“Eradan Pradas, chosen by Den Janaquel.” A second challenger strode on to the sand. A wiry man with sandy brown hair and a distinctly Lescari cast to his eyes, he was the tallest man Temar had seen in Toremal.
“Who is this?” he asked Ryshad anxiously. “Do you know him?”
“Oh, yes, long since.” Ryshad was unconcerned, raking a hand through curls sticking to his temples. “He’s always thought he’s better than me, and I don’t suppose he could resist trying to prove it. It shouldn’t take long to send him about his business.”
Temar watched him go before turning to Mistal. “Where can we find bandages hereabouts? To strap his hand?”
If that were the only support he could give Ryshad, it would have to suffice.
The D’Olbriot Sword School,
Summer Solstice Festival, Third Day, Afternoon
Yield?” I twisted the edge of my blade into Jord’s neck, scraping thick black bristles with an audible rasp. We were face to face, my sword resting point up and over his shoulder, the guard digging into his chest and my arm braced to keep him off me. I had his sword arm in my off hand, twisted away and useless. He struggled, tendons taut, face and neck darkening with effort. I leaned in hard to make best use of my hand’s width more height, but he was easily as broad in the shoulder as me and barrel-chested with it. He’d better yield because getting out of this without letting him mark me was going to be cursed difficult. He shifted his feet, and so did I. This wasn’t a move you’d find in any manual of sword art and I’d face Fyle’s derision for getting myself tied up like this.
“I yield,” said Jord with disgust. “But you’ve got the luck of Poldrion’s own demons, Ryshad.” He had the sense not to move until I’d carefully taken my blade away from his neck.
“I’ve some salve for that, if you want.” I didn’t want to find myself in that position again, I decided. Drawing blood was one thing, but cutting a man’s throat by accident wouldn’t do much for my standing.
“I’ve had worse when the wife’s been feeling passionate.” Jord rubbed the raw scrape on his neck. “But you’ve the skills to ride your luck, so I suppose you’re worthy of being chosen.”
I held out a hand. “My thanks for helping me prove that, to myself as much as everyone here.”
The avid crowd were hanging on our words, just as they’d hung on every move of the gruelling fight. Cheers for us sounded above stamping feet, making the ground tremble beneath my boots. Jord turned for the applause of D’Istrac’s men and I headed wearily for Fyle, who was standing with Temar and my brother. Fyle had the water jug.
“Some of us have other plans for Festival,” Fyle growled with mock severity. “I thought you were going to take all afternoon.”
I spread my hands. “Got to give a good show. We can’t have people thinking you’re the best this school has to offer, now can we?”
Fyle made as if to cuff me round the head as I drank. Dast’s teeth, I was thirsty. “Is that the last of them?” I’d fought four men through the fiercest heat of the day now, drinking only as much as I dared to replace the sweat I’d been shedding.
Fyle nodded. “No one’s come near me since Jord gave you that first touch.” And that bout had taken as long as the previous three together, so anyone wanting to step up to the challenge had had his chance. I sighed with relief and drank deep.
“Everyone probably thought you were done for.” Mistal’s pallor was slow to fade, betraying his own doubts.
I managed a smile, water dripping down my chin to add to the sweat soaking my shirt. “Jord did, which is how I got him.”
“I saw barely a feather weight’s difference in your skills.” Temar moved closer. “But that was enough for Raeponin’s scales.”
“Listen to D’Alsennin, Mist, he knows what he’s talking about.” I felt the first leaden weariness heavy across my shoulders now my blood was cooling. “Here’s your sword, Esquire, and many thanks for the loan.” I handed back the antique blade with faint regret. Now I’d managed to use it without Temar’s disembodied presence trying to guide my limbs, I’d rediscovered the superb balance of the sword. When Messire had made a Solstice present of it to me, it had truly been a Prince’s gift. But had he known enchantment would make it such a two-edged boon?
“I’ll fetch the scabbard.” But before Fyle got halfway round the dusty circle, we saw a handful of belligerent men in Den Thasnet colours accost him.
“What’s to do?” Stolley came over, face bright with a fair few goblets of Festival cheer.
“Not sure,” I said slowly. All I wanted was to get towelled down and into clean, dry clothes.
“No!” Fyle shouted, taking a pace forward to emphasise his refusal, but Den Thasnet’s man failed to step back, leaving them nose to nose.
“I’ll go and find out,” murmured Stoll, clenching his fists unconsciously.
“Is there a problem?” Mistal was staring, puzzled.
I rubbed at my aching knuckles. “Temar, can you strap this up again?”
“Let me,” offered Mist.
“No offence, Mist, but you can’t truss a chicken for the pot.” I hoped my light tone softened my refusal.
“If you would hold this.” Temar handed the blade to Mistal, who held it like a snake he expected to bite him.
Temar deftly unwound straps of linen binding, rerolling them as he did so. “A sizeable number with Den Thasnet trefoils have suddenly appeared.”
“More than the D’Istrac men and the Den Janaquels together.” I looked round idly to tally the D’Olbriot men here to cheer me on. There were a fair number, but most had been taking full advantage of the Sieur’s Festival wine.
“Do you think there’s going to be trouble?” Mistal looked concerned.
I was watching Fyle; Stolley was beside him now, arms folded and one foot tapping as he listened to Den Thasnet’s man. A murmur of anticipation laced with disquiet was spreading round the practice ground. We couldn’t hear what was being said but Stolley shoving Den Thasnet’s man full in the chest was clear enough.
“Strap it up, Temar.” I held out my tender and unpleasantly discoloured hand.
He nodded. “This is only storing up trouble. You need cold water, ice if we can get it. Does the Sieur keep an ice house?”
I nodded absently, still watching Stolley and Fyle as Temar made an efficient herringbone pattern of bandaging up my wrist. Fyle came striding rapidly across the sand, leaving Stolley facing down Den Thasnet’s man with a sneer of disgust.
“What’s to do, Provost?” I asked with mock formality.
“Den Thasnet have someone to answer your challenge,” replied Fyle without humour. “Mol Dagny. Ever heard of him?”
I shook my head. “No, but I’ve spent a lot of time away, you know that. How do you rate him?”
Fyle looked angry. “I don’t, because I’ve never heard the name, and I’ll wager my oath fee that none of the sword provosts have. No one knows him.”
“Den Thasnet are putting him up as a chosen man?” I looked past Fyle to see Stolley squaring up to Den Thasnet’s spokesman with an ugly face. “Without a provost to justify him?”
“He’s from Den Thasnet lands near Ast, shown himself worthy and the Sieur himself offered him his oath,” sneered Fyle. “He saved some son of the House from a wolf and was chosen on the strength of that just after Equinox.”
“If there’s no provost to vouch for him, aren’t you entitled to refuse the challenge?” asked Mistal. He’d doubtless been reading up all the legal niceties of sword bouts.
“That story would make a fine puppet show, Fyle,” I commented. “Which one is he?”
“He’s outside,” said Fyle with rising ire. “Waiting to hear if you’re man enough to meet him.”
“He certainly doesn’t know me if he thinks he’ll rile me by pecking at my tail feathers like that.” I rubbed a thoughtful hand over my chin.
Mistal gave Temar back his sword, his hands on his jerkin in unconscious courtroom fashion. “Give me a day and I’ll prove Messire Den Thasnet’s been nowhere near the House’s lands near Ast, let alone offering oaths. His cousins hold those properties and they can’t stand the man. He’s not been north inside the last year and a half.”