Page 18 of To Touch A Silent Fury (The Bride of Eavenfold #1)

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.

Seth provided no respite or sympathetic smile, with his own eyes trained on the prince. I didn’t have to touch his hand to see the distaste.

I glanced back at Prince Brascillan to find him taking something from his squire, and then turning towards us again. My heart thudded as he closed the distance, and I looked to the other competitor just to distract myself from the skittering feeling in my chest.

Thread Ersimmon whispered into my ear. “That is Lord Kilmorrin. Approaching his eighth span, but still a prospect. He will likely lose quickly today to save himself for tomorrow.”

The other man was scarred heavily around his neck and shoulder, but he looked well for nearly forty years.

From his pale colouring, and the way he brushed a speck of dirt from his shield’s face, I guessed him to be of the Sightlands.

Priding himself on not only his visual acuity, but his outward appearance.

Prince Brascillan approached the edge of the arena not ten feet from me, and I couldn’t distract myself any longer. The row before us whispered amongst themselves, looking back to guess at why he had come, and clearly settling on me as the strange cause. In truth, I barely understood it myself.

He stared at me, taking a final step and sweeping into a low bow. “Good day, my lady.”

I nodded when he rose. “Good day, Your Grace.”

“I must admit when you did not attend the dinner last night, I feared some new misfortune had befallen you.”

I pushed a smile onto my face, feeling deeply uncomfortable with all the ears to our conversation. “I am perfectly well, but thank you for your concern. ”

“You are indeed perfect,” he said, a corner of his mouth pulling up as his warm look touched my cheeks, my lips, my neck.

“Sir,” I said, completely at a loss. I dipped my head in acknowledgement of his comment as sheer embarrassment flooded me. I couldn’t help but think of this as some joke, for none had ever showered me with such compliments in my life. I was the ghost girl, after all.

Prince Brascillan grinned, seemingly delighted at having flustered me. He held aloft a swathe of purple fabric, the same pale shade as his shirt, offering it to me. “Will you wear this, my lady? And honour me at this tournament?”

I swallowed, resisting the urge to look at Thread Ersimmon. How he had predicted this, I could not know. The prince proffered the gift to me, reaching it forwards. The row before me parted quickly, all staring as they waited for me to lean over them and take it.

Instead, I dropped my gaze. “I am sorry, Your Grace. I wish you well in your tournament, but I cannot accept your token.”

I couldn’t tell if the whole arena was silent, then, or if my ears were ringing so loudly I had drowned out any noise. All the same, I felt a horrid hush, and my heart pounded so deafeningly I was certain Prince Brascillan could hear it.

“Are you promised?” he asked, without retracting his hand.

“I am not,” I responded, staring at the folds of my emerald skirt.

He held the favour aloft for a second more, but I refused to look up, nervous at how he might receive my rejection. Then it went, disappearing from my peripheral view.

“I cannot say I understand, my lady,” he said. I looked up, guilt flooding through me at his confused expression. “But I will respect your wishes. ”

I gave him a soft smile, my heartbeat still pulsing in my ears. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You will come tonight, though, to the ball? As my distinguished guest?”

Now, I glanced at Thread Ersimmon. He toyed with his third cup of wine in such a way you might believe him disinterested, but he watched me like a hawk. He gave me the faintest nod before returning to his cup.

I met Prince Brascillan’s eyes and nodded. “I will, Your Grace.”

He motioned to Ersimmon and Seth. “Your companions will, of course, be welcome, too.”

I smiled, ready to mock Seth for his demotion from prince to my companion as soon as the interaction was over. “That is most gracious.”

Prince Brascillan nodded, and then paused. He was clearly now very aware of the audience to his refusal, and he raised his sword to the crowd and called out. “For the glory of Lavendell!”

The crowd roared back as he ran back to his squire, sword still raised, then they jeered and clapped as he readied his shield. But those around me did not so easily forget; I felt the daggers of stares, and when I turned to Seth to mock him, he only looked at me with a wan smile.

Neither Brother said a word during the bout, all of us focused on the match, and aware of the ears around us.

Prince Brascillan won his match against Kilmorrin easily and without a drop of blood spilt.

When they’d both left and the new duo was announced, I found I could release some of the tension and breathe again.

Thread Ersimmon patted my hand. “You did well, girl.”

I nodded. “I did not think the refusal would be so hard.”

“And your timid delivery was all the more captivating for it,” he said. “You’re a natural.”

I shook my head. “Let us hope he wins, and I do not have to push him away again.”

“Quite,” Thread Ersimmon mused.

I returned my gaze to the arena, watching bout after bout until my eyes were sore.

By the end of the day, I had rejected two more favours.

The first from a handsome man from the Tastelands, who took the refusal in his stride, immediately offering his token to one of his countrymen instead.

The second from another man from the Scentlands, who took it the worst of the three. Ersimmon had whispered his name to me as he rode around the arena, and strangely, it was one I had heard before.

Duc de Fleur.