Page 52

It pleased Remin when a single action accomplished many objectives.

Just as his wife found satisfaction in patterns, he enjoyed killing many birds with one stone, even if it took a boulder to knock them out of the sky.

In the first place, it was true—as Miche noted—that everyone could use a holiday.

The Feast of the Departed was only a few weeks away, but to Remin’s mind that wasn’t really a holiday; that was a religious rite, and one that he would not be able to wave away as he had the midsummer Turning of the Stars.

The frantic work of the year was about to culminate in a grueling harvest, and Remin thought it was time to check the reins on his workhorses.

He’d seen his soldiers get like this before, overeager for battle and possessed of a strange, manic energy that could be dangerous and unpredictable.

Best to let them blow off some steam now.

In the second place, the newcomers to the valley needed reminding that he ruled it.

And why.

He did not want their fear, but he would have their obedience and respect.

And maybe a little awe, just to make sure they didn’t forget the lesson.

They also needed to know who their lord and lady were, as impromptu oaths of fealty behind the cookhouse were no longer practical.

There would be no more unfortunate misunderstandings.

As far as Remin was concerned, if a dragon came roaring out of the sky, every man in the valley should be falling all over themselves to throw their bodies between Ophele and the flames.

The tournament would end with a test of the men who wanted the privilege of throwing themselves between the duchess and dragons on a regular basis.

The position of Ophele’s guards would be one of high honor, one that would see the winners immediately raised to a knighthood, and Remin was looking forward to making them earn it.

“That’s where the horses will ride?”

Ophele asked as they walked toward the dais together, looking excitedly at the long tilt barrier in the center of the field.

“And all those benches are for people to sit and watch? I didn’t know we had so many people in the valley.

And oh, look at all those flags and banners, I remember when you came to Aldeburke with them! I suppose that blue one is Sir Tounot’s House? And the red boar is Sir Edemir’s? It suits him.

It all looks so splendid…”

This from the girl who once would barely speak a word in his presence.

It looked shamefully ragged to Remin, who had ridden the Emperor’s exhibition field in Segoile, and dimly remembered the tournaments of Tressin he had watched from his father’s lap.

But this was her first tournament, and he would rather see it through her eyes than let the bitterness for what he had lost spoil it.

“There will be a little jousting,”

he said in answer to her first question, handing her up onto the dais.

They were a little early, but he had wanted to get her settled before the crowds came to stare, as they undoubtedly would.

She looked lovely in her blue and bronze gown, with seed pearls studding the skirt, and Madam Sanai had consented to style her hair in the complex coils of Benkki Desa, her maple-colored curls cascading from the knot at the back of her head.

For a moment, as she smoothed her skirts, he could see the grand and elegant lady she would one day become, solemn-eyed and beautiful.

“Real jousting?”

she asked. “Who?”

“It’s dangerous for the horses, so I’m only giving the men a few passes,”

Remin explained as he took his own seat with a jingling of mail and armor.

“Miche, Edemir, Darri, Auber, Osinot and Bertin are best with the lance and aren’t like to kill each other.

We’ll have an archery contest, and then Madam Sanai and Master Balad will honor us, and we’ll end with a melee.

I’m in that,”

he added belatedly, wondering if this was the sort of thing he was supposed to tell her ahead of time.

“That’s why you’re in your armor?”

She looked up at him, a machine of steel and muscle.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“You’ll be careful?”

she asked, worry fluttering between her eyebrows.

“I will,”

he promised, and glanced up as Auber appeared at the corner of the dais.

He too was in his armor, his long brown hair tied at the back of his neck with a thong and his helmet tucked under one arm.

“Miche said he’s lining them up, Rem,”

he said, and bowed to Ophele.

“My lady.

Amise and Lisset send their gratitude.

They enjoyed their baths very much.”

“Did they?”

Ophele looked surprised and gratified.

“I’m glad.

It was so nice, when I went. ”

“You have been most benevolent,”

he said, with unusual formality.

“If you don’t mind, Your Grace, could I trespass on your generosity once more?”

Remin eyed him, but held his tongue and let Ophele decide, as if there were any doubt what she would say.

“Of course,”

she replied promptly, and Auber turned to beckon to a girl waiting a short distance away, dressed in a blue homespun dress with her slightly frizzy brown hair contained in two plaits.

Approaching, she came to stand before the dais and curtsied, extending a bouquet of flowers.

“Greetings, Your Grace,”

she said in her piping child’s voice.

“Mama said to say you look very beautiful.”

Remin glanced at Auber, who looked rather chagrined with the qualifier.

“Thank you.”

Ophele accepted the flowers.

“What’s your name?”

“Elodie Conbour, of Engleberg.

Oh, I mean Tresingale.

I said the oath, too,”

she said, with another curtsy.

She was determined to do the thing thoroughly.

“And Mama said if you looked happy, Uncle Auber is s’posed to say I can be your pageboy if you like, only I’m a girl, and run and fetch for you since that’s properer than a pair of farm wives consorting with an Agnephus princess.

Do say yes.”

This speech was delivered in a single breath, before the horrified Auber could protest.

“Elodie!”

He collared her, and Remin was amused to see the usually unflappable knight so thoroughly flapped.

“I beg your pardon, my lady.”

“But she does look happy.”

The girl pointed at the lady as evidence.

“I am happy,”

Ophele said, laughing.

“I would like a pagegirl very much, if it’s all right with your mama.

Your Grace?”

she added, glancing up at Remin.

“I am content if it pleases you, wife.”

He shifted his eyes to the girl.

“You will have to be obedient to the lady and listen to her carefully.

Can you do that?”

“Yes, Your Grace,”

she said, looking up at him with obvious fascination.

“Do you really eat little girls who don’t go to bed when they’re told?”

Remin leaned closer, lowering his frowning face toward her.

Most children were afraid of him.

“What do you think?”

Her eyes narrowed .

“Noooo…”

she said, drawing the word out thoughtfully.

“Your mouth’s not big enough, unless you chopped up—”

“Thank you, Your Grace,”

Auber said loudly, picking her up bodily under his free arm and bowing to Ophele.

“My lady.”

Ophele’s shoulders were shaking with silent giggles as he marched away.

“Did you know they were going to do that?”

she asked, hiding her face behind her feather fan.

“I don’t think even Auber knew that was coming,”

Remin observed dryly, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“She’s no lady’s maid, but it will be good for you to have someone to fetch and carry for you.”

“I have a friend in mind for her,”

Ophele said, her golden eyes dancing.

“Matchmaking already?”

he teased, and let his fingers brush hers.

“Juste said that you—there’s Miche,”

he interrupted himself.

Taking her hand, they went to stand together at the rail before the dais.

The townspeople had been arriving during Elodie’s interview, filling the benches and sitting on blankets outside the string barrier, and the loquacious Miche was the obvious choice to wrangle them.

For as long as Remin had known him, he had always been one to draw the eye, one of those charismatic people who excited admiration in both men and women.

His long blond hair was pulled back in much the same style as Auber’s and his armor was no more decorative than anyone else’s, but somehow Miche of Harnost always contrived to shine.

“Good people,”

he said, his booming baritone slicing through the noise of the crowd.

A knight knew how to make himself heard.

“Welcome to Tresingale’s first tourney.

In appreciation for the labors of his people and seeking the blessings of the stars for a bountiful harvest, His Grace the Duke of Andelin has declared today a holiday.

Let us pray for the continued health and prosperity of the House of Andelin, our sacred lady, the Daughter of the Stars, and all the good folk of this valley.”

A murmured prayer swept through the watching people, and at the far end of the field, knights, archers, and horsemen knelt on one knee, making the sign of the stars’ blessing in Remin’s direction.

He was not much fonder of the attention than his wife, but this was necessary, and he let the people have a long look.

Ophele’s fingers in his palm were cold .

“All of you are welcome,”

Remin said briefly, his deep voice carrying to the furthest benches.

No one wanted to hear speeches when knights on horse were in the wings.

“Enjoy the tourney.”

“Archers!”

called Miche, and Remin and Ophele took their seats.

“They can aim from so far away?”

she asked, watching as the line of archers moved onto the field.

The targets were at the opposite end and looked impressively far away from the dais.

“Archery in competition is two hundred yards,”

he explained.

“On the battlefield, their effective range is twice that, but they aren’t precision shooting at that distance.

Argencian longbows, the best in the world.”

“They are?”

“Powerful and accurate,”

he said, nodding.

“They train to it from childhood, that’s why their shoulders are like that.

Watch the ninth man down, and the fourth.

My money is on Tancrede, the fourth man.

It’s windy today, he’s better at compensating.”

“Then I will bet on the ninth man,”

she said, glancing up at him with a little mischief in her eyes.

“What’s his name?”

“Heben Barleul.”

He almost smiled at her, in full view of the entire crowd.

“What will you bet me, wife?”

“Oh, I don’t know,”

she said, her eyes opening wide that they were actually betting.

“I don’t have any money…”

“You have quite a lot of money,”

he replied, surprised.

“Even aside from mine.

What about Aldeburke?”

“Oh.

I…I never needed money before,”

she stammered.

“I suppose that’s true, now that I’m eighteen…”

He hadn’t thought of that either, that she still had an estate of her own.

He had assumed Lord Hurrell would administer it, as he would have done since she was a child, but now that he thought of it, Ophele hadn’t sent a single letter to her former guardians.

Well, a tournament wasn’t the time to discuss it.

“A forfeit,”

he said, to spare her.

“Anything I name.”

Deliberately, he added a rumbling, suggestive purr to his voice to make her blush, and it worked.

“Remin,”

she whispered, scandalized.

“Well?”

“All right,”

she agreed, a smile playing on her lips as she turned to watch the archers, drawing their arrows at the center of the field .

“Notch!”

Miche called from the opposite end of the field, lifting his arm.

Longbows bent, creaking, the massive shoulder muscles of the archers rippling in a single motion. “Draw!”

His voice boomed with only the space of a breath before he roared, “Loose!”

The sound of arrows in flight was a burring screech, almost like the cry of a bird of prey.

They rose in a graceful parabola and descended at the far end of the field, thudding into their targets.

Those arrows were powerful enough to punch through plate armor.

Of twenty arrows, six were bullseyes.

“Oh, look at that!”

Ophele said breathlessly, her voice almost lost in the cheers of the crowd.

The archers got seven arrows, just enough to satisfy without boring anyone, and it came down to a whisker of a difference between Heben and Tancrede, who both scored seven consecutive bullseyes.

Miche had to bring the target leathers over to Remin for final judgment, and Ophele was all but leaning over the railing as they measured.

The slit in the leather from Heben’s arrows was a scant half-inch wider than Tancrede’s; likely the difference of a single arrow.

“That’s a shame.”

Ophele said, looking at Heben sympathetically.

“I wagered on you.”

That alone was some consolation.

The archer brightened.

“Thank you, m’lady,”

he said.

“Next time, I’ll win in your honor.”

“The winner is Tancrede Emion,”

Remin announced, pointing for the benefit of the gamblers in the furthest benches.

Miche handed a golden cup to Ophele, who started in surprise at the sudden outburst of clapping and cheering.

“Congratulations,”

she said, wilting as every eye in the crowd turned to her.

“Th-that was very good.

I have never seen anything like that.

Thank you.

Tancrede of Emion.”

Her ears were reddening.

Remin laid his palm flat against her back, feeling her tremble.

He knew she was shy, but he still didn’t really understand what she was afraid of, or why some things were worse than others, much less how to remedy it.

“Thankee, lady,”

said Tancrede.

The archer looked a great deal like his weapon, tall and skinny, with a great beak of a nose that he swore helped him with his sightlines.

He accepted the prize with a wide smile, bowed, and walked away under a storm of cheers, already exchanging insults with Heben.

“You did well, saying his name,”

Remin murmured as they took their seats again, wondering if he ought to present the rest of the prizes himself.

“They like that.”

“Sir Edemir told me about it,”

Ophele whispered, trying to smile.

“He said they do it in Segoile, I asked about tournaments.

You won prizes there, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

He rarely had time for tournaments, but the year he won his knighthood, he had competed vengefully for half a season and swept both the joust and the melee, receiving his honors from the Empress herself.

She had not shown any signs of her husband’s loathing for him, but Remin would far rather have received his prizes from someone with Ophele’s sincerity.

“Though we have something they didn’t,”

he added, with some satisfaction as he nodded toward the field. “Look.”

Even as he spoke, Madam Sanai and Master Balad were moving toward the center of the field with their polished wooden staves in hand, an altogether different elegance than the Empress’s icy, empty manners.

Both had the long limbs and willowy grace of Benkki Desa, and Madam Sanai was clad in her usual light tunic and trousers while Master Balad went bare-chested.

Shaved bald, he was as ageless as a beech tree, his torso and arms smoothly muscled.

The two turned to face each other and bowed, then extended their staves to their full reach to measure their starting positions, just out of one another’s range.

Turning, they faced the dais and bowed again, and Remin waved a hand for them to proceed.

“She can really fight him?”

Ophele whispered, leaning forward and craning her neck.

“You said she fought you?”

“The master has six inches on her, which means a longer reach,”

Remin explained, watching no less avidly.

“Women are usually at a disadvantage; she doesn’t have as much muscle to put behind her staff, nor to absorb a strike.

But the madam knows what she’s about. Look.”

As if to demonstrate, Madam Sanai’s stave flashed forward, a flick of her elbow that propelled the staff straight into the master’s chest.

His own staff swung up to block, a blow that would have rattled Madam Sanai to her shoulders if she hadn’t pulled her staff inside and let him yank her forward, her long leg snapping out with his strength behind it .

“There, see?”

Remin applauded as the master jerked out of the way.

“She did that to me, too.

They have a word for it, balahimsama, using the opponent’s strength against them.

It takes skill.”

“She almost kicked him in the face.”

Ophele was sitting on the edge of her seat, her large eyes riveted.

“Oh, but if he hits her…”

“It will hurt,”

Remin agreed, watching as the master lunged forward with a sweep of his staff to try to take her feet out from under her.

Madam Sanai flung herself into a backflip, kicking her feet up heels-first and narrowly missing his chin.

“So would that,”

he added, adding his own applause to the crowd’s.

“But he’s so fast,”

Ophele marveled, as the master swiveled out of the way and lunged again like a striking snake.

The sharp clack clack of staff against staff rang over the field, and Remin was as caught up in it as anyone else; this was a very different martial style than anything in Argence.

The clean, pure strength Master Balad advocated was evident in his fluid motions, one strike leading straight into the next, propelled all the way up from his toes, sturdy as a tree, swaying like branches in the wind.

If he was a tree, Madam Sanai was a bird, a dark, glossy raptor swerving around his staff.

Applause broke out again and again as her feet lashed out toward his head, the counterpoint of her staff, deadly strikes that he absorbed expressionlessly.

“She’s doing so well,”

Ophele breathed.

“She’s hit him so many—”

Madam Sanai’s staff slammed down on top of his shoulder and there was a roar of appreciation from the watching knights as Master Balad’s hand slipped on his staff.

He retreated instantly, shaking out his hand.

“What did she do, what did she do?”

Ophele asked excitedly.

“There’s a sensitive place on top of the shoulder,”

Remin explained, rolling his own massive shoulder in sympathy.

Madam Sanai had struck him there in his bout with her.

“If you hit it right, it temporarily deadens your arm and weakens your fingers.

She says they learn where those sensitive places are from massage, and then aim for them when they fight.”

It seemed that was the lesson of this demonstration.

It hardly mattered who won; the Benkki Desans determined for themselves when the match was over, and turned to bow to Remin, dusty and sweating, with purpling bruises striping the lengths of their limbs.

Madam Sanai endured the injuries stoically as she went to sit with her ladies again, setting her stave on the ground before her.

Remin had no doubt that the men of the camp would think twice before testing Imari Sanai.

The applause and cheers were genuine, and Ophele clapped breathlessly.

“What did you say the word was?”

she asked Remin, her eyes glowing.

“Using your opponent’s strength against them?”

“ Balahimsama.”

She repeated it, lingering over the musical syllables.

“I like that.

And targeting those weak places.

That’s a clever way women can fight, isn’t it? If we aren’t so strong.”

“Strength isn’t everything,”

Remin agreed, as the knights on horse lined up at the end of the field.

“You’ll see it among the lancers, too.”

“Oh?”

Her head swiveled as cheers swelled again, and the knights trotted forward on their horses, metal juggernauts compared to the fluid, natural beauty of the Benkki Desan demonstration.

Remin spotted the subtle hand of Juste in the contrast.

“Watch Edemir,”

he said, sitting back in his chair, well satisfied.

“There’s more to a joust than reach and strength.”