Page 34 of To Touch A Silent Fury

Thread Ersimmon nodded as he took a loaded tray from the server, not realising my question was intentionally overstated. “It often is.”

For his part, the Thread only took one of the three cups of wine, leaving the food to us. Cured salted venison slices, soft goat’s cheese, crusty bread, and preserves of some dark fruit. My mouth watered as I took a piece of bread, generously smeared it with cheese and folded over some meat, and tried my best to eat it without dropping any on my skirts.

The man on the left swung his sword towards the other, and the right deflected the blow with his shield and danced back. They were both tanned and well-built, and seemed a good match for each other. Their squires held banners bearing symbols that meant nothing to me.

I swallowed hard. “Who are they?”

Seth looked between the banners, and then shook his head. “I don’t recognise either.”

Thread Ersimmon grabbed himself another cup of wine before sending the server on his way. “They are both manor lords from the Barrowlands. The Sparrospen eldest”—he gestured to the one on the left—“and the second son of the Marglenns. No one expects them to make an impact, but do not discount their strength.”

I didn’t realise how popular the event was. I took in the variety of clothing, seeing some purple-clad guards from the Scentlands, a cluster of women with bead-covered faces, and a host of tanned men with thick arms. Locals from Scent, Sight, and Taste had all come to be here, and this was only the opening day.

I wondered if I was the only person in the arena with a drop of Touchlander blood. Our bitterness was long-lasting, back to the age of the Founders. But the boys of Eavenfold hadn’t known its true origin; they didn’t care about Edrin’s lies or what happened later in Cajim. Their taunts were based on our culture, or on our method of choosing our rulers: the Blood Trials. The hypocrisy of their scorn shone through now more than ever, as the Sparrospen man spun his sword with brutal efficiency. How dare the boys turn up their noses studying our Trials, when their pageantry held the very same cruelty?

Our Trials were just as voluntary as theirs. Here, they performed for a modest bounty and a meaningless title. In my lands, the same risk granted the winning pair the duty to rule the entire Twin Lands. The ferocity was two sides of the same coin, only they were not brave enough to crown their winners.

The bout ended, and some of the men erupted in raucous applause.

I stared between them, only deciphering the victor through body language. “They are both still well, why have they ended?”

“This is much less barbaric than tomorrow,” Seth explained with a small smile. “Here they win by striking their opponent’s chest thrice. Injuries are very rare.”

“And tomorrow?” I asked.

“Two rounds,” he said. “The first is a joust. Any riders unseated by their opponent will be disqualified.”

“Unseated?”

“Thrown from their horse.”

I swallowed as the two men left the arena, and a fanfare of trumpets blared to welcome the next pair. “And the second round?”

“All the remaining competitors fight until only one remains.”

“To the death?” I exclaimed, horror seeping through.

He laughed. “No, until all the rest have yielded.”

I relaxed back in my seat. “Oh. Well, that sounds fine enough.”

Thread Ersimmon had drained his wine and called for another. “Don’t let him sway you, Tanidwen. The Games can still be lethal. It is common for at least one competitor to die.”

My heart jumped at that. “Die?”

Seth touched my hand. I looked down at his pale fingers as I felt his reassurance and amusement. Below it though, that other feeling, the one of admiration and regard I’d felt over the years, simmered higher in his mind. Was he aware of it?

I looked into his white eyes and felt his tension spike.

Thread Ersimmon grabbed my other arm, and I turned quickly, moving my hand from under Seth’s and dropping the connection. “Look who comes.”

From the left entered a new challenger. The man strode into the arena, shielding his eyes as the crowd around us roared for him. He lifted his sword, and the crowd roared louder still. A home favourite.

His clothing was far less grand than it had been in the market, with a fine leather tunic over a billowing lavender shirt, and yet there was no mistaking his noble upbringing in the way he held his chin and the proud hand that rested on his scabbard. He turned slowly, taking in the arena and the spectators. The crowd lapped up his attention, waving and whooping. Thread Ersimmon released my arm as the newcomer turned in our direction.

Prince Brascillan found me. His stare was long, and lingering.

I met his gaze for a second or two, before the strength in it was too much, and I dipped my head, looking under my lashes at Seth.