“I heard you worried this was treason,” she says. “There’s nothing treasonous about protecting Syhl Shallow. I’d think someone like you would be grateful for nothing more than the opportunity.”
I might be used to ignoring my father’s comments, but hearing it fromherstings.
“I’ve heard stories,” I say hollowly.
“Good.” She nods. “We’re counting on you to help us protect the queen.”
Then she’s gone, and I’m left alone with the flickering light from the forge.
I pull the parchment from my pocket and look at the seal, at the tight, crisp folds of the paper.
We’re counting on you to help us protect the queen.
I scowl at the forge. At my missing foot. At the stools scattered all over my workshop. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I should be grateful.
I brush my fingertips over the intricate seal. Then I pull out a fresh piece of parchment and a stick of kohl to try to sketch the design so I can later re-create it in steel.
Maybe this is treason, maybe it’s not.
Like I said to Callyn, we should know for sure.
CHAPTER 12
TYCHO
I haven’t been to a proper tourney in years, and now I’ve been to three in as many days. I’d forgotten the press of people, the smell of spilled ale and horse sweat, the way coins change hands as people bet on their favorite challengers. I’d forgotten the way fights would erupt at the end of the night, the way men would bicker and swear and draw blades when they’d drunk their way beyond any common sense. When I was a boy, I found the crowds intimidating—and the soldiers terrifying. It wasn’t until Grey joined Worwick’s tourney that I learned I had options other than hiding.
Now I’m grown, and I’ve spent enough time as a soldier that I still carry myself as one. If anyone has a mind for trouble, their eyes skip over my weapons and look away. At each tourney, I spend silver on ale that I don’t drink, and I do as Prince Rhen suggested: I spread gossip that the king and queen long to host a competition on both sides of the border.
Some people are intrigued. Some are eager.
Some are wary.
Many murmur about how they can’t wait for an opportunity to legally spill the blood of people from Syhl Shallow. It’s been four years since a truce was formed between the countries, but bitterness lingers.
By the fourth night, I have one tourney left before I can return to the mountain pass that leads toward home. This one is two hours’ west of my usual path, nestled into a valley at the base of the mountains, and I’m almost tempted to skip it. But no; I asked for a task, and I’ll see it through.
We ride into the town of Gaulter at dusk, and the livery isn’t crowded, so I pay extra for Mercy to have a stall instead of a tether. I don’t get as lucky at the inn, which only has group rooms left, which means I’ll have to sleep in my armor again. I inwardly sigh. At least my horse can get a good night’s rest. I’ve grown so used to being on my own that night after night of crowds and conversation has exhausted me in a way I didn’t expect. I’m eager to be done.
Most tourneys are situated similarly: a large arena surrounded by raised seating, further looped by a wide track where food and ale are sold, weapons are bought and traded, and horses are kept. I find this one to be a bit smaller than I’m used to, but Gaulter is more remote, and it’s not dark yet: early enough that the track isn’t full of people. There are more vendors here too, selling trinkets and cloth and jewels. I linger at each, trying to get a sense of the people here, because the atmosphere is slightly different: less drinking and gambling, more jovial and excited. Some children are in the crowd, which isn’t exactly rare, but it’s definitely less common.
Maybe this tourney won’t be too bad.
One of the vendors is selling painted wooden figurines, and I pause to trace my fingers over a red horse that’s been expertly carved. Then my eyes land on the figurine of a scraver, the wings fashioned with singed black silk, the claws made of steel.
Iisak. I frown.
But no. That’s impossible. It must be a coincidence. He’s been dead for years.
The girl working the stall sees my attention and turns my way with a wide smile. “Do you like the fantastic, my lord?” she says. “I have dragons and mermaids, too.” She holds out a hand to indicate an array of brightly colored creatures, each more elaborate than the last.
I inhale to say no, but a shout from farther down draws my attention, followed by a startled cry and a rattle of metal against wood. Then the clear sound of a slap. The girl’s smile turns a little strangled.
“Just one of the champions,” she whispers. “They’re always a bit tense before the fights.”
I stride away from the vendor stalls, chasing the sound of trouble. We’re close to the horses, and the scents of hay and soiled bedding are thick. I weave through the thickening crowd toward the stables, and I don’t have to look far before I find a grown man in armor pinning a boy to the wall, the front of his shirt gripped in the man’s fist. The boy can’t be more than ten, and his cheek is flushed red. There’s blood on his lip.
“I told you,” the man says, seething, “to havemyhorse saddled first.” He lifts his hand to strike again. “I shouldn’t have to wait for your lazy—”
