Chapter
25

Aodren

THE SUMMIT MEETING ENDS IN THE EARLY afternoon, and a royal convoy takes the leaders and dignitaries directly to the tournament field for the first day of the joust.

Discovering Malam needs a Channeler for the jubilee was a blow yesterday, but our ranking in the tournament is promising, keeping me hopeful and eager for today’s competition. The joust is an event in which Baltroit typically dominates. He will hold the lance first today. Leif will compete in the second round.

Our arrival draws a crowd that clogs the road. From the carriage window, I can see people clamoring to get closer to the convoy of royal carriages. Even with Leif and Segrande at my side, a sense of vulnerability comes from sitting in a conspicuously ornate carriage, emblazoned with Malam’s identifying stag. Sneaking around with Lirra has become too much the norm. The thought brings a smile to my lips.

Guards flank us as we exit. All around, people drop, lowering to a knee. A scattering of cheers and clapping comes unexpectedly from the crowd.

I look out at the sea of downcast eyes. Supposedly a show of respect, downcast gazes have always felt like a disconnection. I’ve accepted the norm of it, never having had anyone give me contrary advice on how a king should act. I wonder if change isn’t needed simply in terms of Channeler prejudices. Perhaps I need it too.

The other leaders and their guards walk straight to the field, but I gesture to the men around me, indicating our group should stop at the champions’ tent first.

A portion of the crowd follows the other leaders. But many stay. Some hold maroon-and-gray flags.

“Thank you for coming.” I address the Malamians. “Your support matters. Together let us cheer on our champion. And like the melee, may we take home another flag, another reason to be proud of who we are and where we come from.”

Flags are waved while many clap and holler.

“Three cheers for Malam,” someone shouts, and my heart soars.

This is the spark of unity I’ve been hoping for. I need them to take this pride back to Malam. I pump a fist in the air. “Our hearts, our blood, our lives for Malam!”

The words are repeated back, and the applause swells.

Guards part the crowd and escort us to the champions’ tent. There, I stop and scan the faces of those around me, hoping to see Lirra. She’s not in the group of people who have followed me from the carriage.

“Shall we take our seats, Your Highness?” Lord Segrande is bouncing on his toes, excited to see his son compete.

After a moment longer, it appears she’s not coming. Something must have held her up. Reluctantly, I nod and our group walks to Malam’s box.

Leif sits beside me. He’s dressed in a set of clothes that have been made to fit perfectly under his armor. He wanted to watch the first round to size up the competition. Segrande paces the small walkway in front of the chairs. I wonder if he was equally anxious before the melee.

An air of disquiet fills the field as people flock to the edges. Their conversations about the competitors’ fighting skill swell until the sound is nearly deafening.

The announcer calls out the names of the starting competitors, but no one can hear him until the trumpets play the opening tune and the crowd quiets. After the horns blare, the man shouts the competitors’ names again, and a round of cheers rumbles from every edge of the tournament field.

A Shaerdanian guard in the kingdom’s blue-and-gold uniform rushes onto our platform. His sudden appearance has Leif leaping up and reaching for his sword. The guards behind me step forward.

But the newcomer takes a hasty knee, showing that he’s not a threat.

“Rise,” I tell the man, and he bobs upward, his flushed skin coated in a sheen of perspiration.

“I come bearing news, Your Highness.” He stares at me with wide eyes. His hands twitch at his sides.

“Go on.”

“There was a fight in the market.” The man’s breath bursts out. His gaze darts from me to Leif. “And your champion was involved. Baltroit Bromier.”

Hearing Baltroit’s name shoots dread through my system. I can only imagine the worst about the fight he’s mentioned. Baltroit has likely been thrown in the cells and will remain there for the rest of the week. He won’t be able to compete.

“Where’s my son?” Segrande demands.

In the background, the thunder of hooves and the first crash of jousting poles echo across the field. The guard’s mouth bobs open and closed, regret and sympathy fill his eyes, and I know what he has to say is worse than I’ve imagined.

“He—he—he collapsed, sir. He’s dead.”

First, there was disbelief, angry shouts of denial, and threats against the guard.

Then, after we return to the castle, to the quiet, dim room where Baltroit’s body has been laid on snowy sheets, only then is the terrible truth impossible to deny.

Segrande rushes to his son’s side while I wait by the door, giving him space. The last stretches of daylight slip through the window.

For a long moment, Segrande says nothing. He stares down at Baltroit’s still, still form.

“My son,” he whispers, the sound gravel and air, pain and pleading. “Oh, my boy, what’s happened to you?”

I step forward, considering what I might say, as Segrande collapses against the edge of the bed, throwing his arms over his boy’s chest.

A keening wail rises up out of Segrande, anguished and raw, as if part of his own body has been severed.

And then he weeps.

If there were some way I could lessen his pain, I would. All I can do is stand beside him, offering little comfort, as he curls protectively over Baltroit and presses a kiss to his son’s brow. Despair rattles Segrande’s fingers as he sweeps his son’s disheveled golden hair to the side, fixing it like he probably did when Baltroit was a young boy.

I see the depth of love a father should have for his child, and I know Segrande’s loss is something I’ll never forget.

His pain and grief are etched on my soul.