As exhausted as I am, sleep evades me. Instead, I toss and turn, wondering what type of ass I’ll make of myself when attempting to joust.
Worst case, I die.
Best case, I’m matched against Dolan and somehow manage to wound him, or even eliminate him entirely.
My mind doesn’t stop creating scenario after scenario, all of which end badly for me. If I weren’t struggling to sleep because of the violent imagery in my mind, I would still have been kept awake by the combined sounds of revelry and snores surrounding me.
All I know is I have to find a way to warn the queen that she’s in danger. Even if it means losing my life in the process. I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t at least try.
I roll out of bed at the first hint of daylight. The Smog is always more bearable at the break of day, when the sky is brightest, and there’s hope that maybe it can’t possibly last forever.
Stumbling from the opening, I trip over something large at the mouth of my tent, landing on my backside in the grass. It knocks the wind from me, and pain shoots up my spine.
I crawl to the shadowy mound that almost broke my neck
What in all the hells?
There’s a note tied to the lump that says:
A gift for the little snake. Riding boots for your joust.
R
I eye the boots, wondering if they might be some kind of trick. Then I inspect the wear on my old boots. I really could use newshoes, so I reluctantly pull off my old boots and replace them with the new ones, stowing the worn pair back in the tent.
Not long into the morning, I begin to believe these boots might be good luck.
I’ve somehow managed to win or draw every joust. My body hurts—my ass in particular—but I’m alive, and I’ve also managed not to make a complete fool of myself. Yet.
My heart does a somersault in my chest as Dolan and his horse saunter up next to me.
“This is hardly a fair competition. What’s a lady doing in such a violent tournament when you should be up in the stands, cheering me on?” He sneers before digging his heels into the sides of his horse and taking off across the field to his position across from me.
Of course he’d be my last opponent. At least I’ve had some time to practice, and I feel capable in my saddle.
The starter waves the flag, indicating that we should line up our horses. I lower my lance. It’s heavy, and my arms are so tired.
The stress and frustration build in my chest as my horse gallops along the tilt rail, and I release it all in an ear-splitting bellow.
My lance meets his shoulder and cracks, but his barely grazes my ribcage. The impact throws my own aching shoulder back, and I want to scream but bite down hard on my lip until I taste blood.
The collective gasp from the crowd has my head on a swivel.
Dolan.
The horse he was riding stumbles to the side, and I think for a moment she might fall onto him, but she recovers as the rebel loses his seat in the direction they’d been going, toppling to the dirt face first.
Not only did I shatter my lance, I’ve unseated him.
The crowd roars.
His horse rears, and my skin tightens. She’s going to come down on his head. I want to turn, to look away before hoof meets skull, but I’m frozen in the saddle.
Dolan manages to roll and scramble to his feet in time to avoid certain death. Damn. The relief that I didn’t just witness a gruesome death swirls with the odd pang of shame I feel at not having succeeded. I have seen my fair share of injuries, and I’m not one to shy away when there is mending to be done, but I don’t relish in the sight of gore. Even if the bastard might deserve it.
I pull my reins to the right, spinning to find Raiden in the crowd, but he’s nowhere.
The handlers at the gate take my mare as I dismount. I make it three steps before Dolan is upon me.
