Outside Lownell Manor, III Harfesting, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Twelve. Tierce.
Vandoren, Valerius, Mot.
Mot claps his hands and laughs as Achaela and Noxumbra sport about the grassy meadow—the young wolf running in furious circles as Noxumbra swoops down again and again, with each pass nearly lighting upon Achaela’s back. Vandoren strums his newly tuned psaltery, looks up in satisfaction, and begins to speak.
“Valerius, I wrote to my father and our old friend Clement, hoping to learn how both the slaying of the Prince and the truce have been received in Canglen. It would appear that the Bishop has readily embraced this peace, and has even attempted to send a couple of embassies to King Tereus to open a dialog. So far, the old ruck seems unwilling to enter into parlay. But the Bishop remains hopeful. I am not sure I can emulate his Grace’s faith… this truce seems dubious… to say nothing of it lasting until the equinox.
“Would the ruckish princes honor such a peace if the Pentians had ordered it? ‘Tis doubtful. So why should we not strike while the rucks are grieving the loss of their prince? Given that Sir Hamral is now held in such high esteem, mayhap at this time we could venture to finish off Tim?”
Valerius replies without once turning from Noxumbra. “I also wonder at the grieving of the rucks. Do you recall the famed Aeptetean Cokedrille, that sheds false tears in order to lure its prey to the river’s edge? Once its prey has drawn near enough, the dissembling Cokedrille forgoes this deceit and seizes the foolish creature fast in cruel jaws, to be rent apart and devoured.
“Yet strangely, I can only hope that the rucks’ grief is some sort of ruse. For if this lament is not feigned, then Busirane has even more reason to hate us—and so does his father.”
Vandoren is quiet for a moment, watching the wolf and raven at play. “Valerius, I also wish to propose some sort of an arrangement. I am intrigued by your accord with Noxumbra, and have wondered if some similar bond were possible between Achaela and me.”
Suddenly, Valerius turns to Vandoren. The magician’s mien is grave, almost sorrowful. “I am willing to freely share any knowledge you wish to possess, Vandoren. But I am finding that this knowledge often comes with a cost of its own.
“If you truly want to learn, I want you to meet someone. If after you have talked to him you are still curious, then I will help you.”
The Visitor’s Quarters in Upchurch, VI Harfesting. Sext.
Sir Hamral, Sir Will Garnfellow, Friar Sidrach Landry, Vandoren, Mendelor, Renton, St. James, Dirk, Valerius, Mot.
The chessboard sits on a small table near the window. The playing pieces have all stood in the exact same place for weeks now, arrested in the final positions of an uncompleted game between Ruik and Valerius. The magician in black now drinks in the board, as if calculating his next move.
“Vandoren and I must first undertake a brief excursion to Heremac,” mutters Valerius, still studying the board, “Before Sir John’s tournament.”
The woodsman Mendelor stands. “Valerius, you and I do not see eye to eye in this matter of his lordship. I will not seek an alliance or give any quarter to that bastard son. The blood of countless innocents is on his hands, and on the hands of his ruck friends. Nestor will never leave Utterbol, so the time is right to take Lownell. I say we take the Ebon Quill and move them to Lownell—think of the fortress they could build there, and it would be a safe haven for any ruck deserter. It would make me laugh to see the Bastard serving Luke and Mark.”
“My son, we should not make any rash moves until the tournament is over,” suggests Friar Sidrach, who is seated next to Sir Garnfellow, playing nine-mens-morris. “Perhaps the question we should first address is whether to attend this tournament, or no.”
“Of course, this tournament is all some nasty trap,” says Mendelor. “But I am unsure how we can avoid attending. I do not mind that Sir Hamral has gotten all the recognition for killing Prince Briareus—but I do worry that our friend is now marked by the rucks for revenge. And I much doubt that Busirane has forgotten all about the wissard and his nasty flame arrows.
“Perhaps we should at least have the Ebon Quill in position to storm the gates of Lownell should there prove no other way out. Mayhap this is something I could arrange while the rest of you are inside.”
Vandoren nods at the woodsman’s words. “I will attend the tournament if the rest of the group goes. However, I do not relish the idea in the least. It is one thing to be stealing about where we are not expected, but quite another to saunter into the arms of the one bastard more unctuous and conniving than Tim.
“However, consider all of the powerful patrons we have cultivated in the last few years—Sir Aleck, Count Durell, Lord Charles, and Brother Gregory, to name a few. Our position in Lownell may be a bit safer if some of these friendly dignitaries were present. Whatever we do, we should be prepared to fight our way out when—not if—we have to.”
“Well, I think we should go,” says Renton. “And we should all get horses, so we can ride into the tournament in style—and make a speedy exit if needed. I also like the idea of bringing the Ebon Quill with us for protection.”
“I also wish to go,” adds Dirk. “I am getting pretty bored with just sitting around—I have not gotten to club anything over the head in a while. A tournament is just what I need! And while we ought to be careful, I think the best move is to just walk right in the front door of Lownell Manor.”
“My sentence is also for attending the tournament,” says Valerius. “Most likely this is a trap—but consider that perhaps Sir John really would like to talk to us. After all, were we not thinking the same thing?
“As an aside, Mendelor’s idea of calling upon the Ebon Quill is a wise decision. Perhaps Sidrach should go to Wimm Copse to summon them. The Rucks of the Quill should stay close to Lownell—but not so close to be noticed. They are there only if we need them.
“Finally, Vandoren brings up a salient point: If possible, I would like to know who else will be at this event.”
Once the magician finishes speaking, the room falls silent for a moment before the fat knight, Sir Garnfellow, speaks up.
“Lads, all this plotting and scheming makes my head swirl! ‘Tis a pursuit that strikes me as somewhat womanly—a doughty knight like myself would rather storm the gates, despite all the perils. But no matter, lads. To each his own, as Sir Will often says. I have managed to hear some scraps, here and there, concerning which lords and knights are expected to travel to Lownell. By the Cup, though, am I thirsty!”
Mendelor shakes his head but dutifully pours a cup of ale for Garnfellow, who take a deep quaff before continuing.
“Well, lads, we know that none of the Seekers will attend the tournament, as Grand Master Alan has forbidden the Brother-knights from participating. Neither will King Weremach nor Count Durell go, though they are sending representatives. Abbot Peter and Bishop Martin are both sending small delegations to observe. Prince Wenric is perhaps the most prominent Pentian knight expected to be at Lownell. Sir Leoline, lord to Vandoren’s friend Bracy, is also said to be preparing to go. And of course, I shall accompany Sir Aleck and Sir Galen. It has been years since I contended on the tourney lists!”
“Obviously, Sir John’s own knights will be there—Sir Burchard, Sir Waleran, and Sir Harold Grimpate. King Tereus is not going himself, although Prince Nestor and Busirane will both be in Lownell. I have heard conflicting stories whether Prince Argus will attend. Nestor will of course bring his champion, Sarpedon. And Busirane will be bringing his own captain of war, Orestes. I have also heard that both Knights of the Scarlet Banner will be there.”
“Maggie and Tim are both going,” adds St. James. “Though I wot not why.”
“But here is perhaps the most interesting bit of news,” adds Garnfellow. “Sir John’s exiled father, Sir Richard, is returning to Lownell for the tournament. Along with John’s half brothers, Sir Steven and Sir Edgar. It should make for some interesting maneuvering…”
“Fascinating,” murmurs Valerius.
Friar Sidrach suddenly gasps in joy and removes Garnfellow’s last peg from the nine-mens-morris board. “Ah, Sir Garnfellow—would you care for another game? The Five have certainly favored me today. And while I reset the board, perhaps you could tell us about the tournament, as I have never seen one before.”
“Nothing would make me happier, good friar,” says Garnfellow, delighted to turn attention away from his loss. “This tournament is to be tremendous event, a true nine day’s wonder. Folks are coming from all over the Frounter to witness these festivities. They say that this is the first tournament to be held on the Frounter in many years, since well before the rucks invaded. The Church and even King Weremach tried for many years to stop tournaments altogether, fearing wanton bloodshed between faithful Pentians.
“No expenses are being spared in Lownell. Sir John has constructed magnificent Lists, ringed with a great fence. Nearby fields have been mowed and made ready for the grand pavilions. Sir John has ordered spices and wines from Canglen and beyond. He has hired the finest cooks, and entertainers of every hue: jugglers, tumblers, clowns, jesters, singers, storytellers, bear-baiters, and more. The old seneschal, Claudius, shall act as the Marshall of the Lists, overseeing the entire tournament. Prince Wenric and Prince Nestor are expected to serve as Judges.
“I understand your concerns about traveling to Lownell, lads—especially given past hostilities. But Sir John is bound by the ancient traditions of hospitality, and will be expected to extend to you every courtesy. He would be greatly dishonored and disgraced should any of his guests to come to harm or be treated disrespectfully while under his care. I suspect that John will be on his best behavior for the tournament—especially if he has any hope of insinuating himself back into the Pentian ranks. But the selfsame tradition of hospitality that binds Sir John as your host also binds all of you as his guests—it would be shameful and base to violate that trust.”
“I should say,” says Friar Sidrach, gesturing for Sir Garnfellow to make the first move. “And this tournament is expected to last three days?”
“Indeed,” says the fat knight, pegging one of his pieces. “Everyone is expected to arrive on the Feast Day of Saint Marius. Those knights and dignitaries arriving in Lownell will be first given an audience with Sir John. That night a welcoming feast will be held, and introductions made. After dinner, Sir John will reveal those prizes to be won by victorious knights in the coming days. I have heard lads, that Sir John has prepared a king’s ransom of bejeweled weapons, armor, fine horses, and falcons—even some enchanted weapons. These prizes, of course, are in addition to whatever mounts, armor, and gear are taken from defeated opponents.
“The next day the tournament begins, and will last three days. There are said to be many contests planned—individual combats and displays of arms. There will be tests of riding ability, such as Loop o’ Hoops: On a field seven poles will be erected, and from each pole hung a hoop, dangling from a thin thread. The aim is to ride a set course between the poles, collecting the rings with a spear while passing. Another such contest is the Headless Ride, in which seven heads of cabbage are placed on the top of seven poles. The knight is expected to ride through the course, cutting each cabbage in half with his sword. Such fun, I tell you—more than once didst the mighty Justicar carry me through to victory!
“Not all of the contests are limited to knights. There are archery competitions and wrestling matches. There is the log throw: each participant gets three tries to throw a twelve-foot long log the farthest. And stone lifting, where the aim is to carry the largest stone over a distance of ten paces.
“And then there is even something of Sir John’s own invention, called the Villein’s Run. As I understand it, Sir John has designed a cunning labyrinth, which must be successfully navigated. The winner is the first person to emerge from the maze in the allotted time.
“The third and final day features the highlight of the entire tournament: the Grand Melee, in which two teams of knights contend in a pitched battle. One group of knights will represent Lownell, while the other team will represent the visitors. That night Sir John will award prizes to the winners—and to other knights who, as determined by the Judges, have distinguished themselves for valor, feats of arms, and other chivalrous qualities. Then the farewell feast will be held to close out the tournament.”
“Well, I for one am very eager to go to this tournament,” says St. James, “so that I may be seen as the great man that I am. I am feeling very confident with our growing fame and enjoy the respect I garnish from the average carle… to say nothing of the increased attention from my many female admirers.”
“It all sounds quite pompous,” says Friar Sidrach. “To think of all the wealth that Sir John has expended those prizes!”
“Indeed,” says Mendelor. “And speaking of prizes, I will keep the enchanted mail that we won from Briareus. The potions, however, should go to Heremac with Valerius. Once it is determined what these potions do, they should be given to whomever among us would most benefit.”
“A generous course of action,” Valerius, still examining the chessboard. “Mot and I should be able to deduce the nature of the draughts.”
Mendelor gazes wistfully over the chessboard. “Friends, I am saddened at the recent loss of Ruik. I had hoped he would recover from the death of his dear friend Wyk and we would again be scaling the walls and attempting to drop the gates on other Geaunts. Maybe when this war is over I will travel over the hills and see if I can recover our friend…”
“Ah, that reminds me,” says St. James. “I had completely forgotten in all the excitement. Before he left, our friend Ruik came to me one night when I was alone in a tavern. He implored me to forget him not and then he gave me this same magicked ring that you now see upon my hand, a ring that allows me to see in even the darkest of nights. Ruik told me that only I could do the ring honor and that we would need the ring for the coming adventures. He went on at great length. In essence he praised me and all my glorious feats and would have bought my ale all night had I not insisted to buy him several rounds to send him on his merry way. He was a good ole sod and I hope to see him again… When he wasn’t looking, I even slipped a few extra coins into his pack to help him on his way.”
Before the Vavasor’s House, Heremac. IX Harfesting, Tierce.
Vandoren, Valerius.
“You must steel yourself, Vandoren,” intones Valerius. “For that which lies beyond this door may be… unseemly.”
Vandoren nods and takes a deep breath. Valerius steps up and raps upon the door, which quietly glides open at the lightest touch. Thick, acrid smoke pours out from the house. Valerius draws back, hesitates, and then plunges forward, his staff at the ready. Vandoren curses and then follows. The sickening smoke is dark and oily, with a sweet, familiar scent.
“Master?” calls Valerius, making his way through the black interior. A shuffling figure suddenly appears in the way. Beyond, on the floor, lies a tall stack of books and papers, engulfed by a flickering yellow fire.
“Fool!” snarls Valerius, striking out with his staff—and the figure collapses beneath the blow. As wisps of cloud, racing over the sky, cast rapid flashes of shadow and light upon the fields, so changes the Vavasor’s face in quick succession from expressions of anger—pride—fear—sadness, finally arriving at confusion.
Valerius does not pay his master any heed, but rushes forward to the flaming pyre. Valerius grimaces and then reaches into the flames, snatching up a handful of books and papers. The fire rears high, and the rest of the books are swiftly consumed and fall to ash.
Shaken, Valerius steps back, clutching blackened and smoldering leaves to his chest as if they were rescued children. And only then does he turn to his prostrate master. As if awakening from a dream, Valerius slowly lets his burden drop to the floor.
“Master… I am… I am sorry,” sputters Valerius, reaching down to help up the broken man. It is then that he notices the blackened stump where the Vavasor’s right hand should be… the horrific edge burnt and raw.
The Vavasor begins to sob, softly. “They were of no use to me… I am beyond them now… beyond… I was just trying to save you…”
Vandoren’s gorge rises in his throat, and he turns from the scene.