Despite his sense of caution, Wyl had told Ylena and Alyd that Magnus was dying. All three could imagine how bleak life would be with Celimus sitting on the throne. But this morning Ylena blocked the thought of the vile Celimus and what he would expect should he win the contest. He made the very blood in her veins chill. Ylena pushed the Prince and his lusty thoughts from her mind. She inhaled the scent from her trees and turned to the man she loved on this her most special of all mornings.
“You look wonderful,” she said to Alyd, straightening his shirt front. “Quite the dashing warrior.” He grimaced. “Hardly.” Pulling her close, he kissed her passionately. “Let’s hope your brother can best him.”
“And spare us—”
Alyd hushed her with another kiss. “Say no more. I must away, my lady, or risk the wrath of the famously bad-tempered red-headed General.” Ylena laughed but he could see anxiety in her eyes, and knew she was reading the same concern in his. “Come on, where’s that famous Thirsk courage?”
“It all lives in Wyl, not me. I’m ashamed to admit.” she said, wringing her hands.
“And he has sworn to defend you, as I have, so you need not fear.”
“Then why am I starting to tremble, Alyd Donal?”
He tilted her chin up so he could look into her eyes. “I love you. You have to trust that love. And Wyl’s plan, of course. We’ve done everything we can.”
She nodded, hoping he would be gone before her inevitable tears betrayed her. After Alyd’s departure, Ylena took the final—and, she knew, daring—precaution of sending a page to Orto, the King’s secretary, with an urgent request, then sent her maid hunting for her archery gloves.
The morning session of the tournament had proceeded smoothly, with the joust creating much hilarity for the onlookers as various noble sons were toppled. The population of the city had swelled even more dramatically than anticipated. As a special gesture, Magnus—on Orto’s wise suggestion—had released several dozen barrels of his ale to be distributed freely at the celebrations together with roasted oxen. All the bakers close to the castle had been harried into action and now the air hung heavily with the tantalizing smell of fresh loaves and meat sizzling on the spits.
The midday feast had begun. Purveyors in the Alley’s corridor of tents and awnings were enjoying a brisk trade during this break in the day’s events as everyone enjoyed their food and ale. The latter helped them loosen their purse strings.
A mountebank entertained the meandering folk with his colorful patois, hawking a magical salve that promised to ease all aches and pains. To keep their attention and their laughter high, his pet mynah bird hurled insults at its owner, who deliberately ignored it. The contortionist made his audience cringe but despite the squeals they still threw their coppers for more. Children amassed around the confectioner’s stall where treats they had only dreamed about were on sale for just two mynks each: fairy floss, toffee apples, caramels, sherbets, and hard shapes of brightly colored sugar that could last a full day if sucked wisely. A group of women had joined forces to sell knitted blankets, woven baskets, even a few rugs weaved by a team of their children. And then, of course, there were the sideshows where, among other frolics, passersby were encouraged to throw wet rags at some poor soul who had agreed to stand in a stock for a share of the earnings. Three direct hits won a flagon of mead. Elsewhere, strong men took their turn at hacking through a log. their times carefully monitored and recorded by a stony-faced man with a piercing stare who chewed constantly on a willow twig, absorbing its painkilling juices for his sore joints.
A small queue formed outside the tent of the mysterious Widow Ilyk, who claimed she could tell people their fortunes simply through touch. Wyl smiled as he strolled by. He liked people who poked fun at Morgravia’s old fears. In former years, claiming to have the Sight would have brought forth a howling troop of Witch Stalkers. He was glad those days were done and ingenious people like this widow could make a living from parlor tricks. If there were any positive outcomes from Myrren’s demise, they were that King Magnus had rid Morgravia of Lymbert and his cronies and the Zerque influence had virtually died out. Myrren’s death had horrified many younger onlookers, who were more enlightened than their elders and did not fear sentients; in fact, did not really believe such powers existed. But most people were willing to pay a coin to have someone tell them that their knees would stop aching, or they would indeed marry a wealthy merchant and escape a life chained to a field of barley. Fortune tellers, these days, rarely lacked patrons.
Alyd caught up with him outside the widow’s tent. “What are you doing here?”
“Trying to keep my mind occupied.”
“Come on. It’s time we got you ready.”
“Would you pay a bronze regent to learn your fortune?” Wyl mused.
“I’ll tell you what, if you pull off the extraordinary today, we’ll get drunk and celebrate by coming back here to this very tent—what is it? Ah yes, the Widow Ilyk, and we shall have our fortunes told.” He grinned.
“I’m glad you’re confident.”
“I’m not,” Alyd admitted. “The truth is, I’m paralyzed with fear for Ylena.”
“How is she?”
“Have you not spoken with her yet?” Alyd looked aghast.
Wyl pushed his hands into his pockets. “I haven’t. Is she…all right?” he asked sheepishly.
Alyd’s expression turned to one of genuine smugness. “Dare I say, since last night she is glowing.” General Thirsk put up his hand in mock defeat to prevent his Captain saying more.
“Come, I have a fight to prepare for.”
The city bells tolled the commencement of the afternoon’s entertainment and. to ensure the throng made its now slightly intoxicated way back to the fields, several pages were sent out with handbells to ring loudly through the Alley.
The court ladies’ archery contest was not much of a competition in truth. It was quickly distilled down to Ylena matching her clearly superior skills against Ailen, a ferocious opponent from the House of Coldyn, who not only desired the pearl very badly but had her eyes firmly set on winning the attention of Alyd Donal.
Ailen shot with courage but too much aggression made her aim inaccurate, while Ylena’s arrows, gloriously fletched in her family colors, landed true. A clear winner, she did her best to ignore the scowls of the other contestants and to act graciously. Ylena did not need more jewels, but for sentimental reasons she did want the pearl from Magnus. An excited buzz moved through the crowd as King Magnus was unexpectedly helped to the small stage set up for prize-giving. He looked desperately frail and ill, despite his finery. Orto and a surprised Prince Celimus aided him to stand for the presentation, ignoring the murmurings from the folk, who were shocked at the state of their King.
“Father, this is not a good idea.”
“Still, it is an idea I like” came the prompt response. “Ah. my lovely,” he said, beaming towards his favorite lady. Magnus clasped the pendant around Ylena’s neck so the pearl sat at the base of her throat, and kissed her on both cheeks. “This was meant to hang from one beautiful neck only,” he said, eyes burning brightly with the fever that would soon claim his life.
Ylena curtsied. “Thank you for coming, my King,” she whispered fervently, imagining what it had taken for him to be here.
“How could I resist your request?” he asked, shaking off the arms of Celimus and Orto, forcing them to step back and in so doing winning himself a moment’s privacy. “I’m sorry the Felrawthy clan is not in attendance,” the King admitted. “They should have seen you shine today.”
“I think the Duke is disappointed too, my lord, as is Alyd. His father’s clan is too busy in the north.”
“Mmm, yes so I gather. By the way, child, don’t be frightened,” he whispered, knowing she would understand his meaning. “Your brother is more wily than you credit. Now turn so they can all see your pretty prize.”
“I shall never take it off, your majesty. It will be treasured and will always keep you close to me.” He smiled as a father to his child, loving her in the same manner. The King straightened to his full height with difficulty. His eyes were damp and he could feel the fever beginning to make his body tremble; knew he must keep it at bay just a while longer.
Ylena stepped away from the podium to rousing cheers and catcalls from the soldiers loyal to her brother, each one of them just a little bit in love with the graceful, golden beauty of the young woman who did not resemble the General in the least.
Meanwhile Celimus moved forward to whisper to the King. His words were cloying and sweet. “Father, it was exceedingly good of you to leave your sickbed for the prize-giving. May I ask Orto to assist you back to your chambers now. sire?”
“Actually, no, Celimus. The fresh air makes me feel brighter just at present,” Magnus lied, “and I hear you and Wyl Thirsk are to provide a special exhibition piece. I should like to see this.” Celimus gave a terse yet still elegant bow. “As you wish. Father. I feel privileged that you will witness it.” The old man nodded, despising him. “And I also hear you have a special prize for the victor of this contest. Am I right in understanding that you have invoked the ancient Virgin Blood claim?”
“Yes, sire,” Celimus answered brightly, determined not to be intimidated by the sack of bones before him. “I thought it might add some spice to the sometimes dull occasion of two men matching blades.”
“It was my belief that the addition of real swords would provide enough excitement.”
“In this you are right, my lord. However, I felt inspired to mark this as the most memorable of royal tournaments.”
“And why is that?” the King asked, dreading the answer.
Celimus moved closer still. “Because it shall be your last and we need to mark it well, sire. This tourney did, after all, arise out of celebrations of our ancient customs. It is right that we send your ancient body off in ancient style.”
Magnus worked hard to keep his voice steady. “Indeed, son. I admire your observation of the old traditions, although I cannot admire the rite you have resurrected, the very one my grandfather worked so hard to abolish. It is, if you will forgive me pointing out at this late hour, barbaric and beneath you to perpetrate such a thing on one of the young maidens here.”
“Ah, well, as I so rarely please you. Father, this is but another nail I will gladly hammer into your coffin.” Magnus was shocked at the vehemence in Celimus’s words, all muttered only just loud enough for the two of them to share.
“You are clearly in a hurry for me to die. son.”
Celimus bent down, his smile to the crowd unfailing but his words chilling as he whispered to Magnus: “I shall give you until Newleaf. Father. If you are not wheezing your last unwelcome breath within that time, I shall personally speed you along to Shar.”
Magnus, feeling his strength leave him as he absorbed how strongly Adana’s blood ran in Celimus’s veins and how he had so completely failed his son. collapsed into a chair that had been conveniently placed behind him by the ever-attentive Orto.
“Your majesty,” the servant started softly, his tone reflecting his concern. He had heard none of the conversation between father and son but knew well it would have brought no cheer to the old King.
Magnus did not allow him to finish. “A drink, if you please, Orto. I wish to watch the exhibition.”
“Yes, sire,” Orto said, a twitch of his fingers sending a page scurrying for a watered ale. “As you command,” he added, reaching into his pocket for the small vial of poppy seed liquor.
Gueryn and Alyd had helped Wyl dress in the ceremonial fighting uniform of the House of Thirsk. They stood now admiring him.
“Pity about the red hair,” Alyd observed.
“Hush, Alyd,” Wyl replied out of habit.
“It clashes so badly with the house colors.” Alyd continued, staring at the magenta and deep ultramarine of Wyl’s show battledress. He wanted to try once more to convince his friend to wear some armor, but knew it would be in vain. Wyl had already refused on the grounds that the contest was to be purely an exhibition.
“Well, you can blame my ancestors for their blindness to pleasing color combinations. They had red hair too.” Wyl scowled at himself in the glass. Gueryn stood beside him.
“Celimus likes to feint to the left,” Gueryn cautioned.
Wyl nodded, taking his sword from Alyd and sheathing it.
“And he likes to show you all of his right side—don’t fall for the ploy and strike. Swipe hard and low to his left.”
“I know this, Gueryn. Be still. There is nothing more I can learn about Celimus’s swordplay that I don’t know already.”
Gueryn knew what was at stake; he knew Wyl must best Celimus to protect his sister, although the consequences for beating the Prince so publicly would be dire.
“When this is over and we’ve seen Ylena and Alyd married. I suggest you take yourself off to the north.
You need to get away from here for a while.” He did not notice the glance that passed between the two younger soldiers.
Wyl understood that it made Gueryn feel safer to talk of the future. “Well, only if you agree to accompany me. We can check on the border patrols that so consumed my father.”
“That’s a promise.” Gueryn said gravely. He put his hand over Wyl’s heart and spoke the family motto:
“As one.”
Wyl repeated the gesture, holding his own hand over Gueryn’s heart: “As one.” He accepted Alyd’s brief hug. “Go, be near her. She will be terrified.” Alyd could only nod. Suddenly he felt his world tipping. He tried to sound confident. “I can already taste our first celebratory ale.”
Gueryn and Alyd left the tent and Wyl followed moments behind, emerging into the glare of the clear, mild afternoon. His friends moved toward where Ylena nervously sat.
He walked into the main arena. The master of ceremonies announced the arrival of General Wyl Thirsk and was quickly drowned out by the loud cheer that erupted from the soldiers encircling the area. If the civilians were intrigued by this contest between two such highly ranked combatants, they were fascinated by the promise that the victor would have the right to Virgin Blood.