I coax Silvermist back to his starting position, murmuring encouragements in his ear. I won’t give Graylen the satisfaction of a reply. With two charges left, I can still win. I can still make him eat dirt.
Under normal circumstances, Graylen would never have scored against me. But ever since Leilani ignited that Sister-blooded Flarestone, life’s been anything but normal. Forced now to share corridors, meals, the very air I breathe, with the self-same vermin that robbed me of my father. And soon I’ll be forced to journey alongside them for Stars know how long…
I shake the dismal thought away to focus on Graylen. I may have no choice but to follow Hyperion’s orders and escort Leilani on her ridiculous quest, but in the tiltyard, I’m in control.
Though there’s no audience to speak of in the stands, only a few straggling courtiers in the pavilion awaiting their turn in the lists, Graylen’s white stallion is bedecked in its full colours. The ceremonial coverings, emblazoned with Oberion triple-moons, billow in the breeze as we wait for the herald to signal the second charge.
The moment the pennant falls, I twitch my spurs. Silvermist rears up, whinnies, then drops into a canter. I ease into his bouncing rhythm and heft my lance into position. This time, I’ll aim for the helm. Four points. Five if I can unseat him. I wait till we’re a lance-length from each other, then thrust. Once again, too late. Graylen’s lance ploughs into my shield, splintering with an almighty crack. Winded, I lose my stirrup, lurching in the saddle. I drop my lance and it takes everything I have not to drop my reins as well. With a groan, I drag myself upright.
Another three points to Graylen.
A deficit of four. And only one charge remaining.
Lifting my visor, I call for a fresh lance. Six-pointed stars, my family’s ancient sigil, glitter along its length. I tighten my grip on it. Graylen’s ready at the opposite end of the tiltyard. He smiles, a wordless challenge. I slam my visor shut, pat Silvermist on the neck and await the herald. I won’t besmirch the Vesparion name. Not this rising.
This time, when the pennant drops, I aim for Graylen’s chest. I don’t falter. I don’t think. I move on instinct. Trusting to my training, trusting myself. A strike to the body will only win me three points. I’ll need to unhorse Graylen to claim victory. And avoid being hit myself. Cold biting through the chinks in my armour, I goad Silvermist faster and clench my teeth, mustering all strength to my elbow. With a groan, I drive my lance towards his heart. Blood roars in my ears, muffling the wet crunch as the tip shatters against the dead centre of his breastplate. Graylen grunts, topples back.
When he hits the ground, it’s with a gratifying thud.
I cast my broken lance to a waiting squire, along with my helm and gauntlets, and lift my gaze to the great starflower tree rising before the rear of the palace. Its frosted branches are spread in supplication to the heavens, much like Graylen’s were to me only moments ago.
Flat on his back, arms raised in defeat. Just as I wanted.
I pause to mop the sweat beading my brow, sweep my hair behind my ears, straighten my surcoat, concealing all evidence of the effort I’ve just expended. The appearance of ease is all-important, but I’m glad of the labour it took. I needed this focus of mind, this ache of muscle, to distract from the fact that Leilani prevailed, that Outrealmers have been living among us for almost a moonsquarter.
Yes, I sorely needed this win.
I dismount and reward Silvermist with a well-earnt heel of honeyloaf. Leaving him in the capable hands of a palace groom, I extend a hand to Graylen, helping him to his feet. He carries himself with the same easy gait as Hyperion. That’s what comes from being one of The Nine, having nothing to prove. I relax my shoulders, shift into the same stance, slipping into the armour of entitlement I must remember to wear at all times.
‘You always were too good for me,’ he says, laying a heavy gauntlet on my arm.
A double-edged compliment? Poison masquerading as nectar? My time at the Asteum alongside Graylen and his ilk has taught me to beware punches thrown in velvet gloves. I laugh, murmur something about the stars smiling upon me, as we walk together to the pavilion. But we both know luck had nothing to do with my victory. All that practice at the quintain, pushing myself till muscles burnt and hands bled, it wasn’t for nothing. Hyperion used to travel to the Asteum to watch the tournaments held on high feasts; I wanted him to see me honouring my father’s name, to know I’d be worthy of bearing his in the future.
Two courtiers are already seated on the pavilion’s viewing balcony. They’re perhaps a decade older than me. Though not members of The Nine, they’re still high-ranking officials.
‘Cosmian. Elbio.’ I nod first to the taller man who wears a beard, then to the shorter who’s weak-chinned.
I catch them exchanging a look behind my back as I take my seat in the centre of the balcony. Well, let them look, let them jest about my being jilted – and by the tainted heir no less. I’ve heard it all before. And when my binding to Leilani does eventually take place, when I assume the Throne, I’ll order them to the Northern provinces.
I’m playing a long game, but I will laugh last, and I will laugh loudest.
They resume their conversation as Graylen hands me a glass of honeywine and starts picking over our joust. I make a pretence at listening, nodding along, but my ears are pricked to the murmurs to my left. I’ve made a study of this too – entertaining two conversations at once. The perfect courtier must always have one ear to gossip – whispers make or break careers – you never know when you’ll overhear something important, something you can turn to your advantage.
‘My squire told me one of the bottom-feeders was seen leaving the Clanschief’s chambers last night after dinner,’ Cosmian says.
‘Unaccompanied?’
‘Indeed, and in a state of some undress.’
I fix my gaze on the tiltyard, where two more courtiers are preparing to joust.
‘Disgusting. The mere thought of crossbreeding. They ought never to have been welcomed to the realm, much less the palace.’
I bristle. I might agree with them, but speaking such things aloud – even in whispers – is dangerous. I could report them for treason. It’s important to know the temperature of the court though – whether Hyperion’s decision to shelter the Outrealmers, to go ahead with Leilani’s reckless scheme, is likely to cause a revolt. Plus, and I’m ashamed to admit it, I want to know which of the Riverians the Clanschief’s tumbling – the chieftain’s daughter or her amphibious familiar? From the way he’s been flaunting his naked chest to anyone that’ll glance in his direction during the training sessions I arranged on the King’s instruction, I wouldn’t bet against the pearlsprite. Who knows what state he’ll arrive in at the Armoury tomorrow to collect his climbing equipment? Hyperion told me the starscribes believe the Clanschief’s brother was the preferred heir, and I’m inclined to believe them. I know the look of a man trying too hard.
But truth told, I’m surprised Blayze has the stamina for tupping anything considering how green he’s looked since arriving here. I make a mental note to send more starfruit to his chambers as well as the pearlsprite’s. Despite all his muscle, the fool needs all the help he can get acclimating. I don’t want him here, but if this quest is going ahead, we need the Clanschief alive. For now, at least.
I settle back in my chair, straining to hear the rest of their mutterings, but any hopes of absorbing more court gossip evaporate when my name is called from the back of the pavilion. I stiffen, then rise along with the rest of the courtiers to bow to the Princess.
