“Have to keep my eye on those.”
Next, his attention turned to the seven other balconies overlooking the great hall below, three on his side of the hall, and four on the other. They were crowded with eager peasants and merchants—the riffraff like himself. Given the density of the throng, an attack could easily come from any one of the balconies.
“’Scuse, please,” grunted a burly blacksmith, shoving Braddoc into the stone rail and crushing him against it as he pushed by. As soon as the mans large stomach stopped pressing against him, the dwarf whirled angrily about, hand on the dagger in his belt. The blacksmith was gone. Bristling, Braddoc stared into the churning crowd around him to catch a glimpse of his assailant, but the man had disappeared as though he had never been.
“Bloated idiot,” Braddoc mumbled, drawing a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbing at a line of black grease on his shoulder. “Filthy, bloated idiot.” He pulled the kerchief away, staring irritably at the two spots that now marred it. One spot was black and grimy like grease. The other was red as blood. “Bad omen,” Braddoc noted, the breath in his bruised lungs catching short. Trying to shake off the chill that washed over him, he turned his attention to the great hall below.
The floor was a vast mosaic of interlocking tiles that formed some grand design Braddoc couldn’t make out. The surface of the pattern was obscured by the people, sitting in thick rows on the floor. The lines of them extended from one wall to the other, like a furrowed garden of villagers. Young pages ushered more peasants into the already packed hall, gesturing for them to tighten the existing rows. The pages, little more than children themselves, also tirelessly cleared the red-velvet aisle in the center of the hall.
“Could be any one of ’em,” Braddoc muttered, eyeing the crowd. His hand slipped a second time to his pocket, checking for the blink-dog’s tail. His fingers wrapped around the beaded handle, and he peered once again at the swaying chandeliers, the burgeoning balconies, the crowded floor below…. “I just hope this thing works.”
Noise swelled at the front of the hall. Suddenly a dozen or more people, including Baroness Penhaligon and Sir Graybow, filed into a cordoned area where the council table sat. Long and rectangular—imposing even at this distance—the table rested on a low dais and was attended on the far side by high-backed chairs. Only pages, squires, knights, and nobility were allowed beyond the ropes that marked the cordoned area.
“Let’s hope this starts it,” Braddoc said to himself. He was tired of waiting, especially since he had hurried straight to the hall, with trail dust still clinging to him.
Baroness Penhaligon waited for the castellan to pull out her seat, then sat down. The council members stood by their respective chairs and waited. The crowd, none too quiet a moment before, grew noisier still. A man behind Braddoc pressed forward, practically leaning over the dwarf. Braddoc jerked his elbow back and connected with the man’s thigh. The human said, “Ooof!” but backed away peaceably. Oh, to be back in Rockhome! Braddoc sighed, feeling nostalgic for the short folk of his dwarven homeland.
Arteris raised her hand. A dozen trumpeters, six to either side of the dais, stepped forward and blared out the call for silence.
Its begun, thought Braddoc. His eyes left the stage and combed the audience.
Jo pressed against the delicate iron grillwork that screened the small anteroom from the great hall. She couldn’t see beyond the backs of the first row of people. Braddoc could be anywhere out there! she thought. She could only hope she would catch sight of him as she walked up the aisle.
The squire wrapped her fingers around the metal grill-work. Her hands were perspiring from the heat of the small, crowded room, and she hoped to cool them. She glanced nervously to each side of her. Eleven other men and women were gathered with her, each wearing the same golden tunic Jo did. Most of them were young like her, though one man sported a grizzled beard. Jo wondered what had prompted him to become a squire in midlife.
In a separate cluster stood seasoned squires who were about to be promoted to knighthood: two men and three women, one obviously elven. Jo hadn’t had the nerve to approach the elf maiden, even for a simple greeting, for she admired the elven race above all others. Tonight’s ceremony was too distracting and emotionally taxing to let her overcome her shyness and approach the golden-haired, violet-eyed beauty.
Jo furtively watched the soon-to-be knights, who were talking quietly among themselves. Some were trying to feign nonchalance, but Jo sensed their excitement nevertheless. They’re about to become knights in the Order of the Three Suns! Jo thought, then caught one of the women trying to surreptitiously rub a tarnished spot from her armor. Jo smiled. Unlike the squires, who had already been given their golden tunics, the knights would receive their midnight-blue tunics from Baroness Penhaligon herself. The tarnish will never show then, Jo thought charitably.
Trumpets sounded then, and Jo turned back around and pressed against the grillwork. Beside her, a young man did the same, and Jo glanced at him. She blushed and averted her eyes immediately when she saw that he was looking at her. “Hello,” said Colyn Madcomb, the squire who had opened the door for Jo in the practice courtyard a week ago.
Jo blushed, unable to say anything to the young man with the merry eyes. She couldn’t help noticing that his eyes were an interesting combination of green and brown, and that they were framed by black, curly lashes.
The trumpeters finished their introductory theme, a fanfare that had been used since the beginning of Penhaligon’s days as a court. The people responded by slowly quieting. Baroness Penhaligon regally stood and began to speak, her voice echoing through the great hall. Jo strained to see past the people still moving about in the hall, but she lost sight of the dais. She would have to be patient: she and the other initiates weren’t allowed into the great hall until a page opened the door and escorted them to the council area.
“Gentle folk, commoners and royals alike,” rang Arteris’s voice, “welcome, one and all.” Arteris paused while the audience erupted in the traditional cheer of greeting.
“In the tradition of our forebears,” the baroness continued, “tonight we celebrate the initiation of those who have been found worthy to join the Order of the Three Suns… .”
Jo rubbed her sweaty hands on the legs of her trousers, then fidgeted with the collar of her tunic. Her thoughts drifted away, and she remembered Flinn telling her he believed she would one day become a knight in the order. His words and manner had been filled with such earnestness, such faith, that Jo had believed him with all her heart. It had been the first time since her parents had sent her away and betrayed her that she had believed anyone so fully.
Oh, Flinn! Jo’s heart cried. I have such doubts! How I wish you were here! Once again, the words have faith entered Jo’s mind. She smiled sadly and put her hand on Wyrmblight. “I’ll try,” she whispered, “but it’s so hard without you.”
Then suddenly the door opened and a young woman poked her head inside. “It’s time for the squires,” the page said. “The castellan will announce your name shortly—begin walking down the aisle at the pace he taught you.” The page smiled sweetly and held open the door.
Jo’s heart thudded, and she barely heard Sir Graybow announce to the audience in the great hall, “We have found twelve persons worthy to become squires in the Order of the Three Suns.” Listen, girl! Jo admonished herself. It’ll never do to miss your name!
Sir Graybow called out, “Colyn Madcomb, from Greenheight in the County of Vyalia, now squire to Madam Francys Astwood. We bid you welcome to Penhaligon ” The young man with the merry eyes flushed and stepped out onto the velvet-strewn aisle. Jo clenched her hands.