage to seize the moment, to believe in ourselves, and that there is nothing we can’t do. Well, I am taking you at your word. I want this. I will have it.”
Lady Kyferin shook her head softly. “You can’t stand against these knights, Kethe.”
Kethe smiled, fighting the tears that threatened to come from the sheer intensity of her emotion. “I can, and I will. Give me this chance. I know what I’m doing. By the Ascendant and my hope for the White Gate, I swear it. Mother, let me fight.”
Silence ached between them. Lord Laur went to speak, saw Lady Kyferin’s expression, and fell still. The moment dragged out, but Kethe never flinched, never looked away. She held her mother’s gaze with a steadiness and resolution that she had never managed before, and finally her mother looked over to Lord Laur.
“Will your men allow a woman to contest them?”
Lord Laur considered the question, then shrugged. “That is up to them. I suppose there are legendary precedents. It is said that centuries ago women did indeed fight alongside men.” He paused, calculating. “But you are our host, my Lady. Order it, and I shall see it done. For better or worse, they will treat my dear niece as they would any other knight.”
Lady Kyferin looked back to Kethe. “Is this truly what you wish?”
Kethe’s desire was so strong that she found she couldn’t speak. She simply nodded.
Something in her mother gave way. “So be it,” said Lady Kyferin. “Lord Laur, tell your men to withhold nothing. My daughter will enter the melee as a knight of Kyferin Castle.”
Kethe wanted to cry, to grin, to give an ebullient whoop, but she controlled herself and did none of those things. This had been the easiest part. As she turned to consider the eighteen other mounted knights, she found her confidence wilting. They were massive, their armor ponderous and heavy, their destriers huge, and they were all staring at her. She could read their minds: Incredulity. Disdain. Mockery. Except for Asho, she saw. His customary expression of neutrality had given way to the slightest of grins. Kethe restrained the urge to smile back, and instead placed her helm back over her head. “My Lady. By your leave.”
Lady Kyferin nodded weakly, and Kethe rode over to Asho and Ser Wyland.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” Asho didn’t sound incredulous, much to her relief. Merely incredibly dubious.
“Of course I do.” Mexus was massive between her legs, a world of difference compared to Lady. No matter. He was as highly trained as destriers came. He’d do what she bid. “I think.”
Ser Wyland was staring at her, his expression inscrutable. She wanted to pretend that his words and opinion wouldn’t matter any more than Asho’s, but th
at would be a lie. She watched him carefully out of the corner of her eye.
Finally he rubbed his face with both hands. “By the White Gate. Stay close to me. I’ll do what I can to protect you.”
Anger was followed quickly by bitter self-control. She bit down her retort. “Thank you, Ser Wyland. I’ll do my best to watch your back as well.”
Ser Kitan Laur guided his horse over, riding with an enviable ease in his expertly crafted plate. He stopped before her and pushed up his visor’s helm. She’d last seen him four years ago at one of their family’s rare reunions. He’d been a lean young man at that time, barely out of his teens, face petulant, his thin lips always pressed in displeasure. She’d hated being caught alone with him, because he’d always tried to corner her and kiss her hair. He’d filled out, she saw, his frame now muscled though not nearly as broad as Ser Wyland’s. His eyes, though—they retained their mocking amusement.
“Cousin,” he said. “This is unexpected. Do you seriously mean to ride against us?”
Kethe met his eyes with a flat stare of her own. “That and more.”
Kitan leaned back in his saddle, both hands resting on his pommel. “You’ll ruin this contest, Kethe. Nobody will strike against you in earnest. Instead, we’ll all be reduced to fumbling over ourselves as we seek to avoid you and not fall over laughing at the same time. Come. Withdraw. Let the men do the fighting.”
Kethe felt her fear leave her. Into its place stole a solid, impenetrable anger as heavy and flat as Elon’s anvil. “Watch yourself, Kitan. I’ll be coming for you.”
