Chapter Five #3
Jura had been training so hard for so many days that she was unaware of the preparations that had been made for the Honorium.
Wooden seats had been built outside the city walls, sections of them canopied for Thal’s family and for any tribal leaders who might attend the games.
Vast quantities of food, whole cows and boars, vats of vegetables, bins of loaves of bread, and barrels of ale had been prepared.
Anyone who came to the games would be fed at Thal’s expense for three full days.
At dawn on the first day was to be a parade of the contestants, to walk through the watching, cheering, leering crowd and to pause before the stands and Prince Rowan.
The women gathered on the Irial training field before dawn and Jura had her first good look at her competition.
There were two women from the Ulten tribe and Jura knew they had come only for the excitement and the chance to steal what they could.
They were small women but she knew them to be quick and agile.
How they rolled their big, liquid eyes from one person to another and smiled in their secret, infuriating way, she thought.
There were a half dozen Vatells, each woman wearing about her upper arm one of the beautiful bracelets the Vatells made. These women could be fierce fighters.
There were eight Fearens, and Jura dismissed these women. On horses the people of this tribe were formidable, but they were like fish on dry land when out of the saddle.
No Poilen women came, nor did anyone expect them to. If the contest had been for the memorization of epic poems, the Poilen would have won, but they were people who did not battle unless forced to—and then they were unbeatable.
The fifty women left were Zernas and Irials.
All the Women’s Guard of the Irials were participating, even the trainees, in hopes that they would win Rowan’s hand in marriage.
The Zerna women were a sight to behold: big, muscular, many of them scarred from brawls with each other.
Jura knew they would be the only competition, for although the Irials would win the contests of speed and agility, few could overcome the sheer muscle of the Zernas.
Cilean nudged Jura and nodded toward Mealla. She was the largest, the oldest, the most frightening of the Zernas.
The trumpets sounded and the parade began.
The women stood in a long line before the canopied stands, and Rowan, resplendent in a green silk tunic of Lanconian design, came down the steps to walk before them, murmuring good luck to each woman.
He paused for a long time before Mealla, looking her in the eye.
The tip of her nose had been cut off in some previous battle.
Cilean smiled when he offered Mealla good luck also, but Jura did not.
When Rowan stopped in front of Jura, she did not look at him, but gazed fixedly somewhere to the right of his head.
“May God be with you,” he whispered.
Minutes later a shout went up and the games began.
This first day was easy and Jura held herself back, reserving her strength for the days to come.
All she needed to do was place high in the winners of each event to be able to compete the next day.
She was always in the top four of each race and each contest, but never the winner.
Besides, she did not want to show everyone her skill this first day.
Mealla won every event she entered, even the foot race, although she elbowed aside an Irial trainee at the last moment.
Jura had no idea how the Zerna woman’s place in the events was affecting Rowan. Each time Mealla was declared a winner, he died a little inside, until by the end of the day he looked more tired than the contestants.
Jura left the field pleased with the day’s events and went back to the women’s barracks to bathe and rest.
By the end of the second day there were only sixteen women left to compete with each other for the final day’s events.
“Jura,” Cilean said, “whoever draws Mealla for the wrestling will lose against her.”
“Perhaps not,” Jura said, but she was lying.
Early tomorrow morning lots would be drawn to see who competed with whom in which event.
Most anyone could beat Mealla in the contests of speed but the wrestling event would eliminate someone.
“Perhaps another woman will draw her, and she will be the one to lose.”
“I just worry that one of us will be pitted against her.”
“Me,” Jura said quickly. “She might beat me but at least you will only have the poles to use against her. And she will be tired after a battle with me. I can assure you of that.”
Cilean did not smile. “Come with me, I want to go into the city.”
“Why?” Jura asked sharply. “There is nothing in the city for us and we need rest.”
“I am meeting Prince Rowan,” Cilean said quietly.
In spite of herself, Jura felt angry. “Oh? He asks for a taste of what is to be his? Is he bedding the other contestants as well? Mealla perhaps?”
“Stop this!” Cilean commanded. “You have changed since he came. No, I am not planning to spend the night with him. If you must know, Daire is arranging the meeting.”
“Daire?” Jura asked, aghast.
“You have been so busy training you have not had time to see your intended, but I am not so. Rowan is my intended, at least I think of him as such, and I want to see him so he can privately wish me luck. I thought perhaps you might like to go with me and see Daire.”
“Yes,” Jura muttered, “of course.” She hadn’t thought of Daire in days. “I would very much like to see him.”
The land immediately outside the city walls and all the area inside the walls was as light as day, with hundreds of torches lighting scenes of drunken people dancing and cavorting in celebration.
So many people slapped Jura and Cilean on the back that Jura went to draw her knife, but met only with an empty scabbard.