Chapter
16
Aodren
LEIF SITS IN A CHAIR NEAR HIS BED, STIRRING pottage the kitchen servants must’ve brought up. No longer ashen, his skin has ruddy color beside that unkempt, fiery beard.
“You’re looking good,” I say.
He rolls his neck and flexes his arms. “Good enough to spar. I need to work out some kinks before tomorrow.” I see the way his face gets more animated as he talks, and I know he won’t take my news well.
“King Gorenza brought up my involvement in the tournament during the summit meeting,” I say.
“Oh?” He stirs the pottage.
“He was not pleased with my last-minute appearance.”
Leif grins over a mouth half full of food. “Bet not. I haven’t been around him much because of the stabbing and all, but Baltroit stopped by today. He had some things to say about King Gorenza. Sounds like the man has it out for Malam.”
“Yes, it seems that way.” Segrande must be filling his son in on the summit. I wonder if he’s already told Baltroit about the melee.
“Might be trouble for setting up trade over the northern pass.”
I murmur my agreement.
Leif digs out another scoop and shoves it into his mouth. He chews and then looks at me with a tilted, sheepish smile. “I’m more excited to get back on the field tomorrow than I am to start attending the summit meetings.”
I do not want to deliver this news. “About the melee . . . you will not be competing tomorrow night.”
His hand pauses midlift. “What’s that?” Pottage slips off the edge of the silver spoon and plops into his bowl.
It doesn’t matter that the decision wasn’t mine. Sitting here before Leif, seeing how his face loses all animation, stabs me with guilt. “King Gorenza insisted the rules be enforced,” I say. “Once a champion has begun an event, that same champion must finish the event. This means you cannot compete. Only I may return for the second night, or choose to forfeit my position and allow Baltroit to finish alone.”
Leif grunts and takes another bite, jaw grinding as he slowly chews. “Yer—yer not going to do that, bow out, are ya?” His speech is tight, frustrated.
There are risks associated with the melee, which is the reason leaders stopped participating in the event so many years ago. King Gorenza made sure to remind me of that. But even if he hadn’t, I’m already aware of how vulnerable a position it is to be on that field. It doesn’t matter that we’re using blunted weapons; a hit to the neck, or the head, could be permanently damaging.
On the one hand, I feel like it would be irresponsible of me to compete. But then, if I don’t, Malam will fall to fourth or last position. We wouldn’t have a chance at the cup.
Segrande would caution me to forfeit my position for my own safety. I’m grateful Leif hasn’t done that. He understands why I would feel compelled to compete.
“I will fight,” I say to Leif, making the choice in spite of the hazards. I have fought for my life and my kingdom in real battle. I can fight a mock battle, if it means the possibility of uniting my kingdom in pride and hope.
Leif’s forehead wrinkles, his auburn brows pulling together as he stares down at his pottage. He curses under his breath and mutters something about training six months. I let him stew, because this decision must be difficult to hear. After a beat he says, “Keep your eye on Hemmet. He’s formidable, and guaranteed, his father will make sure he’s got a trick or two saved for you.”
“Good advice,” I say. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“This is good. It’ll give me more time to recover,” he says, but it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.
Missing the tournament is more galling than he wants to admit, and I suspect missing the melee will bother him more once he regains his strength. Six months of anticipation and training cannot be abandoned lightly.
“It should’ve been you on the field,” I tell him.
He stares hard at the bowl in his hands. “You’re the better swordsman, and the king. That makes you the rightful competitor.”
That’s debatable. Perhaps this is why he doesn’t look up to meet my eye.