44
Aire
“No,” I growled, swerving in front of Aspen. “Not a fucking chance.”
The woman glowered as if I was the stupidest knight alive. “I need a better look at that shield. We can’t steal it in front of seven hundred people. I’m good at prowling undetected but not that good—wait, listen!”
Snatching her elbow, I dragged Aspen from the crowd. Halting two dozen feet out of earshot, I released her arm. “If we need a closer look, then approach the blacksmith,” I festered. “There’s no cause to enter a tournament that could detach a limb from your body.”
Aspen gave me an incredulous stare. “So you’ve conveniently forgotten the rules of jousting.”
I paused. I’d been so riled up that I forgot.
Autumn jousts maintained strict ceremonial regulations, including a critical one.
Prizes were never touched or admired up close until the match was over and the winner had been declared.
It preserved the purity of the exchange, with the reward passing from crafter to recipient.
While Aspen’s explosion destroyed the armory tent, we could not assume the knights wouldn’t assemble replacements and try again. If so, checking the shield’s engraving would either certify or contradict our suspicion about the ambushes. That would prepare us, in case the knights resumed their plan.
“I can win the shield,” I barked. “Need I say between the two of us, I’m the most qualified?”
“You’re the most over -qualified,” Aspen emphasized in a harsh whisper.
“If this were the castle, it would be easy to conceal your skills among fifty competitors. But here, with a fraction of the entrants, you’ll stand out.
These people won’t last a second against the First Knight of Autumn.
You’ll annihilate every opponent. Do you really think they won’t know the difference between an amateur and a warrior of the highest rank? ”
“I’ve been a spy for as long as you have,” I spat. “Only I served the right side.” She flinched, but I trampled over that reaction. “In other words, I know how to temper my forsaken strikes.”
“Temper them too much, and you’ll lose,” Aspen contested. “I’ve been training with your troops for years. I’ve competed in jousting matches before.”
“During practice,” I hissed, my shadow devouring hers. “Not during the real thing, galloping at full speed while bearing the weight of a twelve-foot lance.”
“Care to bet on that?”
“No. I want to end this conversation.”
“You’re the conspicuous choice. I’m the believable one.
” The infernal female counted off her fingers.
“Do you recall our chat in the castle amphitheater? I’ve been hazed, tested, and mentored by the knights of Autumn.
I can ride as well as you. I know how weapons function.
I understand a lance’s strengths and weaknesses, including the imperceptible ones.
And while I might not be ten feet tall or champion-level, I’m certainly tall enough, strong enough, and skilled enough to win.
All without gaining unwanted attention.”
If I bellowed, everyone would hear. If I protested further, it would invalidate her exemplary skills.
If I did nothing, she could end up with a stake through her heart. And if that happened, my own heart would shatter.
Percussions from the revels thudded as violently as my pulse. Pivoting my head, I surveyed the meadow. Although sign-ups must have taken place hours ago, late enlisters would be admitted.
Impact. Velocity. Control.
Aspen knew these things. My reaction wasn’t coming from doubt over her ability. It originated from something more straightforward.
Seeing her compete scared me. Losing her terrified me.
I whipped toward the female. “Then we ride together.”
Her expression crinkled like paper. “For Seasons’ sake!”
“Listen, goddammit. I know you can do this. I believe everything you just said, so do me the courtesy of believing everything I’ve said.
If you know how to take the advantage, I know how to blunt my own.
I can moderate my strikes, I can rein in my strength, and I can fucking hold back. Allies stand as one, not separately.”
Vulnerability drenched those pupils. “Are we still allies?”
Tomorrow, I could not say. Tonight, yes.
My wistful lips tilted. “If you keep your edge, I’ll dull mine.”
Her mouth lifted. “Then let’s go fuck shit up.”
I fell into step with Aspen as we strode toward the activity.
Cottagers led a team of horses. This was no Royal arena. Nonetheless, four broad acres of flat meadow proved large enough for raw competition instead of noble fanfare.
Armor plates and helmets flashed, and healers wearing smocks waited outside a surgical tent. For it did not take pageantry and fine weapons alone to crack skulls.
My psyche sensed no ill will among the people. All the same, my blood curdled.
“We won’t know the horses,” I murmured while stalking ahead. “Get the creature to trust you. Think of what Briar and Nicu have demonstrated.”
“Go for the left shoulder,” she advised in turn. “It’ll twist them off the horse just as well as the chest plate.”
Unseating a rider came more naturally when I aimed for the central upper torso. Yet this advice tracked if I wanted to appear less adept, while also winning the round.
Heat sizzled across my flesh. It also suggested she had memorized my technique.
After locating Nicu and informing him of our plans, we presented ourselves at the listing post, our enrollment increasing the number of fighters to fourteen.
As for our armor from the enclave, the ancient material had been built to last. Nonetheless, the plates still had their weak spots like any gear.
The crowd packed themselves together, gathering shoulder to shoulder. Children scuttled atop hay bales, which offered a panoramic view of the action.
On the sidelines, Nicu followed the rope border, using it as a guide. Wedging his slender frame to the front, he peered through worried eyes. The distance factor would be difficult for him, but he would grasp the rest.
Lyrik had evidently finished consorting with that unknown male. Now he maneuvered to my liege’s side. From the looks of it, the rogue pointed out the landmarks and indicated something, conceivably describing the rules.
At first, Nicu spared him no attention. Then he eventually leaned in with an indomitable expression, unwilling to dismiss the competition’s objective merely to ignore Lyrik.
I faced Aspen. “Remember that edge.”
She swallowed. “I remember everything.”
Every touch. Every kiss. Every moan.
I remembered too. Even so, I locked my jaw and tensed each muscle, blocking out the sentiment before it sank too deeply.
As if realizing what she implied, Aspen composed herself. Locking her jaw, she marched to the opposite end of the track, where her assigned horse waited.
I watched her impart something to the animal that eased its tension. After that, her face disappeared under the helmet.
As I slipped on my own headpiece, visibility narrowed. The visor reduced this field to a horizontal bar, while other sensory perceptions heightened.
Hooves uprooted bits of turf. Dust swam in the torchlight.
Mud suctioned to my boots as I patted down my steed, whispered until the creature nickered, then hoisted myself off the ground. Feigning less experience, I pretended to slip on the stirrup instead of leaping onto the equine without needing such assistance.
In addition to a borrowed shield, a lance filled my palm. Smooth. Cold. Deadly. Across the lane, Aspen straddled her horse like a conqueror, the image spellbinding.
The combatants lined up. Three pairings at a time. Males and females with various degrees of bulk, all built for hard work from sunrise to sunset.
A custom shield was a tempting prize. They would fight vigorously.
Never would I insult Aspen’s competence by pulling back. But I would disguise my skill from the crowd.
“Clean strikes only!” the female herald announced. “No points for a glancing blow. Disqualification for hitting your opponent if they’ve surrendered. Highest scores for an unhorsing. Double splinters yield the second tier of points. Two broken lances is a draw. May Autumn keep you safe!”
Stillness descended. My breathing amplified inside the helmet like an echo chamber.
The rider across my lane had been blessed with the physique of Jeryn, his monolithic height exceeding mine by a fraction.
He possessed a strong spine, poising himself astride a restless horse, the equine’s snout pumping cold air.
Despite her long limbs, Aspen’s opponent had at least six inches and a summit’s worth of muscle on her. Yet she patted her horse and elevated her head. Only the faint tremble of one wrist balancing a lance betrayed her.
I willed Aspen to look my way. Through the slot, my gaze flew across the track and fastened to her own.
Her wrist steadied its grip on the weapon. Despite the terror, my lips slanted beneath the visor. Bold, beautiful woman.
Another horn blew. And we charged.
My heels dug into the horse. Vaulting into motion, the animal launched, firing down the lane. The wind sliced through my chest plate, clumps of dirt exploded into the air, and shrieks resounded.
In my periphery, Aspen flew like a slingshot. Distance and acceleration reduced her to a blot, too quick to monitor.
The point of my adversary’s lance aimed toward my helmet.
Except as Poet once testified, the most dangerous part of walking a tightrope wasn’t the onset, nor the midpoint.
Rather, the greatest risk came at the end, when you reached the last inches of that rope.
That was the moment confidence overruled vigilance.
This rule applied to combat as well. Laziness did not occur at the start of an attack. It happened at the final instant, when the fighter grew overly sure of themself.