“Ah,” Dorna said. She chewed on a wrapped porie leaf, another item Brother Qown hadn’t seen her buy. “The Fourth Contest. Interesting choice.”
“What’s the Fourth Contest?”
“Shhh. It’s starting.”
The priest gritted his teeth and returned his attention to the combatants and their contest, whatever form it would take. The Red Spear rode up to the table as squires ran to them with ropes. They carried two kinds—small, thin ropes, such as one might use to tie bundles, and a single large rope thick as a strong man’s wrist. Since Gozen had picked the contest, the Red Spear now had the right to pick which sort of “weapon” they’d use.
The Red Spear reached down, put his hand on the smaller ropes, then paused. He changed his mind and picked up the thick rope.
The crowd cheered or booed, depending on preferences and where they’d bet their metal.
The count rode over to Gozen, just as he picked up the other end of the rope. A murmur swept over the crowd; the group surrounding them stood. Brother Qown found himself feeling both guilty and grateful Dorna had found them such a nice spot.
Then the Black Knight pulled the rope from Gozen’s hand and motioned for the young knight to move to the side. He wouldn’t be the one fighting this bout. She would.
“Can she do that?” Brother Qown whispered to Dorna.
“Aye,” Dorna replied. “There ain’t much a Black Knight can’t do, truth be told. Taking over one side of a contest is the least of it. If she wins, it’s her victory, but it’ll still count for the Sifen family.”
“And if she loses?”
Mare Dorna slapped his chest. “Shut your mouth, priest. My count don’t lose.”
The Black Knight rode to the field’s center. The Red Spear rode after her, holding the other end of the rope, just long enough to allow both riders to sit on their horses several lengths apart.
“Are they—?” Brother Qown frowned and leaned forward. “That’s a children’s game.”
“The rules are simple enough for that, aye. Each rider holds one end of the rope and don’t let go. The one who does, loses. If they’re pulled off their horse, they’ll let go.”
“But this single contest won’t decide anything, will it?”
Dorna glanced back at him. “I reckon it will decide how much the Sifen family charges for their mangoes.”
“What? But—” Brother Qown raised his chin in the direction of the prisoners’ cages. “I meant about that.”
Dorna studied the cages, her expression sullen. She looked around in case anyone eavesdropped. “Problem with that is—”
The crowd roared.
Dorna broke off whatever she’d been about to say and jumped to her feet. Brother Qown craned his neck to see what had happened in the ring while he’d been distracted.
The match had ended.
The Red Spear clambered to regain his footing after he’d fallen off his horse, who stood at the side pawing the ground and looking surprised. A referee ran over to talk to the warden, or rather, to the warden’s nurse, but the outcome seemed clear. The referees hoisted the Sifen family’s flag, a yellow-and-blue field affixed with a trade group’s square mark.
Winner.
Dorna slapped Qown on the shoulder. “Told you.”
Count Janel, or rather, the Black Knight, now had everyone’s attention.
Arasgon pranced back to the center, facing the box where the baron sat. Captain Dedreugh lounged in a chair a short distance from the box, enjoying a drink. He lingered there in case someone foolishly tried for a match.
As the baron raised his arm and leaned forward to give some command or judgment, a shout rang out in the distance. Several people began to point.
Qown looked around to spot the cause. Surprised and dismayed cries rang out from the crowd.
Finally, the priest realized people were pointing back at the castle, toward the thick black smoke snaking up from inside the walls.
Something inside Mereina Castle was burning.
Dorna and Brother Qown shared a look.
“You don’t think…?” Dorna worried at her lower lip.
“Ninavis,” he said.
Brother Qown didn’t know what could’ve happened, but he’d splinted and cast her leg. How much harm could she do …
No. It was she. Possibly she and Kalazan, but he knew in his bones she’d done something.
Baron Tamin ordered his soldiers back to the castle, his wild gesticulations communicating his anger as clearly as if Brother Qown stood right next to him.
It might have been the priest’s imagination, but he thought he heard the name Kalazan floating by on the breeze.
Tamin didn’t himself leave. Instead, the baron returned to his seat, casting angry scowls back to the fortress.
While the baron dealt with his new problem, Count Janel drew her sword and pointed it at Dedreugh. Arasgon screamed out something to call attention to the challenge.
Dorna whistled. “Oh, I wondered how she was going to do this without fighting her way through a dozen knights. This works much better.”
Baron Tamin walked to the edge of the box. Although Brother Qown couldn’t hear his words, his consternation and confusion were evident. Tamin must have realized this wasn’t his Black Knight, wasn’t Sir Baramon. He likely recognized the fireblood too—in which case, he had to realize Janel’s identity.
The crowd surged, wild and shouting. The tournament had turned into something unexpected; it excited their fancy. Tamin raised his hand until they subsided. He motioned for the Black Knight to leave the field.
Arasgon shifted his weight and strutted. Count Janel again pointed her sword at Dedreugh.
Brother Qown saw the baron bend down and listen to something the warden’s nurse had to say, saw him shake his head in refusal. The baron motioned for the soldiers who hadn’t left for the castle to remove the Black Knight from the field. As he did, the crowd in the stands began to stomp their feet and shout.
Black Knight! Black Knight! Black Knight!
The crowd came alive, chanting the title in unison.
Brother Qown realized he hadn’t actually understood what role the Black Knight played in these tournaments—in Joratese society.
Yes, a jester figure. A fool on horseback, providing entertainment to the crowds during breaks in the show. But if one looked at this figure and saw only the mountebank, then one missed the whole point.
The Black Knight might be a fool, but this fool served the gods. The Black Knight was a holy idiot, destiny’s joking hand, the mischievous herald of divine fate.
The people of Barsine Banner hated Dedreugh. And now the Black Knight was calling him out. Nothing would come of this. Surely, this was the baron’s attempt to defuse the morning atrocities. This couldn’t be the Eight’s judgment. It was a prank and a lark and nothing more.
But what if?
What if?
The baron gave the crowds a sour look and nodded to where his man Dedreugh sat. The guard captain drained his drink and stood. He called his horse over and vaulted into the saddle, directing the stallion around the ring.
“Who dares think they can take me?” he screamed out. “Do you think I fear the unknown? That I will quake at the dark? I am the dark! I am the unknown all men fear! I will tear this impostor limb from limb.” He pulled out his sword and waved it in the air. He continued in this vein for several more circles around the yard, each time elaborating on the many ways he’d grind into dust the poor fool stupid enough to challenge him.