Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
AUDREY
“The clouds broke and ravens gathered. Across the battlefield, the silence of a thousand men was heard. And into the silence the Son said, ‘The simplicity of faith is this: everything the One says is true, and disbelief is impiety. These truths are known as the locways.’ The ravens’ beaks opened, and the message reached all ears, and all understood. Those who ignored the truth became food for the Son’s ravens.”
~ The Book of Bread and Salt
T he day of the tourney dawned bright and clear, but the wind had the bite of the coming winter. It crept in through the windows while we sat together on the stone meditating, and cooled our skin while we drilled as the day’s color bled into the sky. My head ached like I’d drunk too much knappchs as Isolde strapped me into the first in a series of day dresses I hadn’t chosen and didn’t allow myself to care about. And I hadn’t found the words to tell her I’d been identified by the knights yesterday. It seemed both unimportant and too big to put into words.
I didn’t trust the ’Ban heir. But I also didn’t think he was an immediate threat.
The La’Angi tourney was the biggest on the circuit for anyone interested in the sword or melee. I heard the purse for the joust and archery was pathetic—not worth the trip unless the competitors had other business here. But our melee was the best.
“There isn’t a single Kingsguard since Barloc had conquered The Countries That Were who hasn’t won a La’Angi tourney!” I’d grown up hearing. “And everyone who comes is vying for your father’s favor.”
But no one ever said the rest of it. They wanted his favor, but they asked for mine . Because it was the same thing. I was an item, owned by him, without rights of my own. Interest in me was interest in him. Flattery of me was flattery of him. So said the locways, the rules that formed the very foundations of our society.
I reached up and ran my fingers over the ripples of the ribbon coiled around my hair, ready to be given as a favor. Isolde bustled around me.
He didn’t own me. But he didn’t know it.
If my autonomy went unacknowledged, was it even real?
“Have you a timeline?” Isolde asked me, going back over the laces of my dress with sure fingers, resettling and smoothing them.
A lump formed in my throat. “Regarding leaving?” I asked her, just to be sure. Not to delay, of course.
Her answer was the quick, unimpressed flicker of her attention to my face in the looking glass before us, and a slight tightening of her lips.
Time was running out.
“What do you think is best?” I asked her, hoping she’d take the query for pragmatism rather than avoiding choice. “Should we hide in the tourney crowd as they leave?” That would give me three days to brace myself.
She paused for just a moment, and this time her eyes didn’t cut up to me. “Are you sure you want this?” she asked, quietly. “Once you go…”
I didn’t want to let go. I knew what La’Angi was like. I knew my father, the long moons of being completely ignored, the flurry of attention I had to try to manage, then the violence when I inevitably failed, then the long moons of being ignored. I knew how to get through all of that.
“I know.”
She nodded and continued with my laces. “Then I’ll make preparations. With the outflux of traffic we ought to have luck, if we leave ahead of the crowd. The celebrations on the last night are rowdy. We won’t be missed.”
Of course she could make it work.
I looked at myself in the mirror, seeing my tired, puffy eyes and the sad curve of my mouth, and wondered why I’d thought it could ever be different.
* * *
Eventually we made it to our seats at the tourney ground, nestled deep in the canopied and cushioned nobles’ area. Above us, my father shared his box with Phillip von Rhea, the old King’s advisor and the young King’s representative this tourney. He already had Luca perched on a chair, too, as if he were a student to the finest tutors.
“Don’t you dare feel bad for him,” Isolde said so quietly I could barely hear the words. “He could’ve dissolved the betrothal entirely.” She swept her skirts around her feet with the precision of a razor against a throat. “He opted to postpone it.”
But I just felt sick. He’d been young, barely sixteen to my eleven, when we were supposed to wed. I hadn’t understood, then, why I was supposed to marry Luca.
There was a lot you could get a sixteen-year-old boy to believe in before he formed his own opinions. And my father liked things just so.
“He did what he could,” I said, but I didn’t know if the protest made it to her ears. The cowardly part of me hoped it didn’t. I was tired of defending him.
I was tired of him needing to be defended.
My dress flexed as I drew in a deep breath, making my ribs expand. The back of my neck itched where I felt my father’s eyes on me as competitors filled the grounds, then the sensation lifted as I heard Luca’s voice rise and fall.
My eyes wandered over the competitors and the shields they bore. The man I’d knocked over just yesterday in the orchard was down there, his hair black as night. I couldn’t see from here the dark blue of his eyes or whether he’d removed the stubble from his chin, and I didn’t care. The relevant things were his colors and his name. He was Chay Shieldbreaker of West Grenvele, but, unusually, he boasted the Raider’s Ban field. That, paired with the Barloc-given combat surname, suggested his family had been important when Barloc crafted our nation. Raider’s Ban colors indicated he was still important in ’Ban.
I sat there, a lump in my throat, watching the big, black-haired knight who had hit the ground like a felled tree. What did one have to do to earn the approval of the Count of Raider’s Ban?
The stands far to my right was where the ’Ban family and entourage sat, down near the rail. They’d been positioned in the worst seats, but there was a crowd around them, and the area felt…jovial.
Beneath me, Chay had his hands on his hips as he guided them in big, lazy circles while he listened to whatever was being said in the group before him. There weren’t any other ’Ban bannermen I could see—at least, none with Darrius’ colors. The knight hadn’t been wearing those colors when I’d pinned him under me. The gold of the ’Ban wheat wouldn’t do justice to the blue of his eyes.
“’Tis an interesting array of competitors,” Isolde said from beside me, and I ripped my gaze away from those rolling hips, feeling nauseous.
I’d been staring. Of course I had. I’d done the exact same gentle exercise this morning while I woke up, before drilling with Isolde. The trickle of awareness was a normal response to seeing someone engaging in the same activity I enjoyed. It must be.
“I wonder how Mikus is doing today,” Isolde said, her expression pleasant, her tone friendly, but the words a reminder of how deadly this tourney could be. “Mayhap this year he’ll win your favor?” she asked me, arching her brows, but she didn’t wait for my response. She knew how I felt about him.
The first round eventually began as spectators were still settling in. The grounds were full of competitors and stewards shouting for fighters, directing them to arenas marked on the ground with chalk. Yasmine, a longtime companion who I swapped seeds and letters with, arrived with a big smile and a quick curtsey.
I did a double-take when I saw her dress. “Excellent color choice,” I said, trying to identify what it was about the outfit that made her glow. Yasmine’s skin was deeper brown than most. It seemed like there were all types and shades of skin, and all textures of hair, found at all levels of our society, but deep brown or very pale were unusual everywhere.
“Thanking you.” She resettled her overdress, clearly pleased. “We’ve a new tailor. And I’ve had success with a new strain of lupin. You’re going to love me, Audrey.”
“More than I do now?” I asked her, wondering if it might be joy, not her clothing, that lit her face.
She made a noise of agreement, and I listened with half an ear whilst watching the comings and goings on the field beneath us.
Our conversation paused whilst Mikus took apart a knight from the west of the Aza Ranges.
An unfamiliar chap with a crest declaring he was a borderlands knight came up to the edge of the stands and looked up at me. I avoided his gaze, and he was wise enough to take the rejection for what it was and turned away graciously. He was heckled on his return.
Once, I’d dreamed of having a knight jump the rail, charge up to me, draw his sword, and challenge my father to combat. Public combat would, of course, gain him enough respect that we’d live on in La’Angi in peace.
The dream had then shifted to my knight pledging himself to my service and training me in the sword. And public combat, were I involved, would of course make everyone respect me . She’s as powerful as any man. As her father . It would make me the first woman to own land since Barloc conquered The Lands that Were.
But weapons took years to become proficient with, and I didn’t have years.
There were ways around it. I could’ve put an arrow in my father’s eye a million times over. But, as I’d told Isolde, the language of La’Angi was the sword.
Why I felt like I’d lost someone dear to me, I had no idea. The dreams of childhood lit no lamps, and I glanced over to check that Yasmine hadn’t noticed my wandering attention. Her eyes were still locked on the group of men tormenting the one brave enough to seek my favor earlier, and polite enough to accept rejection with dignity.
“As if you wouldn’t do the same for every one of them,” she said, seeing my attention following her own, her lips curved in displeasure. “It makes them feel big, though, to risk naught and mock those who do.”
I hummed in agreement and moved my eyes to the field, breathing through the sudden rush of grief that sat across me like a wet cloak.
Perhaps it wasn’t so unusual that I’d wanted to learn the language my father spoke.
Perhaps it wasn’t so unusual that I wanted him to stare up at me from the ground, his eyes wide and shocked.
Perhaps it wasn’t so unusual that I wanted him to know I was better than him.
But I wasn’t a child anymore, and it was a lot safer to disappear into obscurity. Anyway, the bitter, pragmatic part of me knew he’d die before he acknowledged me as aught but a failed investment.
“I’ll win this tourney for you, lady Audrey!” shouted a mediocre knight in front of me.
I smiled and it felt as warm as congealed porridge. “Good luck, sir.” I nodded politely, then deliberately swung my eyes away.
It was part of the dance, and I’d done it often enough they all knew my steps.
Isolde leaned over and murmured, “Henry’s up against Mikus next round.”
I glanced over at where the shields were displayed, my stomach sinking. If I’d thought it’d make a difference, I’d have given Henry my favor in a heartbeat. The best I could hope was that he lost without injury.
Chay’s fight wasn’t much to see. He danced around, got his opponent to overextend, then used the opening decisively. “Hmm,” Isolde said from beside me, and I knew she watched, too. Since she was, I didn’t try to disguise my interest and turned to study him as he walked off the field.
From this distance, I couldn’t see how deep and blue his eyes were, or whether he had horsehair stuck to his shirt. But I could see the strength in his legs as they ate up the distance.
Yasmine leaned over beside me. “He’s new,” she murmured. I withdrew, embarrassed, and she gave me a nudge, her eyes sparkling. “You ought to see if he can dance tonight. If he doesn’t fight Mikus.”
I felt ill again. Before I could respond, Isolde nudged me lightly. “Knight from Pia,” she murmured.
I glanced over as he fumbled a block and frowned. “Really?”
She shrugged and didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. I felt her interest turn to disdain as she, too, witnessed his error.
Yasmine smiled over our heads, waving to someone in the crowd. “I’ll tell you about the lupin later,” she murmured, under the rise and fall of talk around us. “When you’re…less distracted.” And the look she sent me was veiled mischief before she stood. “This evening? After dances.”
“Yes. Please. And apologies.”
Her smile widened, flashing dimples. “Never.” Then, skirts in hand, she squeezed past us.
Guilt gnawed at me, sitting alongside fascination as I watched the displays of combat. Yasmine’s seat was barely cold before Luca came and settled beside me. “What do you think of Craaig from Pia?” he asked us, rubbing his hands together.
“Passable,” I replied, assuming it was the fumbling knight. One mistake was probably one too many. But, since he was here… “What of him?” I asked, lifting my eyes in Chay’s direction as he walked onto the field again.
Luca shot me a fast grin. “You’ve got a good eye, my lady. I’ve put a fair sum on Chay.” He lowered his voice a little more and said, “He’s a friend.” Then, at normal volume, “I’ve seen him move, some. Not bad in the joust, either. You’d love his horse.”
I doubted it.
Again, Chay won in much the same fashion—skirting the fight, waiting for an opening, then taking it. It wasn’t how most of these men fought. Some of his movements reminded me of the Matri’sion fighting Isolde had taught me.
I felt the unease simmer in my veins and reached for anger instead. I should be able to say that. But I couldn’t. Because Matri’sion were treated like some far-fetched rumor a sly merchant had made up to sell his spices from the north. How could there be a tribe of women, after all? How could they have babies, and who would look after them?
I had no defensive anger, though, just an aching hollowness as my head filled with the shouts of the crowd and the sounds of the competition. Resisting the urge to glance and check if my father’s attention was on me, I turned instead to Luca.
He glanced at me, his smile small and a little concerned. “Are you well?” he asked softly.
For a moment, I wasn’t surrounded by the crowd. I was back in his keep, eleven years old, alone, and terrified. And he was kneeling before me, offering his bleeding hand.
My mouth went dry at the memory. I hadn’t asked him for a Blood Oath. I’d only heard them whispered about when I was that age. Terrible, unbreakable things full of old magic that no one understood anymore, and only the King and his General could employ.
“Audrey?” he asked, his gray eyes like heavy clouds. “Should I fetch us a cool drink?”
He’d committed treason by swearing a Blood Oath to a scared child that night.
I wouldn’t have trusted any less, and somehow, he’d known that.
“No.” I tried to smile and failed, so I glanced away, wishing I could tuck my hand into his. “Memories took me,” I admitted quietly, knowing the words should be safe enough to share with him.
He asked nothing more, just rested his hand on mine. His sweetness made that lump in my throat burn again.
He’d come to meet me, that day, and, in the face of my fear, offered me a lifetime of magically reinforced loyalty, punishable by death. He’d given me a small string of weighted coins to hold—to anchor me to this realm when I felt I might just spin away. And then he’d left and demanded our wedding be postponed. Somehow, he’d made it happen. And for that, I was eternally in his debt.
Even if Isolde did want to hang him from a tree with his own guts as a noose most of the time. And I’d be lying if I said the thought hadn’t appealed to me occasionally, too.
Luca cocked his head and, seeing his attention was on his friend, I offered, “Fran’s form isn’t the best.” I injected just enough surprise into my tone that Luca took it with a worried frown, as if Fran wasn’t a limp-wristed fop.
“No,” he mused. “It isn’t.”
One of my father’s bannermen came up to us and bowed deeply to me, angling himself so the display could also have been toward my father.
“I will win this tourney for you, my lady!”
Low odds of that . “Good luck, lord Gregory,” I said with a nod, turning back to Luca. “There’s a good turnout this year from the west, isn’t there?”
He murmured his agreement, picking up his end of the small talk while Gregory left. He didn’t get offended when it petered out once the man was gone. And when Mikus strode out to meet Henry, he squeezed my hand beneath the cover of my skirt as I felt my heart start to race.
I drew in a deep breath, my thoughts with Henry’s wife, Fiona, and the opportunities their mage academy would bring.
“Luca,” my father called, as Mikus attacked in a flurry of violence that instantly overwhelmed Henry.
“Coming, your grace,” Luca replied mildly, squeezing my hand once more as he stood, hiding the affection with his body. “He’ll be okay,” he murmured.
I used to love Luca’s sweet lies.
Sometimes, I still did.