Chapter Seven
Seven
All is fair.
—ROLAND’S MOTTO
Men dragged two iron cages to opposite ends of the tiltyard.
As the entire court gathered in the stands ringing the yard, the past swept in.
I saw horses cantering furiously down the tilt, Hal’s and Roland’s lances poised to strike.
Then, just as quickly, they were gone. The strip of mud returned.
The mysterious cages, catching rare beams of sun.
It was high and brutal at three in the afternoon, the hour chosen to not give any particular magician an advantage.
The king and queen sat in wooden thrones beneath a blue-and-gray striped awning. It was the first time King Richard had appeared in daylight since my arrival, and he looked as if he might twirl in the wind. A leaf king.
When trumpets blared, he struggled to his feet.
Face ruddy from his wine and crown askew, he swallowed heavily before he spoke.
“Today we shall honor my truest love, Queen Cecily. We have paired these magicians together for the greatest tournament our realm has ever seen. Who would like to see them fight?” The crowd cheered in approval, which visibly delighted the king.
He slammed himself back down into his throne, leaning his head against Cecily’s.
She patted his cheek affectionately, but her eyes darted to Roland, watching him from several seats away.
The royal box was opposite where I sat across the tiltyard, so I could see his expression shift with nerves.
He was the only magician wearing armor, the garniture rose gold, a similar shade as his hair and eyes.
His groom, Edward Guildford, clutched a helmet and gauntlets in his lap, but whenever he offered them to Roland, he was shrugged off.
Why would any of us wear armor? Magicians crept through the shadows of politics.
Our minds were both shield and weapon. All night long, that’s how I assumed the king intended us to fight each other—mind to mind.
I was wrong.
The crowd began to murmur, a few courtiers standing to get a better look at whatever was being dragged in chains into the yard.
Roland’s face drained of color. His panicked eyes skimmed through rows and rows of courtiers, then found mine.
Because the thing being dragged, its collar and jowls already soaked in fading blood, was a lion the size of a draft horse.
The one in the king’s personal menagerie.
When Prospero was alive, he had enlarged wild animals for the king’s pleasure, zebras and capuchin monkeys, even elephants.
The massive beast’s mane was matted from the pen he was kept in, gawked and poked at by the court. I could see the jutting curves of his ribs.
The lion was chained to the post in the center of the yard, roaring and snapping at its keeper.
It had claws as long as my face, claws eager to tear and maul.
I turned to the king. I’d known his thirsts had grown dark, but I was unprepared for the glee in his mind.
The excitement at the prospect of spilled magician blood.
Beside him, Cecily gripped her armrest, her knuckles white.
Roland had assumed his mask of disinterest, but his hand shook as he cracked the knuckles down his right hand, one by one. An old habit from childhood whenever he was being reprimanded by Prospero.
Edward offered him his helmet again. This time, he accepted it.
“The opening round of the tournament will now begin,” cried Wyatt Francis, raising his hands to silence the rowdy, eager crowd.
“The first magician to get the beast into their cage and close the door wins.” He said this as if it was a simple task, but the lion, swaying his great head back and forth, saliva dripping from its jowls, would stand heads above Roland, the tallest man at court.
And above all else, I sensed the beast’s torment. His agitation.
Wyatt continued, reading off his scroll. “Now, we welcome the magicians Ambrose—” Tom Guildford leaned over to whisper in his ear. Reminding him that Ambrose was now dead.
Wyatt coughed and announced Oliver, the Mercury, and the boy magician Cosmo instead.
Cosmo, his hair ruffled, rose from his seat between Fulke Roet and Jasper. On shaky legs, he wove through the stands, waiting beside the cage to my left. I twisted the fabric of my gown, almost too nervous to watch.
When all was settled, the two magicians at the ready beside their empty cages and the lion pacing and tugging against his chain between them, Wyatt glanced up at the king, who seemed to have forgotten they couldn’t begin until his signal.
“Oh. Yes. Play,” the king called, waving his hand.
Excitement sped through the stands. The keeper threw the lion a small morsel of meat to distract it, then unchained it from the post. Licking his chops, the lion cast around for more, before his yellow eyes narrowed in on Cosmo.
He charged forward, bared his teeth, and the boy flinched against the bars of the cage.
The lion, sensing weakness, prowled ever closer.
A swipe at Cosmo, who rolled away. But the lion’s next strike tore the fabric of the boy’s doublet.
Cosmo’s scream raised every hair on my body.
His eyes, as bright as Prospero’s were, flashed with desperation, and then there was a second lion standing outside the cage, twin to the first. Jupiter expansion magic, perfectly executed.
The courtiers raised their fists and cheered. “There we go, boy!” cried Fulke.
Perhaps I’d been afraid for nothing. Perhaps he could win.
I leaned forward in my seat, heart pounding. Cosmo’s lion snapped his jaws, circling his duplicate. The apprentice watched hopefully as the two cats snarled at each other.
He’d made a mistake. After sizing each other up, the lions turned toward more enticing prey.
Now, their amber stares pinned Cosmo as they stalked forward, and the boy did precisely what I would have done—chose to save his life over winning the round.
He limped into the cage, nearly stumbling on fawn-thin legs, locking himself inside.
If he curled up in the center, he thought the claws stretching through the bars wouldn’t reach him.
Petrified, shaken, he peeked out from the shield of his arms. Cowered beneath them again when the lions lunged.
The cage rattled back and forth.
I was going to scream. It was crawling up my throat. But someone else did it for me. Lifting his visor, Roland shouted, “Get out!” Wyatt shot him a withering look that said no interference, but Roland ignored it. “Get out of there, Cosmo! Now!”
A massive claw stretched through the iron, raking across the boy’s back. Cosmo cried out, clutching his shoulder, and when he removed his hand there was so much blood, bright red and slick. The crowd booed in unison.
Across the yard, a sudden growl. Heads swiveled around in shock: The sound was coming from somewhere deep in Oliver’s chest.
Mercuries, of course, knew the language of every beast.
When Oliver roared, the lions perked up. One attempted a final, lazy swipe at Cosmo’s cage, swaying in place while the other stalked the Mercury in a wide semicircle, retracing his steps, pacing back and forth.
Oliver roared again. The sound so deafening, we all covered our ears.
He contorted his body, making strange, less familiar noises: panting and mewing and snarling, then inching up to the closest lion and chuffing against his mane.
He beckoned the great cats forward, leading them down the tilt, toward his cage.
What could he be saying? The conversation played out before us: Oliver grunting or snarling to the lions, the lions responding, sometimes with gestures if not sounds.
One took a tentative step inside the cage, yellow eyes locked onto Oliver’s. He yawned, exposing finger-length canines. Oliver yawned back. The twin bounded forward, nudging Oliver’s leg.
The crowd erupted when the cage was shut, the two lions cramped inside it.
Oliver took a sweeping bow, his metallic hair drenched in sweat. Across the tiltyard, Cosmo was huddled against his knees, shivering. Blood still streaked across his face from wiping tears away.
Gently, I entered his mind. There was so much pain—sharp, all-consuming.
I could hardly bear the immediacy of it.
Back and forth across his mind, my magic was a rag for his panic, seeping it away.
The boy glanced around him, searching for the source of the sudden relief as his breathing evened out, as he looked down at his hands and found they weren’t shaking anymore.
When our eyes met, his gratitude poured into me, and he sobbed into his knees again.
The court paid the injured boy no mind, too busy swarming around Oliver.
Roland leapt down from the stands, slamming his shoulder into Wyatt’s as he passed.
He helped the boy limp off the yard, murmuring softly to him.
Cosmo nodded, sniffing and wiping his tears away.
I saw the shape of my name pass through his lips, and Roland glanced up to me, then to the opposite stands.
Roland’s glare remained on the striped awning until he caught the king’s attention.
Chin resting on his hand, King Richard regarded his favorite.
In both their eyes was authority, and a challenge to it.
A belief they should be the ruler of this court.
It was a question first posed long ago by King Armel and the first magician Oberon—from whom, king or sorcerer, did the fount of power truly spring?
Roland broke the stare first.
“Play on,” the king said, settling deeper in his seat and barking for another drink.
A bucket of water was splashed over the blood in Cosmo’s cage, and the trumpets blared again.
“The king announces His Grace Roland Daymour, Duke of Hampton, Lord Chancellor of Alvion, and Jasper LeFequire of the Roet family.”
From his canopied seat near the royal box, I saw Fulke Roet lean forward. His anticipation so bright, it was almost a glow.