Vilmos nodded agreement again.

  “You drive a hard bargain, Vilam. Come this way and you’d better walk beside me. As I said before, this is no place for a boy to be alone—” Vilmos glared at the man. “—If I were going to rob you. I’d’ve done that a long time ago. I wouldn’t’ve even bothered talking to a boy. I’d’ve just grabbed you by the ankles. Just like this…”

  The bladesman made a lunging motion with his right hand, reaching low and then flipping his gripped hand up. Vilmos flinched, imagining himself dangling upside down, both ankles gripped firmly by one burly hand.

  “I’d’ve held you upside down until all the coinage dropped from your pockets. But you don’t have anything in your pockets do you, Vilam?”

  “Vilmos. My name is Vilmos.”

  “Vilmos is it?” S’tryil offered Vilmos his hand to seal their pact. “Well I shall stick with Vilam. Is that all right?”

  Vilmos nodded. The two continued down the block, across the next, then turned right.

  “Is this your first time at the competition?” asked S’tryil, not waiting for a response before continuing. “You see that long, high building there with the balcony? That’s City Garrison Central Post. That’s where the competitions take place every year. Now, if you can find that one building, for no other looks like it, you’re there. And look, here we are.”

  Surprised, Vilmos looked away from his companion’s face. The first bouts of the morning were already under way and a fair-sized crowd was gathered. Vilmos pushed his way into the circle beside the man he would call Greer. He reminded himself of this fact.

  “Here stand in front of me, but don’t take a step forward. You see that circle there? Good, don’t break it, and if someone comes lunging at you out of the circle, in the name of the Great Father, jump out of the way!”

  “Who’s going to attack me?”

  “No one, as long as you stick close. I was talking about the combatants. If they start to get too close, back away or you’re liable to get a sharp blade stuck right where you don’t want it.” S’tryil motioned graphically with his hands. “They’ve taken people away every day so far. They just don’t want to move out of the way. So mind my warning… Move, and be quick about it!”

  “How many days does this go on?” asked Vilmos excitedly, swaying his small body to the reactions of the warrior to his right, the one he favored. The two men struggled with great battle swords, the kind Vilmos had seen yesterday.

  “Weeks, until the final competitors are chosen,” said S’tryil. Vilmos jumped back as the competitors battling in the circle came close. “And then those chosen will go on to train for many more weeks. There is a special grudge this year… Do you see the man seated up on the high balcony? He is Lord Geoffrey.”

  “Is he dead?” One of the fighters had just fallen.

  The first match ended. The victor returned his great sword to the long scabbard strapped crossways upon his back, dipping the blade skillfully and quickly over his right shoulder with a casual, fluid motion that made the blade seem unencumbering. Then the victor raised both arms high over his head, waiting for the next challenger to enter the circle. The man on the balcony, the one Greer had called a lord, stood. A voice boomed out across the courtyard.

  “Shalimar takes the first match. Who would challenge?”

  A hush came over the crowd as the waiting began.

  Vilmos pressed close to Greer and whispered, “Why is no one moving?”

  “Stand still and silent!” hissed the bladesman.

  Lord Geoffrey spoke again, “There is no challenger? Are there none worthy?”

  “What’s wrong?” asked Vilmos. “Why has the fight stopped? Is it over already? Did we miss it all?”

  S’tryil snapped a hand to Vilmos’ mouth. “Be still!”

  “You there!” A hand pointed and all eyes followed its path. “Do you take the challenge?”

  S’tryil swallowed hard. “No, my lord,” he said in the gruff voice again, “I was just quieting my… ‘m son. Please forgive me, my lord.”

  All eyes turned back to the balcony as Geoffrey continued, “Then I declare, Shalimar the—”

  “Hold on,” cried out a man from the crowd, hastily appending “My Lord.”

  The man, clad in light mail, entered the ring, removing the chain shirt as he did so. The next bout began, and with its commencement S’tryil removed the restraining hand.

  “During relief you must say nothing,” said the bladesman. “That man there is one of the best in the whole of the Free City. I may bout him one day, though not today.”

  “I am sorry,” said Vilmos. “I didn’t know. Why do you know so much about the competition? I thought you said you have never been here.”

  “Well that’s not quite accurate; I said I’m not supposed to be here. I didn’t say I’ve never been here.”

  The two combatants faced off. The winner of the first bout was clearly tired but this did not slow his attacks. A relentless, heavy arm drove the challenger to the far side of the circle, nearly chasing him beyond the line: a disqualifying step for the challenger.

  “Do you see now why no one wanted to compete with this one?” asked S’tryil.

  Vilmos nodded. He understood.

  “He will be chosen if no others challenge him after this bout. He will join the others on the balcony…” Vilmos’ eyes followed the gesturing hand up to the balcony. “I’ve seen him win five battles in one day. He is good, really good. Today should be his last day. Do you see the weariness in his eyes? He is fatigued. He will not last much longer, especially if there is another challenge, but I don’t expect there to be.”

  Vilmos asked, “How do you know?”

  “We’ll have to wait.” The bladesman smiled. “But only a true fool would enter the ring with so weary and fierce a competitor. Instead of quick victory, such a challenger more often than not ends up being carted away to the death house. They say, if you corner a snake and don’t expect it to strike—to kill—you are to blame and not the snake.”

  “Those three?” Vilmos pointed to the men who stood behind the seated lord. “Did they go through the same… the same…?” Vilmos was unsure what word to use.

  “Yes, they did. Do you see the man standing in the middle? The broadest one?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s the lord’s son—”

  “Then he was assured a spot.”

  “I wish that were the case,” said S’tryil. “I wish that were the case.” After pausing momentarily to regard the sure victor in the contest, he continued. “The test of steel lasted six days for that one, a record I do believe. Many believe the same as you, and every year he teaches them the meaning of the word defeat. No, he is by far my biggest concern.”

  Vilmos was silent for a time. The match ended. The one called Shalimar won again; the challenger was carried out. Vilmos pursued no questions about the defeated man. He waited quietly, eyeing the dark, red stain that marred the hard dirt only a few steps away.

  A new challenge never came. Vilmos saw glee in the jaded face that marched from the courtyard.

  A ruckus erupted from the crowd amidst shouts of applause. Two men were shaking a stout, fat man and behind them another pair faced off about to brawl.

  “Stand close!” shouted the bladesman.

  Unsure whether to remain silent or speak again, Vilmos clung close to S’tryil. “What is wrong?” he whispered.

  “This always happens. Someone doesn’t want to pay their marker—and this happens. He’ll pay or he’ll suffer the consequences… Don’t worry, the contest will continue. It always does.” S’tryil turned his eyes back on the vacated circle. Vilmos did likewise. “One more,” whispered the bladesman, not meaning for Vilmos to hear him.

  “What do you mean? What one more?”

  “Well, let’s just say that the matches after next are the ones I came to see.”

  Vilmos, not knowing when to stop, asked, “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Don’t worry, the next combatant is very skilled. So skilled in fact I’m confident he’ll go on with the others, but that’ll be days from now,” said S’tryil. “There, you see the one stepping back into the circle? He is Shchander: quick and sharp. His attack is his best skill, not very good on the defense.”

  “Do you know all the fighters?”

  “Quick, aren’t you?” said the bladesman. “In a way, yes, I do.” He was starting to like to the inquisitive youngster.

  “If he’s not very good defending, how come you think he will be the victor?”

  S’tryil grinned. “You’re smart, aren’t you? Watch the way he jabs. He’ll get two to three thrusts for every one of his competitor’s. I guarantee you. That’s why he’ll win. He never tires; it’s amazing. The sad thing is that most of the would-be challengers know it. No, they’re waiting for the next. The strongest have been holding back. They want a taste of the best, especially after his lordship’s defeat in Imtal last winter. They figure he’s getting old. Gray, if you know what I mean. Me, I don’t think so. He’s been the best for a decade now and, the Father willing, I think he’ll make a comeback this year.”

  Vilmos nodded, which was a sign for the bladesman to keep mumbling on and on. It was strange that he told a boy things that he would not tell any other.

  “Beat by a captain of the palace guard. Can you imagine the thoughts that flooded his mind in that moment of defeat? … Now if you want to see a real test, a combat to the death, there is such a test of steel.”

  “I think the boy has heard enough!” boomed a voice that Vilmos instantly recognized. He knew he was in trouble, though he didn’t know how much.

  “I beg your pardon,” said S’tryil. “Do you know this man, Vilam?”

  Vilmos replied, “Yes,” at the same time Xith asked, “Vil-am?” Then Vilmos quickly said, “Thank you, Greer, for allowing me to stand under your protection. I must go now.”

  Xith and Vilmos hurriedly returned to their rented room to gather their supplies and pack what few belongings they had. Vilmos’ only real possession, the staff Xith had given him, was his most prized, and he carried it downstairs with the last of the supplies. Then he packed the goods into the saddlebags and stood by the horses.

  Xith came out of the inn a few minutes later, but instead of mounting a horse as Vilmos expected, the shaman touched a leathery hand to Vilmos’ bare arm and said, “Stay here. I have one last task to perform. If I don’t return by twilight, leave the city. Go south; take the horses and supplies with you. Follow the Kingdom road. I will find you when I can.”

  * * *

  Word of the recent battles spread throughout Great Kingdom’s farthest holdings and Kingdom supporters came from the far corners of the realm to enter the service of the garrisons. That Quashan’ and Alderan had withstood the desperate attempts made by his enemies did not surprise King Andrew. He expected nothing less from his men and never doubted that Great Kingdom was too strong, too proud to fall into enemy hands.

  “The treatise with Zashchita and Krepost’ progresses well sire.” The man speaking was Chancellor Volnej, a member of Great Kingdom’s High Council. He looked nearly as haggard as his companion to his right, both having just returned from long journeys. “The timberlands are even greater than I ever imagined. They will yield finer masts than the Belyj, finer masts indeed!”

  “Good, good,” replied King Andrew obviously pleased. He shifted in his chair, and then turned fully to face the chancellor. “Another report in two weeks and no sudden changes like last time. We cannot protect the eastern tract of High Province as it stands now, and one more attack and they threaten to break away.”

  “High Province is Lord Serant’s domain. Let him fret over it,” rebuked Keeper Q’yer, a tall, thin man, young in years by most standards, whose face held a wasted appearance. He had just returned from High Province by sea, a two-week journey on the southerly run, and he was a man prone to seasickness.

  “We will forgive you, keeper,” countered King Andrew, who was full of terse words this day, as he had been ever since the arrival of the most unwelcomed guests. His thoughts were taxed heavily by concerns over his youngest daughter, Princess Adrina, and the presence of more than one of the Lore Keepers at the council table put him slightly on edge. Imagine, juggling the seats of the council to their satisfaction, he thought to himself. He was more than a little displeased. He said nothing of this, finishing instead with, “Especially since we can see that you have not yet recovered your senses.”

  Father Francis voiced his opinions to the king and to the gathered council, “The Western Territories are our proclaimed lands. I do not see why we need cater to the whims of a group of ruffians.”

  King Andrew wasn’t adapting well to the sudden interest in Kingdom affairs by the priesthood and the keepers. He spoke his mind plainly, “The problem with you, Father Francis, is that you do not see at all, perhaps if you took a lengthy sabbatical you would recover your senses.”

  Father Francis’s face turned pale and he shrank into his chair as he gulped for air that he couldn’t seem to find. Coming to the aid of his fellow priest was mandatory, and Father Jacob did so only because of the obligation, “Father Francis has had a trying week, sire—”

  “Haven’t we all,” snapped King Andrew unhappily. The High Council should have been concentrating on other concerns—like the recent arrivals—and for the past several hours they had been discussing matters that the lower council should have been addressing.

  “I motion to dismiss council until tomorrow,” stated Keeper Martin, a hint of urgency in his voice. It had been a long morning.

  “Accepted,” muttered King Andrew, evident relief in his voice.

  * * *

  The soft falling of footsteps aroused Princess Adrina to conscious thoughts and she opened eyes she had only momentarily closed to see Myrial showing in one of her expected guests. She recognized the weathered, generous looking man approaching, knowing she owed him a debt she could never fully repay. She stood to greet the elder as was proper for an official audience.

  “Princess Adrina, hello, my child,” he said. Adrina no longer cringed at the mention of the hated word. Child was simply a word that expressed the way the gray-haired gentleman felt about her. “What troubles one so beautiful as you?”

  “Oh, Father Jacob, thank you for coming. I don’t know what to do,” Adrina said, pretending to sound exhausted, “I just don’t know what to do…”

  “Well my child, perhaps you should tell me. Mayhaps I could solve this quandary before you get wrinkles on your forehead and gray hairs to boot,” Jacob said with a wink.

  Adrina laughed, a soft girlish laugh from the past. A moment later, she regained her composure, her newly found womanhood returned and the laughter fell away. She told herself to focus. She had convinced herself that she could persuade her father to support the elves—if she had the help of those her father trusted. “Father Jacob, I wish to ask you of the elves.”

  At this, Father Jacob smiled knowingly. The two spent the better part of an hour discussing their thoughts and experiences with the elves. Myrial served tea and short bread while the two talked and though she left without saying a word, she did pause long enough to press her hand into Adrina’s.

  Adrina wasn’t surprised when the conversation turned from the elves to other matters and in particular to Klaive. In response to her indifference over the beauty of that southern land, Jacob replied, “Really, I don’t think so. I can see another expression hidden on your face under the dark and grim one.”

  “What would that be?”

  “I believe you know what it is already, my child,” Father Jacob said, then he dismissed himself, leaving Adrina alone in her audience chamber.

  Chancellor Yi had taken her aside just this morning and told her of King Andrew’s happiness with regard to her agreement to enter into marriage with Rudden Klaiveson. She didn’t realize until her thoughts subsided that marriage was the very thing Father Jacob had come to talk to her about. How could he have known, she wondered, unless her father had put him up to it? A somber smile passed her lips as she thought of another who would also be forced to wed soon if her father had his way.

  “King Jarom has a daughter of marrying age.” Adrina had heard the chancellor whisper to her father during the previous evening’s council. She hadn’t heard everything said, just enough. “This would surely settle him into complacency… You must make a decision, sire… Look to the bonding of Princess Calyin and Lord Serant.”

  Once more, Adrina heard echoes of the only words of her father that had been audible. “There is no love between them. She is not yet with child…” Then she had heard only the chancellor’s multiple replies. “Sire, this will come in time. Surely, there must be a spark kindling… Sire, if it pleases you, I will send Volnej… Yes sire, he is reliable… At once, sire.” She wondered if the chancellor ever tired of catering to her father’s whims.

  The sound of an oaken cane striking the floor was all the announcement she needed to tell her who approached. It was the second of her expected guests.

  “Hello, Keeper,” she said without turning to face Keeper Martin. A flicker of memory reminded her of the first time she had met Keeper Martin. It had been the day her mother passed away—it was odd how memories of that day returned to her now—a sorrowful day for all the Kingdom, especially for the royal family. A declaration of mourning had ensued and the entire populace had worn black the week that followed. Her mother had been well loved by all the citizens of the Kingdom; their love earned through her own love and kindness to everyone around her.

  Her mother had been so beautiful, Adrina suddenly recalled. Increasingly of late, she was reminded by others of how much she resembled her mother, though she didn’t think so. Sometimes she could see pain in her father’s eyes when he looked at her. Adrina had grown to understand this pain very well, quickly discovering how to soothe it away, how to soothe all the troubles and cares around her away.