“We call on the archangels, the gods, and”—he cast a quick look toward Alanna—“the Bard to be with us today. May they stand witness as they have since ancient times. We come before them, naked in our hearts, and we ask that they turn their attention to this trial by combat.”
His gaze slowly raked across the crowd, as if he could see into each person’s thoughts. Their hopes. Their dreams. And their lies. “Challenge was given and accepted. To first blood, as agreed. May the archangels stand beside these men and uphold the worthy supplicant, guiding him to victory. May they stand beside us all and see our truth.”
Goose bumps broke out down her arms as a ripple of awareness danced over the crowd, and she felt Nim shiver beside her. Not a single person moved; only the wind catching at the pennants and flags, ruffling the heavy fabric of the pavilions, made any sound. Even the kites were silent. And she could almost believe that some great consciousness had turned its eye to them.
“Take your sides,” Ramiel ordered Val and Ballanor, breaking the strange spell. The two men stepped apart and then turned to face each other.
Ramiel nodded once and then cleared the field.
There was a commotion behind her, Hawk voices raised in outraged whispers and Alanna turned to see that Dornar had circled around and was trying to force himself closer.
He gave her a friendly smile, ignoring the ferocious glares on the faces around him, not seeming to realize how irritated she was by the distraction. He whispered loudly across the space between them, “Your Majesty, you should be standing with the court.”
She blinked, confused. “No. My place is here.”
He shook his head, smiling sadly, as if trying to explain to a wayward child. “You’re still the queen. Your place is with your court.”
Mathos gave Dornar a look cold enough to freeze lava, his body vibrating with a deep rumbling growl. “You heard the lady. Go away.”
Dornar drew himself up, eyes narrowed, copper-colored scales flickering around his wrists. “She’s not a “lady,” she’s Her Majesty the Queen and—”
Mathos dropped his hand to his sword, his own scales undulating in burgundy and gold as they sheathed his arms all the way to his neck. “Go. Away.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re the king’s second, shouldn’t you be down there supporting him?”
“No.” Dornar gave her a charming smile. “King Ballanor asked me to see to his wife.”
Mathos shot Dornar a look that Alanna couldn’t quite read, but she could hear the rumbling in his belly rising to a new level of animosity.
What did that mean? See to her? And why was Dornar—who couldn’t be bothered to so much as look at her when they were locked in the Constable’s Tower—so interested in being charming now?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a slow bugle call, the drawn-out, achingly mournful notes echoing around the field in a sorrowful lament. An ode to lives lost on every battlefield, in every war. She spun back toward the tournament ground, her throat tight.
“Begin,” Ramiel barked, and Val and Ballanor stepped forward.
The dust swirled beneath their feet as they slowly circled each other, neither one rushing, each of them equally controlled and focused.
She had never seen Ballanor look so lethal. In her mind he had always been a terrifying bully, but never a serious warrior. She should have realized that the many hours he spent each week sword-fighting with his men would not have been for nothing.
Now, seeing him in gleaming leather and tempered steel plates, moving lightly over the sand, she appreciated just how dangerous he truly was.
There was a sudden clash, too fast to see who had moved first, as the men came together in a swirl of clanging metal and harsh grunts, before they sprang back again, resuming their slow circling.
Her heart lurched into her throat, her chest tightening until she could hardly breathe, and the only thing holding her to earth was Nim’s hand gripping hers.
Swords rang out as they struck once more, thrusting and parrying viciously as each man pummeled the other, searching for any weakness, any opening. And then broke apart.
They came together again and again. Both lethally strong and experienced. Neither giving an inch.
Val circled, parried Ballanor’s sword, and then leaned in to launch a ferocious closed-fist jab toward Ballanor’s face. The crowd gasped as the king jerked his head to the side at the last moment, taking the blow to his cheek, and then stumbled back shaking his head as if to clear it.
Val stepped back to give him space, and Alanna could have screamed in frustration at his honor. The ethics that could get him killed.
Ballanor wiped his face and smirked. No blood. And then they were on each other once more, their swords ringing with every blow.
They broke apart just as suddenly, sweating, watching each other as they circled once more.
“Your Majesty, I really must insist—” Dornar’s voice scraped into her consciousness as he called from behind her, and she spun to face him, cutting him off. “No. I’ve told you no already.”
She turned back just in time to see Val’s gaze flicking up to her and Dorner at her back.
