The royal box would be full, as it would hold not only my family, our escorts and our bodyguards, but visiting royalty from two of our neighboring kingdoms, Sarterad and Gourhan. Emotana’s sovereigns had sent regrets and would not be in attendance. We were on good terms with all of these kingdoms, despite their reluctance to aid us in the Cokyrian War; the warriors of the east were feared, and none of our friendly neighbors had dared take the risk of crossing Cokyri to defend Hytanica. Temerson’s parents, Lieutenant Garreck and Lady Tanda, would also be our guests, as would Koranis and Alantonya, serving to ratchet up the tension in the box, although my father seemed oblivious to the strained relationship between the captain and the Baron. Even though Cannan would be on duty, his wife, Faramay, would join us as well, for she would otherwise have lacked an escort.
It would be clear to anyone who had seen Faramay that she was Steldor’s mother; it was equally clear why Steldor was so good-looking. Baroness Faramay was, without dispute, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Her chocolate-brown hair fell around her lovely oval face in thick curls that moved when she turned her head, sweeping gracefully across her shoulders and back, drawing attention to her whether she sought it or not. She had blue eyes that were large and striking, and though she was almost forty, her fair skin was smooth and glowing. While Cannan was himself an attractive man, his wife was an arresting beauty, and Steldor had been blessed with many of her features. The only similarities between father and son were their chiseled jawlines, the deep brown of their eyes and hair, and their powerful physiques.
By the time we entered the royal box, competitors were already on the field preparing for the contests; lords and ladies in colorful raiment of lush velvet and embroidered silk had begun to fill the viewing stand constructed for them on the north side of the field, and the citizenry were gathering on the grassy hillsides. I knew the audience would grow throughout the day, drawn first by the archery, knife-throwing and axe-throwing competitions, then by the more daring and perilous horse races, culminating in the dangerous fighting events: first hand-to-hand and then with swords and other weapons. The noise level would also increase, as the crowd would extol its favorite competitors and be equally vocal in its jeering of those it abhorred, the abundance of wine and ale tending to inspire avid crowd participation.
The field itself had been marked out to meet the needs of the tournament. An oval track had been established and was roped on both sides of its twenty-five-foot width, ready for the horse races. On the near inside edge of the oval, slightly to the left of the royal box, a large stage had been erected for the one-on-one combat competitions. To the north of the stage, targets were set for the archery tournament and would later be replaced by targets for the knife-throwing and axe-throwing events. To the rear of these areas but still within the oval, several large tents had been pitched for use by the participants as they readied themselves for the games. Billowing silk banners indicated which tents had been assigned to each kingdom: royal-blue-and-gold for Hytanica, black-and-silver for Sarterad, Gourhan’s crimson-and-white, and Emotana’s black-and-forest-green. Water for drinking and washing had been provided, and doctors were on hand to treat the injured.
The start of the tournament was heralded by trumpets and drums, and my father stood to open the event with the traditional speech, deepening the pitch of his voice so that it boomed across the hillside.
“Honored guests, valiant competitors and loyal citizens of Hytanica, I bid thee welcome to this auspicious tournament. Competitors, I exalt thee to be brave and daring, yet honorable and true, and I pray you will be safe from injury. To those in attendance, I encourage thee to rejoice with the winners, commiserate with the losers, but above all, to loudly cheer.”
My father paused, then pronounced, “Let the tournament begin!”
The archers, displaying the silks of their respective kingdoms, approached the competition area as the cry of, “Let the tournament begin!” was repeated across the hillside. They eyed their targets and made final adjustments to their bows while waiting for the contest to commence.
I located Lanek, who would be announcing the events, on the field. It would be his responsibility to provide commentary throughout the day, and he would no doubt be hoarse by the time evening fell. As the archery began, Lanek called out the distances to the targets, the marks of the archer’s arrows, and the names of those who would be advancing. With each succeeding round, targets would be moved farther away to provide an ever-increasing challenge to the competitors’ skills.
Steldor’s mood had not changed much from the previous evening, and he continued to use his inexhaustible charisma to enchant the King and Queen, as well as the other royals in attendance. If anything, he was even more charming and witty than he had been at the pretournament dinner. While his ability to ingratiate himself with my parents taxed my patience, his mood otherwise suited me perfectly.
From archery, the tournament proceeded to knife throwing, followed by axe throwing, with Lanek continuing to announce distances to targets and accuracy of throws. After a break for lunch, the horse racing began, and by the time the first winner crossed the finish line, the hillside was packed with vocal spectators. The horse racing involved much jostling among the competitors, which sometimes resulted in fallen riders and downed mounts. While there were some injuries, all of the toppled riders were able to limp off the track amid shouts from the crowd, most without assistance.
Friendly repartee filled the royal box throughout the day’s contests, but Koranis was careful to maintain his distance from the Captain of the Guard. Of course, Cannan’s reaction to Koranis’s presence was far more difficult to ascertain.
When the fights with weapons began, conversation among those in the royal box fell off, although the crowd on the hillside voiced their opinions as vociferously as ever. Competitors would fight one-on-one in several different modes during this part of the tournament. First would be wrestling, then hand-to-hand combat, followed by combat with swords and other weapons. Although weapons used in the fighting events were blunted in an attempt to prevent harm to participants, injuries were frequent but rarely fatal.
The men involved in the fourth to last battle, one Hytanican and one clad in the black-and-silver of the Kingdom of Sarterad, were called forth by Lanek, and they climbed the few steps on either side of the stage, drawing their swords. Steldor had been concentrating on the fights and was startled when Cannan put a hand upon his shoulder and motioned to the exit. Steldor stood, then made a point of offering words of consolation to me before departing.
“I’m afraid that I must leave you now, as the time to fight the Cokyrian draws nigh.” He bowed and kissed my hand, but did not release it, knowing full well he had irked me by the manner in which he had referred to Narian.
“Don’t worry, I won’t be gone long,” he added. “I know you will miss me terribly, but perhaps Miranna will be able to cheer you.”
He let go of my hand, bowed to all the royals and gave his mother a dutiful kiss on the cheek before leaving to prepare for the exhibition.
After he had departed, talk resumed, centering mostly upon the fight that would take place between Steldor and Narian. The Cokyrians were the most feared warriors in the Recorah River Valley, and the exhibition offered a rare chance for the public to gauge their skills. Though it was known by everyone in the royal box that the flow of the fight had been plotted from first thrust to final parry, no one except Cannan had witnessed it, and excitement permeated the air. Adding to the sense of danger was the knowledge that, unlike the weapons wielded in the competitions, Steldor’s and Narian’s would not be blunted. Cannan had wanted to preserve the authenticity of the weaponry, allowing Steldor and Narian to use their personal armaments, and was willing to trust the skills of the young men involved to prevent injury. I too felt on edge about the upcoming event, though my feeling was not one of anticipation, but of trepidation.
Destari’s whisper jarred me from my thoughts. “Excuse yourself and
come with me.”
I looked at him in confusion, but his serious expression discouraged me from raising any questions. I stood, depositing the throw that I had been draping over my legs on the chair, and approached my father, placing a hand on his shoulder to draw his attention.
“I feel I must move about for a few moments but I will return shortly.”
He nodded and returned to watching the sword fight taking place on the stage below. As I moved toward Destari, Temerson’s mother, Lady Tanda, laid a hand on my bodyguard’s arm.
“How is London?” she inquired.
“He is fine,” Destari replied with a hint of what presented itself as disapproval. “He has survived far worse than this.”
After glancing at me to ensure I was complying with his directive, Destari slipped out the door. He waited for me outside and extended his hand in assistance as I hurried down the steps.
“Follow me,” he said as soon as my feet were on the ground. Before I could inquire about his strange behavior, he began to walk briskly in the direction of the faire grounds.
I trailed after him, almost jogging to keep pace. He led me through the maze of vendors, paths teeming with people, to a gold-and-maroon tent on the outskirts of the faire near the Market District. The front flaps of the tent were spread open around a long table covered in old and expensive-looking artifacts. I frowned, drawing my cloak securely about me, thinking it unlikely that Destari had brought me here to see ancient relics but unable to decipher his true purpose.
Behind the table sat a deathly thin, middle-aged man with scruffy hair and bulbous black eyes. He bobbed his long, crooked nose up and down to motion us into the tent, and I nervously followed Destari, then waited as he pulled aside one of two hanging tapestries that served as dividers between the front and rear sections of the tent.
“Destari, what—” I began, but swallowed my words as my eyes swept the shadowy back section, lit only by a small, open flap in the cloth ceiling. Crates that had contained the vendor’s merchandise were stacked in the corner, and leaning against them with his arms crossed over his chest was someone I had not seen in many months.
“London!” I exclaimed.
Only the dust particles wafting through the air in the stream of light from the ceiling flap separated us, and I would have run to him had not my good sense surfaced. London was not a physically demonstrative person and would not appreciate my show of affection under the best of circumstances, which these were not.
I stepped forward, aware that he and I had not spoken since the day of Narian’s capture, at which time nothing had been resolved between us. While I was elated to see him, he probably did not feel the same pleasure to be with me.
“Princess Alera,” he said in greeting. “Glad you could fit me into your busy schedule.”
His familiar sarcasm served to remind me of how sorely I had missed him. I stopped a few feet away while I scrambled for an appropriate response, and Destari stepped through the tapestries to stand behind me.
“You look well,” I finally faltered.
“As do you, Princess.”
I averted my gaze, disheartened by his continued formality, and stared for a moment at my shoes. Regaining my composure, I tried again, with more sincerity than I had managed before.
“Truly, how are you?”
“Just fine. I always land on my feet.” He smirked as he chided, “I hear you’ve managed to dispose of yet another bodyguard.”
I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks, but London did not seem to notice.
“I am sorry for causing you pain,” I said, searching his indigo eyes. “Isn’t there some way we can put this behind us?”
“Whatever suits the Princess,” he responded, and I was relieved to hear a tease in his voice. After a glance at Destari, who had moved up beside me, he more seriously added, “This wasn’t intended to be a social gathering anyway.”
An awkward hush transpired, during which London ran a finger along the dusty edge of one of the wooden crates. Finally, he broke the silence.
“Destari tells me you’ve become friendly with Koranis’s son.”
I should have known Destari would be keeping London informed of my activities—after sixteen years of monitoring my every movement, it would be difficult for old habits to die—but I suspected London had pieced together more information about my visits with Narian than even my bodyguard knew. Not wanting to say the wrong thing, I shrugged.
“And what is your opinion of him?” London persisted, equally unrevealing of his purpose in pursuing this topic.
I knew there was no point in trying to deceive him. “He fascinates me, and I enjoy his company.”
“You ought to be wary of him,” London replied.
“Why?” I bristled. “Because he was raised in Cokyri?”
“No. Because he is not who he appears to be.”
“I could say the same about you.”
London cocked a cautionary eyebrow at me, and I regretted my words, once again lapsing into silence.
After a moment, he asked, “Have you found no reason to distrust him?”
For some unknown and unwarranted reason, I was piqued by the way he spoke of Narian.
“I confess that I do not know as much about him as I would like, but based on what I do know, I have no cause for concern.”
London shook his head and gave me a disparaging smile. “You see and yet somehow you are blind.”
He ran a hand through his untidy silver hair before proceeding, his manner grave.
“At the end of the war, the Cokyrians stole from us forty-nine infants and killed forty-eight, keeping and raising only Narian. Have you not wondered why? How many children do you know who begin their military training at the age of six? And how many have a private teacher?”
London stared piercingly at me, but I knew he was not expecting an answer.
“This boy somehow managed to bypass Halias and Tadark without making a sound, moving stealthily enough to escape the notice of two Elite Guards—well, one and a half.” Despite the seriousness of his lecture, he could not resist a jab at Tadark. “How many sixteen-year-olds have that ability?”
He pushed away from the crates, manner more fervent, words hanging, as did his breath, in the chilly air.
“He manages to acquire weapons at will against our best efforts to ensure that he remains unarmed—as you may or may not know, the knife Narian used to cut your dress was taken directly from Koranis’s person, apparently before he discovered the ease with which his son could break into the locked weapons trunk in his bedroom.”
London let these facts sink into my besieged brain, then continued, “You were witness to the weaponry the Cokyrian carries—he is armed beyond reason, not only with the weapons of a soldier, but the weapons of an assassin. As you learned at the celebration held in his honor, and I discovered the day I arrested him, he has no fear of injury or mindfulness of danger.”
He glanced at Destari for confirmation. “After a century of war with the Cokyrians, we know what to expect, and this is not it.”
A somber silence pervaded the tent. I was certain Destari had heard some of this before, but taken together it made quite an impression. My cheeks burned even as my body shivered, and I snuggled deeper into my cloak. I knew he was correct in that there was something about Narian that did not ring true, but I could not comprehend what he was trying to tell me, nor could I believe that Narian meant harm to anyone in Hytanica.
“If Cokyrians are known for their stealth, how is Narian any different?” I asked, snatching at threads in my desperation to escape the truth.
Destari, who still stood at my side, exhaled in exasperation. “You trust those you barely know, yet have no faith in those who would lay down their lives for you!” he said, his heavy brows drawing close to shroud his black eyes. He moved to stand next to London, and it felt as though they were uniting against me.
“I don’t need to hear this,” I declared. “I’m old enough to ma
ke my own judgments.”
London scoffed. “Your own judgments, yes. Wise judgments, hardly.”
Unable to stand for more, I turned and stalked toward the tapestry behind me, wanting to rip it to shreds rather than to simply pull it open, but London’s next words stopped me in my tracks.
“You won’t stay long enough to hear the news from Cokyri?”
I peered over my shoulder at him, uneasy. “What do you mean?”
Destari, who now stood between London and me, likewise stared at him.
“I have just returned from a journey into the eastern mountains. I discovered some remarkable things.”
“You’ve been in Cokyri?” Destari’s angry outburst caught me by surprise, for I had never so much as witnessed a disagreement between the two men. “Have you learned nothing over the years?”
“Alera, have you heard tell of the bleeding moon?” London continued, ignoring his friend and showing no sign of remorse or regret.
I shook my head, unable to articulate a response. London had gone willingly to Cokyri? After spending ten harrowing months there as a prisoner, he had returned to the enemy’s land of his own accord? The idea was unfathomable to me, but I did not have long to dwell upon it.
“After I captured Narian and his identity was discovered, I became suspicious,” London went on, his posture relaxed, although his voice was taut. “Destari kept me apprised of Narian’s activities, and I began to ask myself the same questions I posed to you just moments ago. I canvassed Hytanica’s records for information on the year of Narian’s birth, as much of that time was lost to me.”
I realized he was making a rare allusion to his time as a prisoner in Cokyri.
“I read descriptions in scroll after scroll of a ‘bleeding moon’ that hung in the sky for months, but I could not discern its significance.
“In frustration I traveled to Cokyri and accessed what records I could, just as I had in Hytanica. After several days, I came across a single document, written centuries ago, that gave an account of an ancient legend, the Legend of the Bleeding Moon.”