Page 24 of To Touch A Silent Fury (The Bride of Eavenfold #1)

Tani

T he jousting was horrible. I hated watching it, even when nothing happened and the pair failed to make any contact. I was glad for the tinkling pink beads covering my near-constant grimace.

The mud churned with every yelping approach, squelching and splattering underfoot as riders ran their bucking heads at one another again and again. The crowds jeered and waved, whooping if their countryman knocked a shield, or yelling at a splintered lance.

I held my breath each time, waiting for the show to be over.

The morning’s bout had been attended by only a quarter of an arena, and it wasn’t until nearly half the pairs had run against each other that it reached half its capacity.

Now, as the final pair glared at each other, both still firmly seated, the arena was full.

There was an air of anticipation, as if the previous hours were nothing more than light entertainment before the real show.

And maybe that was true, for of the thirty-one contestants, only five were unhorsed.

Four provoked by a knock, and one thrown by his horse.

Five men out of the tournament for good, whom I would not be prevailed upon to marry.

The one unseated whom I recognised well was Baron Feltsheaf, the larger Tastelands man who had called me Nox-cursed the night before.

His fall was hard, and I winced when he needed two men to help him limp feebly through the mud and out of my sight.

One man walked straight into the next round unchallenged, given Duc de Fleur’s last-minute decision to withdraw left him without a viable partner.

No one else had withdrawn in the night. I tried not to think about that and consider its implicit connotation that all thirty-one of these men were willing to take me as their wife.

I looked around again, straining my eyes to make out any faces across from us, or in the currently empty royal box.

“I’ll tell you the moment I see him.”

I heard the Thread’s sighed words beside me, but I still could not stop myself from looking. Finally, after craning my neck throughout the full arena, I slouched back against the wall and looked at Ersimmon. “He said he’d be here.”

Thread Ersimmon rubbed his face. “Yes, well. Perhaps his mother wished to spend some time with him.”

“Langnathin is gone, too,” I said.

Thread Ersimmon hummed, unhelpfully.

“You did not sour his stomach to me.” I didn’t make it a question, because it wasn’t one.

“I offered to turn away any suitors not to your liking,” the Thread said. “As he is not competing, I saw no need.”

Loopholes. I swear the Brotherhood lived for them, and it was honestly tiring. In my nerves, I found my temper easily pricked. I narrowed my eyes. “Do you not find it strange that they are both gone? Seth and Langnathin?”

“Of course I find it damned strange, girl,” he grumbled. “I was the one who wanted you to stay in your room, remember?”

“And give him a sitting target? A private room where any assassin could slip inside? If he means to kill me, he will have to do it where everyone will see.”

Thread Ersimmon shook his head. “I suppose there is some terrible logic to that. But the clouds are looking black.”

I stared at the arena floor, my eyes blurry as the squires moved the lances and fence posts from the mud, clearing the field for the upcoming battle. “You think it will rain again?”

“That is not what I meant, and you know it.”

A dozen bannermen ran into the space, running laps as their supporters cheered in recognition of local crests. I recognised Sparrospen’s from the bunch, and his opponent’s, though it was hard to be sure at our distance. From the people cheering, it seemed these were all the Tastelands squires.

In the wings of the arena, twenty-six men readied themselves to fight. Soon, there would only be one left, and he my Fate Bound husband.

After I explained my conversation with the Dragon Prince, Thread Ersimmon had reluctantly allowed me to attend today on two conditions.

The first, that I dress myself, not trusting the woman who had assisted me in the last two days.

I had contorted myself into one of two remaining dresses, a loose-fitting pink number with matching gloves.

It made me look younger, which I am certain was an intentional move from the Thread, who waited in the same room with his back to me, holding the matching bead set for my face.

It was embarrassing to fold my body into a dress with the Thread in the room, but he seemed more troubled by it than I was.

The second condition was that we sit further back, next to one of the arena exits, which didn’t help my view much, but at least it saved us from the flecks of mud launched at the front rows.

I knew his reasoning had far more to do with fleeing an assassination attempt than any preservation of his carefully selected attire, though.

“I do not understand why I am such a threat to them,” I said.

It had been the one thing I struggled to answer all night, and I hadn’t slept a wink, tossing in bed and expecting a knife in my side every time I closed my eyes.

“So what if I make my Mark? You can influence others, after all. Why am I so different?”

“You met with the prince on Eavenfold, did you not?”

I nodded.

“You must have shown him something which gave him pause,” he said.

I folded my gloved hands together even tighter. “Then it is my own fault.”

The Thread patted my covered wrist in an awkward gesture. “Never think that. If you show someone your strength and they choose to be threatened by it, the weakness is theirs alone.”

I looked up at him, my cheeks warmed by the genuine kindness I heard in his words. He watched me sagely, his mouth sombre and his brow furrowed.

“They may be weak,” I said. “But if Braxthorn wants to kill me, then I am probably already dead.”

“I fear I may agree with you there.”

More bannermen entered. These were from the Sightlands.

I didn’t see the crest of the royal family, and even though the prince had already given his word he would not compete, it put me at ease.

I had thought from his absence he may have changed his mind.

The banners of Sight were deeper in tone, with blues, deep greens, and blood reds: the colour of dragon scales.

Finally, the banners of the Scentlands appeared.

The crowd went wild; most of those gathered had come from the Isle’s nearest coast, from Lavendell to its neighbouring meadows and grasslands.

The banners of white, pinks, purples, and pastel greens nodded to the land's famous flowers.

I recognised the banner of King Canenrill, the pale purple with a white tree.

Did I want Brascillan to win? He seemed my greatest supporter, which was novel enough to appeal to me. But there was something arrogant in him, something that made me worry that once he had me, I would become another flower on his sill. Would he let me roam? Or would our marriage be a cage?

I thought of my own land, how everyone marched under the same banner.

The white hand on green fabric. We didn’t have counts, lords, or barons.

There was only the Sword and the Shield, brother and sister, Konidren and Kalidwen.

Our leaders were always family, but only with each other, not of any dynastic blood or lineage.

Any pair of any standing could compete for the titles, and the household supporting them was barely more glamorous than the shepherds, millers, and vine tenders.

It was a deep shame there was no competitor from the Touchlands, for then I might be able to return home and lend my powers to those who needed it most. Instead, I imagined I would be a tool in the household of whichever man wielded me.

Once all the bannermen had run about the arena, they filed out, and then the competitors entered. The volume in the arena was cacophonous.

Some wore chainmail, and others came laden with full plate, only recognisable from the insignias marked on their chests or backs.

“Do they choose for their movement, or to save their coin?” I asked the Thread.

“Most with the means would wear plate, but that one there,” he said, pointing to Lord Stalligin who walked in with no fanfare, “has only ever worn chainmail. Even on the battlefield.”

“Why? ”

Thread Ersimmon shrugged. “He claims he uses his whole body to see. He doesn’t like to be confined, it makes him blind to his opponent.”

“What do you make of it?”

“The men fear him. So the tale has met its objective.”

I could see his findings clearly. The lesser lords from each land gave him a wide berth, none wanting the quick elimination at his hand.

I recognised Lord Kilmorrin, Count Fordonne, and the younger lords, Dranislan and Sparrospen, who were likely within a span of my own years.

Some soaked up the crowd, some ignored them entirely, focused on positioning themselves or stretching.

Sparrospen searched the faces, peering around the near rows before staring further back.

He found me eventually, and his searching paused as his mouth widened in a grin.

I flushed, realising I was the object of his search, and that I was staring back at him.

I had to admit Sparrospen was good-looking.

Not in the way that Brascillan was with his elegant and refined beauty, but in a more wild way, with unruly hair and a cheekiness I struggled not to smile back at.

Sparrospen bowed deeply to me, and blew me a kiss, which drew the eyes of several other nearby competitors. I forced a smile onto my face and waved down at them. Two of the men whooped, holding their swords up.

Prince Brascillan walked in last, his faceguard up. He paid no heed to the screaming crowd. He stepped boldly right to the centre of the arena, a place most of the others had neglected, favouring a wall at their backs.