Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations (19 page)

“I wanted to wish you good fortune this day,” he said to Hadrian.

“Thanks.”

“You ride against Murthas, do you not? He’s good with a lance. Don’t underestimate him.” Breckton studied Hadrian critically. “Your cuirass is light. That’s very brave of you.”

Hadrian looked down at himself, confused. He had never worn such heavy armor. His experience with a lance remained confined to actual combat, in which targets were rarely knights. As it was, Hadrian felt uncomfortable and restricted.

Breckton motioned to the metal plate on his own side. “Bolted armor adds an extra layer of protection where one is most likely to be hit. And where is your elbow pocket?”

Hadrian was confused for a moment. “Oh, that plate? I had the smith take it off. It made it impossible to hold the lance tight.”

Breckton chuckled. “You do realize that
plate
is meant to brace the butt of the lance, right?”

Hadrian shrugged. “I’ve never jousted in a tournament before.”

“I see.” Sir Breckton nodded. “Would you be offended should I offer advice?”

“No, go ahead.”

“Keep your head up. Lean forward. Use the stirrups to provide leverage to deliver stronger blows. Absorb the blows you receive with the high back of your saddle to avoid being driven from your horse.”

“Again, thank you.”

“Not at all, I am pleased to be of service. If you have any questions, I will be most happy to answer them.”

“Really?” Hadrian responded mischievously. “In that case, is that a token I see on your arm?”

Breckton glanced down at the bit of cloth. “This is the scarf of Lady Amilia of Tarin Vale. I ride for her this day—for her and her honor.” He looked out at the field. “It appears the tournament is about to start. I see Murthas taking his position at the alley, and you are up first. May Maribor guide the arm of the worthy.” Breckton nodded respectfully and left.

Renwick returned and dismounted.

“You did well,” Hadrian told him, taking the squire’s place on the charger. “You just need a bit more practice. Assuming I survive this tilt, we’ll work on it some more.”

The boy carried Hadrian’s helm in one hand and, taking the horse’s lead in the other, led the mounted knight to the field. They entered the gate, circled the alley, and came to a stop next to a small wooden stage.

Ahead of Hadrian lay the main arena, which an army of workers had spent weeks preparing by clearing snow and laying sand. The field was surrounded by a sea of spectators divided into sections designated by color. Purple housed the ruler and his immediate family; blue was for the ranked gentry, red for the church officials, yellow for the baronage, green for the artisans, and white for the peasantry, which was the largest and only uncovered section.

Hadrian’s father used to bring him to the games, but not for entertainment. Observing combat had been part of his studies. Still, Hadrian had been thrilled to see the fights and cheer the victors along with the rest. His father had no use for the winners and cared to discuss only the losers. Danbury
questioned Hadrian after each fight, asking what the defeated knight had done wrong and how he could have won.

Hadrian had hardly listened. He was distracted by the spectacle—the knights in shining armor, the women in colorful gowns, the incredible horses. He knew one knight’s saddle was worth more than their home and his father’s blacksmith shop combined. How magnificent they had all seemed in comparison to his commoner father. It had never occurred to him that Danbury Blackwater could defeat every knight in every contest.

As a youth, Hadrian had dreamed of fighting at Highcourt a million times. Unlike the Palace of the Four Winds, this field was a church to him. Battles were respectful—not to the death. Swords were blunted, archers used targets, and jousts were performed with the Lance of Peace. A combatant lost points if he killed his opponent, and could be expelled from the tournament even for injuring a competitor’s horse. Hadrian had found that strange. Even after his father had explained that the horse was innocent, he had not understood. He did now.

A large man with a loud voice stood on a platform in front of the purple section, shouting to those assembled: “… is the chief knight of Alburn and the son of the Earl of Fentin, and he is renowned for his skill in the games and at court. I give to you—Sir Murthas!”

The crowd erupted in applause, drumming their feet on the hollow planks. Ethelred and Saldur sat to either side of a throne that remained as empty as the one in the banquet hall. At the start of the day, officials had announced that the empress felt too ill that morning to attend.

“From Rhenydd he hails,” the man on the box shouted as he gestured toward Hadrian, “only recently knighted amidst the carnage of the bloody Battle of Ratibor. He wandered
forest and field to reach these games. For his first tournament ever, I present to you—Sir Hadrian!”

Some clapping trickled down from the stands, but it was only polite applause. The contest was already over in the eyes of the crowd.

Hadrian had never held a Lance of Peace. Lighter than a war lance, which had a metal tip, this one was all wood. The broad flared end floated awkwardly but it was still solid oak and not to be underestimated. He checked his feet in the stirrups and gripped the horse with his legs.

Across the sand-strewn alley, Sir Murthas sat on his gray destrier. His horse was a strong, angry-looking steed cloaked in a damask caparison covered in a series of black and white squares and fringed with matching tassels. Murthas himself held a lozenge shield and wore a matching surcoat and cape of black and white diamonds. He snapped his visor shut just as the trumpeters sounded the fanfare and the flagman raised his banner.

Mesmerized by the spectacle, Hadrian let his gaze roam from the stands to the snapping pennants and finally to the percussionists beating on their great drums. The pounding rolled like thunder such that Hadrian could feel it in his chest, yet the roar of the crowd overwhelmed it. Many leapt to their feet in anticipation. Hundreds waited anxiously, with every eye fixed upon the riders. As a boy in the white stands, Hadrian had held his father’s fingers, hearing and feeling that same percussive din. He had wished to be one of those knights waiting at their gates—waiting for glory. The wish had been a fantasy that only a young boy who knew so little of the world could imagine—an impossible dream he had forgotten until that moment.

The drums stopped. The flag fell. Across the alley, Murthas spurred his horse and charged.

Caught by surprise, Hadrian was several seconds behind. He spurred Malevolent and lurched forward. The audience sprang to their feet, gasping in astonishment. Some screamed in fear. Hadrian ignored them, intent on his task.

Feeling the rhythm of the horse’s stride, he became one with the motion. Hadrian pushed the balls of his feet down, taking up every ounce of slack and pressing his lower back against the saddle. Slowly, carefully, he lowered the lance, pulling it to his side and keeping its movement in sync with the horse’s rapid gait. He calculated the drop rate with the approach of his target.

The wind roared past Hadrian’s ears and stung his eyes as the charger built up speed. The horse’s hooves pounded the soft track, creating explosions of sand. Murthas raced at him, his black and white cape flying. The horses ran full out, nostrils flaring, muscles rippling, harnesses jangling.

Crack!

Hadrian felt his lance jolt, then splinter. Running out of lane, he discarded the broken lance and pulled back on the reins. Hadrian was embarrassed by his slow start and did not want Murthas to get the jump on him again. Intent on getting the next lance first, he wheeled his charger and saw Murthas’s horse trotting riderless. Two squires and a groom chased the destrier. Hadrian spotted Murthas lying on his back along the alley. Men ran to the knight’s aid as he struggled to sit up. Hadrian looked for Renwick, and as he did, he noticed the crowd. They were alive with excitement. All of them were on their feet, clapping and whistling. A few even cheered his name. Hadrian guessed they had not expected him to survive the first round.

He allowed himself a smile and the crowd cheered even louder.

“Sir!” Renwick shouted over the roar, running to Hadrian’s
side. “You didn’t put your helm on!” The squire held up the plumed helmet.

“Sorry,” Hadrian apologized. “I forgot. I didn’t expect them to start the run so quickly.”

“Sorry? But—but no one tilts without a helm,” Renwick said, an astonished look on his face. “He could have killed you!”

Hadrian glanced over his shoulder at Murthas hobbling off the field with the help of two men and shrugged. “I survived.”

“Survived?
Survived?
Murthas didn’t even touch you, and you
destroyed
him. That’s a whole lot better than just
survived
. Besides, you did it without a
helm
! I’ve never seen anyone do that. And the way you hit him! You punched him off his horse like he hit a wall. You’re amazing!”

“Beginner’s luck, I guess. I’m all done here, right?”

Renwick nodded and swallowed several times. “You’ll go on to the second round day after tomorrow.”

“Good. How about we go see how well you do at the carousel minor and the quintain? Gotta watch that quintain. If you don’t hit it clean, the billet will swing around and knock you off.”

“I know,” Renwick replied, but his expression showed he was still in a state of shock. His eyes kept shifting from Hadrian to Murthas and back to the still-cheering crowd.

Amilia had never been to the tournament before. She had never seen a joust. Sitting in the stands, Amilia realized she had not even been outside the palace in more than a year. Despite the cold, she was enjoying herself. Perched on a thick velvet cushion, she draped a lush blanket over her lap and held a warm cup of cider between her hands. Everything was so
pretty. So many bright colors filled the otherwise bleak winter world. All around her the privileged were grouped according to their stations. Across the field, the poor swarmed, trapped behind fence rails. They blended into a single gray mass that almost faded into the background of muddied snow. Without seats, they stood in the slush, shuffling their feet and stuffing hands into sleeves. Still, they were obviously happy to be there, happy to see the spectacle.

“That’s three broken lances for Prince Rudolf!” the duchess squealed, clapping enthusiastically. “A fine example of grand imperial entertainment. Not that his performance compares to Sir Hadrian’s. Everyone thought the poor man was doomed. I still can’t believe he rode without a helm! And what he did to Sir Murthas… Well, it will certainly be an exciting tournament this year, Amilia. Very exciting indeed.”

Lady Genevieve tugged on Amilia’s sleeve and pointed. “Oh, see there. They are bringing out the blue and gold flag. Those are Sir Breckton’s colors. He’s up next. Yes, yes, here he comes, and see—see on his arm. He wears your token. How exciting! The other ladies—they’re positively drooling. Oh, don’t look now, dear, they’re all staring at you. If eyes were daggers and glares lethal…” She trailed off, as if Amilia should know the rest. “They all see your conquest, my darling, and hate you. How wonderful.”

“Is it?” Amilia asked, noticing how many of the other ladies were staring at her. She bowed her head and kept her eyes focused on her lap. “I don’t want to be hated.”

“Nonsense. Knights aren’t the only ones who tilt at these tournaments. Everyone comes to this field as a competitor, and there can only be one victor. The only difference is that the knights spar in the daylight, and the ladies compete by candlelight. Clearly, you won your first round, but now we
must see if your conquest was a wise one, as your victory remains locked with his prowess. Breckton is riding against Gilbert. This should be a close challenge. Gilbert actually killed a man a few years ago. It was an accident, of course, but it still gives him an edge over his opponents. Although, rumor has it that he hurt his leg two nights back, so we shall see.”

“Killed?” Amilia felt her stomach tighten as the trumpet blared and the flag flew.

Hooves shook the ground, and her heart raced as panic flooded her. She shut her eyes before the impact.

Crack!

The crowd roared.

Opening her eyes, she saw Gilbert still mounted but reeling. Sir Breckton trotted back to his gate unharmed.

“That’s one lance for Breckton,” Leo mentioned to no one in particular.