Session One Hundred and Twelve - September 13, 2014

Wherein the ongoing story of the FtF campaign may be found ...

Session One Hundred and Twelve - September 13, 2014

Postby Matt » Thu Oct 02, 2014 3:40 pm

Agrazhar 15, 732

It occurs to Sir Ewen Ravinargh, as he assists his pregnant lady wife to the seat beside him, that the tournament in honor of her late mother will place them in a great deal of unaccustomed proximity. He hopes that this aspect of the festivities will not prove unduly tedious, but gathers from the haughty tilt of Lady Thilisa’s chin that such aspirations may prove to be wildly optimistic. Still, he had been pleased when she had relented after her initial refusal to stir from the comforts of Tashal, and a careful scrutiny of the milling assemblage of notables around him confirms to his mind the importance of her being present here at his side.

The sun had only just risen over the copses and light woodlands east of Varayne manor when the nobility begin to claim their places upon the risers along the southern perimeter of the field. Sir Meden Curo and Sir Prehil Firith are in evidence, of course, having been privy to the preparations for the Lady Ialny Tournament of Chivalry. The Serekela Edine Kynn can be seen fussing with his robes, and Sir Rohn Sarlis is present, accompanied by a pair of young, freshly-scrubbed heralds. The Ladies Cheselyne Hosath, mother and daughter, are on display in their seasonal finery, while their relation Aethel Atan is to be seen weaving his way through the assembly in an odd outfit of leather clothing encasing his girth and supporting, as he will no doubt inform anyone whom he buttonholes in the crowd, his well-upholstered backside. Sir Arren Lydel, representative of the Kingdom of Melderyn, has settled himself overlooking the tilting yard with an accustomed, disdainful smirk.

As for Sir Ewen’s own friends and retainers, Sir Aeomund Legith had been down on the edge of the field chatting with Sir Houla Artona a bit before dawn, while Sir Baris Tyrestal had just finished quaffing an early-morning ale with Sir Prehil scant moments ago. Both had subsequently disappeared from view, no doubt to join their fellow knights and mount their warhorses for the opening procession. Sotor of Pelanby, garbed and behatted in the black raiment of his profession, is perched like an ungainly crow down on the sidelines with a satchel full of poultices and ointments for the soon-to-be-afflicted. Kaelyn of Aletta remains in Tashal completing some research, Sir Ewen recalls, while there is no telling exactly where Cekiya might be, although he supposes she might be across the way lurking amongst the throng of commoners milling along the northern edge of the jousting yard, far too numerous to represent only the inhabitants of Varayne manor.

Sir Rohn, stepping over to pay his respects to the Lady Thilisa, drolly observes to Sir Ewen that Maldan Harabor, Earl of Osel, undoubtedly present to cheer on his two sons, appears to be the ranking nobleman among the spectators. He also points out that a great many heirs to noble houses have entered themselves into the competition. Sir Rohn excuses himself with a politic smile to retake his seat when the heralds who accompanied him from Tashal both stand and deliver a bright flourish. All eyes turn to the slow parade of one hundred twenty-eight knights in full surcoat and armor who make a complete circuit around the jousting field to the rapt attention of the spectators, and then split to their respective precincts of the tiltyard, half filing to the Sir Ewen side, and half to the Lady Thilisa side. The heraldic colors of the pageant are more muted in the early morning light than they will be by midday, but the fresh morning breeze snaps the banners and pennons smartly, the armor and weapons have been polished to a fine luster, and the spectacle evokes a thrill of anticipation in the breasts of the onlookers as they settle in for a long day of sixty-four encounters between these exemplars of Kaldoric chivalry.

And so the very first joust of the day is between Sir Ranal Gybsen, Sheriff of Thelshire, and Sir Coreth Lothlar, the one-eyed Constable of Zoben Keep. Cheers and huzzahs arise from the spectators as the first two knights steady their steeds, wait for the signal, and then gallop hard toward each other. Sir Ranal hunkers low in his saddle and his lance strikes Sir Coreth a glancing blow to the helm, rattling him and eliciting a resounding cry from the crowd at the first point scored. The Constable shakes his head a few times as the two riders circle back around to their starting places. In the second pass Sir Ranal manages a solid blow to Sir Coreth’s shield which topples the knight from his saddle. Sir Coreth hits the ground, unhorsed, and the peasants and nobles alike applaud the conclusion of the first contest.

Sir Mirild Harabor, elder son of the Earl of Osel, rides against Sir Telberan Brailour, brother of Lady Peresta Bastune, next. As the riders make their preparations, the loudest among the crowd is the Earl himself, Maldan Harabor, who hollers advice from his place in the stands. On the first pass Sir Mirild strikes Sir Telberan’s shield, causing the latter to struggle to maintain his saddle. Sir Mirild lunges at his opponent on the next pass, but this time Sir Telberan blocks the blow while gaining a point for himself by striking Sir Mirild soundly in the chest. In the third run both lunge and Sir Telberan strikes again, causing Sir Maldan to erupt onto his feet, bellowing oaths, apoplectic. Proceeding slowly back to the starting spot, Sir Mirild flexes an injured arm while stoically ignoring his father’s shouted advice. On the fourth pass, with the crowd's attention split between the jousting knights and a fulminating, wildly gesticulating Maldan Harabor, Sir Telberan places a deft lance across the forearm which he had struck in the previous pass, scoring a third point which advances him to the next round. Earl Maldan curses foully and a great length, spitting and raging. Below, Sotor of Pelanby rushes onto the field and assists Sir Mirild back to the marshaling area. The Earl of Osel storms down from the stands and stumps over toward his son.

Sir Grylle Pawade and Sir Karison Dariune, both younger sons, follow in the wake of this display. By now the sun, well clear of the distant tree line, begins to present some difficulties for the knights who start at the western end of the lists. Sir Karison appears to have trouble controlling his mount, and then spends some time adjusting his visor before approaching the mark. In apparent compensation for these issues he adopts a blocking stance as Sir Grylle thunders in toward him. Sir Karison's caution pays off, and he strikes Sir Grylle in the midriff, gaining the first point. On the second pass Sir Grylle returns the favor, however, dealing a terrific blow to Sir Karison's helmet. The younger Dariune almost topples from the saddle but holds on. Sir Grylle's lance opens a bleeding wound on Sir Karison's calf next, while Sir Grylle’s shield is thumped soundly. Dariune then strikes Sir Grylle on the right shoulder, inflicting an injury, but Sir Grylle's lance strays from his opponent's right hip and strikes the knight's horse, which disqualifies the unfortunate Sir Grylle. Sir Bereden Pawade, Constable of Heru, a stoic figure in the stands, gives a curt nod at his younger brother's offense, but does not leave his seat. Sir Karison advances, his horse having sustained a laceration upon the withers.

The duel between the first of the Black Knights and Sir Conwyn Elorieth is due next, while Sir Grylle Pawade retires to a tent set aside on the far reaches of the common for knights who have committed the offense of injuring a horse. The desultory murmur of censorious remarks regarding Sir Grylle's offense becomes an absolute buzzing throughout the stands as the spectators wonder aloud about the identity of the black-clad knight, some supposing him to be a foreign warrior, while a few voices speculate that he might be a Kaldoric person of some especial importance. Sir Ewen, narrowing his gaze at the black-garbed, unidentified contender, encounters shields, and concludes that the stranger is in fact a Deryni like himself.

The signal is given and both knights spur their steeds forward, striking each other's shields with a palpable crash in the first run. They trot back into position and the pitch of the crowd heightens in anticipation of a gratifying bout in light of the first doughty collision. But then the contest is suddenly over in the second pass, as Sir Conwyn catches the Black Knight on the helm and neatly unhorses him. A gasp and then a hush issues from the onlookers as the disguised warrior clambers slowly to his feet. The defeated knight looks upward to the bleachers where the nobles sit, and Sir Arren Lydel rises slowly to his feet and raises his hand. The Black Knight bows to Sir Conwyn, removes his helm, and announces himself to be Sir Donlon Valady, champion of the Kingdom of Melderyn. "I regret," he adds in a carrying voice, "my poor showing." As he turns and trudges off the field, helmet under one arm, Sir Arren Lydel retakes his seat, thin-lipped and impassive. Sir Ewen's gaze returns slowly to a consideration of the lists, the barest trace of a smile touching one corner of his mouth.

Following this small drama, the next few tilts proceed in a workmanlike fashion. Sir Empus Sorabar inflicts a serious wound to Sir Raylor Franada's lance-bearing hand on their second pass, unseating him. Sir Aeomund, having returned to the risers after his participation in the opening parade and appearing uncharacteristically fidgety while awaiting his own match, leans toward Sir Ewen and opines that he believes Franada to be a Vemionshire surname, but then subsides when the Lady Thilisa turns a disdainful eye upon him.

Returning to the action, Sir Karsin Ubael, Sir Ewen's brother-in-law, neatly disposes of Sir Kalir Meleken on points in three passes. Sir Arbin Walorn suffers Sir Grylle Pawade's fate, disqualifying himself by striking the steed of Sir Tagin Plaganel, and sustains a series of jeers and catcalls from the commoners' side of the lists as he retires to the distant tent, where he must perforce wear his helm with visor lowered for the remainder of the tourney in token of his disgrace.

Following this spectacle, Sir Kymed Firith, cousin of Sir Prehil Firith, unhorses Sir Walbur Larquste in the very first gallop, his lance perfectly planted upon the very center the unhappy Sir Walbur's body. As Sir Kymed retires to appreciative cheers from the crowd, a second Firith joust is announced, this time the champion of Sir Prehil facing off against Sir Chymel Vareth. This Firth family twin-bill prompts Sir Prehil himself, already roaring drunk and leaning heavily on the arm of Maryna, his courtesan companion, to give throat to an observation. “By Usnarl’s frozen balls! That’s me out there!” This coincides with the appearance of the champion himself, Sir Umphry Gephian, a squat and amiable knight sporting a frizzed nimbus of black hair and rampant mustachios. Laughter ripples through the onlookers as Sir Prehil's champion stuffs a helmet over his head. Sir Meden Curo, appraising Sir Prehil’s condition, dryly ripostes, "It’s probably a good thing it is ‘you’ out there ..." Moments later the two knights crash together and Sir Prehil's champion promptly vacates his saddle, his lance handle flying end over end into the air as he crashes earthward. Sir Chymel barely keeps his own seat, righting himself with some effort while Sir Umphry rolls around for a bit and then comes up clutching his right hand. Sir Prehil, aghast, holds up and examines his own limb closely, then looks back down onto the field. “I’m hurt!” he exclaims. Staggering, he looks around the bleachers, casting about for a physician. “Where Is That Man?” he bellows.

Sir Rollard D'Audrieu, Lady Thilisa’s champion, suffers the ignominy of disqualification when his lance tip grazes the horse of Sir Lanas Wyant. Sir Ewen manfully resists the impulse to offer a sardonic remark to his lady wife at this juncture, and gazes serenely ahead with an expression of studied blandness upon his features instead. Sir Rollard stiffly departs the field in shame, remaining visored, while the crowd refrains from the jeers endured by earlier miscreants in apparent deference to the feelings of the Lady Thilisa.

Sir Peld Inina erases the memory of Sir Rollard’s offense when, attempting to deflect a lunging blow from Sir Fargo Poulty, his lance actually impales his opponent’s steed. Sir Fargo manages to leap clear of his collapsing horse, and a somber delay ensues as the thrashing beast is dispatched and laboriously removed. A few spokesmen among the disgusted admirers of horseflesh in the crowd hurl abuse at a retiring Sir Peld.

Once the tiltyard is cleared, Sir Ornild Chelya is thrown by his stallion before he can even begin to gallop toward Sir Keidin Klunn. Some wits in the crowd opine that perhaps the horse, having witnessed the butchery of Sir Fargo’s steed, was having none of it. Lending credence to this theory, Sir Davin Mislas then promptly falls off of his balking horse before he can come to grips with Sir Haldan Obart. Nervous laughter ripples through the assembly as the next pair of champions, Sir Ofry Jaraxer and Sir Ban Faragar, line up at opposite ends of the lists. Sir Aeomund slaps his knee and exclaims, a bit too loudly, “Oh, that’s the Vemionshire surname! Not the other guy!” Lady Thilisa again casts a baleful eye upon him, and then everyone returns their attention to Sir Ofry and Sir Ban, hoping some return to equestrian competence is impending. Both knights ride carefully, and Sir Ban’s shield shatters in the initial collision. The unshielded knight takes a blow on the right shoulder in the second pass, but then a well-aimed lance at Sir Ofrey’s neck causes Jaraxer to recoil and lose possession of his saddle.

Sir Rhael Indama faces off against Sir Eris Karondal next. Sir Eris is the Sheriff of Balimshire and father to one of the very next contestants, Sir Borold Karoldal. Sir Eris sits his horse well, exuding a visible confidence on horseback which earns him the grateful favor of the crowd even before the first run. Lances soon splinter, and Sir Rhael’s shield splits under the impact and is duly discarded. Lacking a shield, Sir Rhael suffers an undeflected buffeting in the second pass and topples onto the trampled ground.

Sir Eris’s son, Sir Borold, turns out to be rather less skilled than his sire. He makes a game attempt to lever his opponent, Sir Cradon Eldaran, the recently appointed commander of the Sheriff of Semethshire’s guard, out of the saddle in the first pass, but then sustains a wounding lance thrust to the hip in the second gallop and involuntarily dismounts.

The tournament having regained a brisk rhythm at this point, the next match is between Sir Rafe Delwarne and a drunken Sir Laris Indama, a relation of the Baron of Getha. In spite of his inebriation, Sir Laris’s calf is only grazed slightly while his own lance splinters hard against Sir Rafe’s armor at belt level in the first exchange. Then Sir Rafe gallops hard and leans into his attack, spearing Sir Laris through the armor at the midsection while Indama returns the earlier favor by tagging Sir Rafe’s calf as well. Both knights appear discomfited as they ready themselves for the third pass, but the run never takes place as Sir Laris, impaired in more ways than one, unhorses himself while reaching down to his squire for the fortifying stirrup cup.

As Sir Vinsel Scaundy and Sir Ryle Lartyne prepare to joust, Sir Aeomund makes his excuses and leaves his seat in the stands to prepare for his own contest. Down below, Sir Vinsel appears uncertain atop his horse, taking a bleeding scalp wound when a long splinter of Sir Ryle’s shattering lance gets past his helm, and then is thrown in the subsequent run by a sound thrust to the breastbone of his armor. Sir Alinth Haber is then disqualified by striking the horse of Sir Yebisi Immen, eliciting more jeers and abuse from the horse lovers on the field.

When Sir Sepian Chies and Sir Kornuska Harabor ride out, few in the crowd can resist the urge to crane their necks to see whether the Earl, Maldan Harabor, has returned to his seat after audibly excoriating his eldest son somewhere behind the bleachers earlier in the morning. The Earl of Osel has indeed retaken his place, and he arises, livid, when he observes Sir Kornuska having a spot of difficulty managing his steed before the first tilt. “Your mother rides better than that!” he bawls. Sir Kornuska snaps his visor down irritably and spurs his restive stallion, and runs into a bit of luck when Sir Sepien’s lance fouls his mount on the very first pass. His opponent disqualified, Sir Kornuska manages to retire from the field and advance to the next round while avoiding further ignominy at the hands of his glowering parent.

Sir Toren Curo, Sir Meden’s champion and younger brother, takes to the lists next. Sir Ewen distinctly recalls Sir Toren as one of Thilisa’s suitors during the wedding of the Lady Camissa in Minarsas, and knows that he was behind the defamatory play aimed at Sir Ewen prior to his covert wedding to Thilisa. Sir Ewen has time to wonder whether Sir Toren was involved in Sir Meden’s arrangement of the seditious play by the very same acting troop on the day before, when Sir Toren touches spurs to his horse and thunders down the lists toward Sir Sedris Indama, another relation of Sir Harapa. Sir Toren strikes Sir Sedris’s horse in the collision, causing the Indama mount to stumble and proceed with difficulty off the field. Sir Sedris advances, while Sir Toren weathers some hisses from the crowd as he joins the swelling ranks of those consigned to the tent of visored perdition.

Prince Brandis Elendsa, heir to the throne, and Sir Torel Sorda are the next to joust, and the Prince pleases the crowd by parading his tastefully caparisoned steed back and forth in front of the nobility on the risers while all rise and bow to him. Prince Brandis then graciously allows his opponent to select his lance, which elicits noises of approbation from an audience with a keen eye for the chivalric gesture. Both stallions take their mark and gallop into the first pass, with Sir Torel deflecting and touching the Prince’s shield for a point. Sir Torel appears to waver at the outset of the next pass, perhaps intimidated by the station of his opponent, but as the two riders gain speed and collide for a second time Prince Brandis’s lance veers astray and inflicts a long scratch upon the left flank of his opponent’s steed. As the injured horse snorts and sidesteps, and both knights circle around, an appalled silence falls over the crowd as the long bleeding laceration is visible to all.

Thilisa turns to Sir Ewen. “Do something!”

Sir Ewen exhales and rises, and instantly the heralds that came with Sir Rohn arise as well. In unison they bring their horns up to their lips and deliver an ascending peal. Sir Ewen casts a brief glare toward Sir Rohn. The ensuing silence is sustained by the crowd. Sir Ewen considers the tableau before him.

“Sir Torel’s shield clearly scratched the flank of his own horse,” he announces in a strong, ringing voice. “The pass was fair, but no points will be awarded.”

Sir Torel doffs his helm and nods, addressing the stands. “The ruling is fair. To atone, I will ride the remaining passes without my shield.” Turning his horse about, he casts the shield away toward the sidelines.

Prince Brandis canters forward and calls in response, “In that case, I too will ride the remaining passes without mine.”

The two knights return to opposite ends of the lists and, sans shields, begin their third pass. Sir Torel manages to strike the Prince’s helm as they cross, but his exposed left arm becomes entangled with the royal lance, which twists Sir Torel from his saddle and deposits him onto the churned earth. Amid the polite applause for the victorious Prince is some discreet muttering of discontent. The tenor of the spectators suggests simultaneous agreement with the ruling, and belief that Sir Torel should have won the contest.

Following this drama, a trio of undistinguished jousts provides an opportunity for the crowd to settle down while the sun climbs toward noon in an uncharacteristicly blue and pleasant sky. Sir Orsin Tubath defeats Sir Stenyl Dracayne on points, inflicting in the process a bleeding gash to Sir Stenyl’s right upper arm. Sir Karnis Anthin cleanly bests Sir Tram Debtun three points to none. And Sir Hunar Asvaler inflicts a fairly severe injury upon Sir Ketten Zaldarne, who is deprived of his seat in the process.

Sir Scina Dariune then takes to the lists against Sir Cabrol Vardyn. Sir Ewen finds himself instinctively turning his head in the direction of Sir Aeomund to hear the latter’s obligatory “I hate that guy,” but then he recalls that Sir Aeomund is somewhere below preparing for his own joust. Sir Cabrol attempts to block a slashing thrust to his neck by the Dariune scion, but the defensive move fails to spare him a painful injury, and his lance fouls Sir Scina’s horse in the process.

Sir Aekris Tarandin is unhorsed by Sir Bulwar Tarth in a textbook demonstration of clean, surgical lance work. Sir Henyn Cheanast loses his saddle against Sir Rodin Daront, and then Sir Eadril Dariune, Sir Scina’s cousin, grazes Sir Teslim Doraster's steed and is disqualified as well.

At this point the time has arrived for Sir Aeomund Legith, former Bailiff of Varayne and knight of the Order of the Lady of Paladins, to ride against Sir Ollo Trammel. Sir Ollo handles his horse very well and sets it at a brisk gallop down the lists, while Sir Aeomund rides more defensively, as if he were intent only upon evading Sir Ollo’s lance. Thilisa turns to Ewen and says, “Your man is quite brave,” with a small laugh. Sir Ewen glances at her incredulously and refrains from responding with a remark about the earlier fate of her champion. His eyes return to the lists to witness the knights come together, Sir Aeomund’s lance driving into Sir Ollo at belt level, while Sir Ollo’s weapon explodes into splinters against the armor protecting Sir Aeomund’s groin. Each knight earns a point. Trotting back around and selecting a second lance, Sir Aeomund shifts about repeatedly, hunched uneasily in the saddle, his breathing labored. On the second thundering pass Sir Aeomund and Sir Ollo exchange blows again, earning another point for each. Sir Aeomund continues to sit his horse uncomfortably in the third pass, but manages to deliver a blow to the chest of Sir Ollo, who keeps his horse but loses three points to two.

Dismounting gingerly, a gasping Sir Aeomund tears off his helmet and calls hoarsely for ice. This brings Master Sotor scurrying over to his side, inquiring loudly over the noise of the crowd as to the state of Sir Aeomund’s testicles, pronouncing that unless ruptured, they ought to be fine in twenty-four hours. Sir Aeomund, pausing in his walk to the sidelines to plant hands upon knees, irritably waves him off.

Continuing a theme of sorts, the next joust sees Sir Uthor Claune unhorse Sir Marak Provin with a shaft to the groin. Sir Prehil, recovered from the vicarious trauma of his injured champion, laughs uproariously and dubs the victor Sir Uthor Groinsticker. Sir Baris snorts in appreciation at the quip and, quaffing the remains of his current ale, rises and descends from the stands to prepare for his own contest. Watching him depart, Sir Ewen wonders how many ales Sir Baris has managed to imbibe this morning. He glances up at the sun and notes with satisfaction that the final joust of the morning’s thirty-two is about to commence roughly at noontime. Thus far, this most congested round of the tournament remains on schedule to finish before dark.

These ruminations are quickly forgotten in the bloody spectacle that follows. Sir Semwis Cambar and Sir Marp Sebgan both gain a point in their first, unremarkable gallop, Sir Marp losing his shield in the process. It is the second pass which sees Sir Marp’s lance pierce the eyeslit of Sir Semwis’s helm, snapping his head backward. A mist of blood sprays from the eyehole as the knight topples backward from his horse, dead before he hits the ground. A lady somewhere in the crowd exclaims in dismay. Squires issue forth from the sidelines and carry the body from the field, while a grim, respectful silence reigns over both sides of the tilting yard, nobles and baseborn alike.

When Sir Sedris Savellce, son of Sir Ewen’s vassal Sir Grogan, and Sir Irian Yelim approach the lists, both of the knights fail to marshal their steeds, Sir Sedris slipping clean from his saddle and Sir Irian abruptly, inexplicably dismounting, his right boot remaining caught in the stirrup until a nimble squire intervenes. An embarrassing pause ensues, and then, as if on signal, the two young heralds stand and emit a chirpy flourish from their trumps. Sir Ewen darts a sharp look at Sir Rohn.

The chief herald responds with an openhanded gesture and smiles winningly. “I’m paying them good money for this!”

Sir Ewen sighs and arises, clearing his throat. “A brave knight has just fallen upon this field, and we are all sobered by the loss. I would ask the two good knights in the lists to begin again – the start was false.” Sir Ewen sits back down, and the relieved chatter which ensues while the knights remount suggests that the ruling has again been well received by the crowd.

This time the steeds are brought obediently to the line, visors are snapped down and lances leveled according to form. The knights begin their gallop smartly and build speed down the lists, each riding hard as if in expiation for their earlier mortification. As they draw abreast, lances high, the impact is terrific, a crunching, torqueing explosion of wood and metal which corkscrews each rider from the saddle and down. As both mounts speed on, riderless, even the practiced eye of the most seasoned onlooker requires a ghastly moment to decode the meaning of the twisted figures on the churned earth. Sir Sedris Savellce, curled upon one side like a child, his mailed gloves fondling the raw length of lance protruding from his eyeslit, emits a shrill whistle as the air slowly escapes from his lungs. And facing the sky, a ragged segment of the other lance stuffing his distended mouth like some obscene violation, Sir Irian Yelim rocks from side to side on the pivot point of the vicious shard of wood emerging from the nape of his neck, just below the helmet’s rim, nailing him to the ground. His booted feet drum spastically against the earth, over and over, and it is some time before he stills and the blanching squires dare approach him. Someone, somewhere, is sobbing.

Sir Ewen calls for a halt while the bodies of the two dead men are removed. Casting about for a way to manage the macabre travesty, Sir Ewen turns to the Serekela and calls upon him to lead the assembly in prayer. Edine Kynn nods and rises to his feet, blinking in the sunlight as all eyes turn upon him, and commences to mumbling and droning inaudibly for the better part of fifteen minutes. The noble onlookers, used to his interminable sermons during Soratir in Tashal, suffer through it more or less stoically, while the commoners stand dumbfounded, wondering to themselves what possible appeal the Laranian faith might hold in this sort of ministry. Finally the Serekela completes his remarks and mimes a blessing before sitting down, and Sir Ewen bows stiffly in his direction before retaking his own seat.

Thilisa turns to Ewen and says, “Don’t do that again.”

“No, I won’t …” Ewen murmurs. He glances down the row of seats to where Sir Meden Curo is talking to his uncle. It is unclear whether the young Lord Curo is congratulating or consoling the Serekela.

Sir Ewen returns his gaze to the field in time to see Sir Drogo Halgens advance to the next round when his horse is nicked by Sir Gyran Capel. Sir Arlbis Hirnen, heir to the Barony of Nenda, then advances as well without the exertion of even lowering his lance when the steed of his opponent rears unexpectedly, leaving the startled Sir Gebral Ercamber grabbing dirt. When Sir Cassan Croll’s horse balks on approaching the starting line and throws him as well, relieving Sir Stanis Gask of the duty of touching spurs to his horse, the crowd begins to mutter that the mounts might be spooked by the quantity of human blood soaking the field.

Normalcy briefly returns, however, with the match between Sir Eben Calasty and Sir Ariam Losrath, as both knights master their stallions and Sir Ariam is cleanly unhorsed by a well-placed lance to his mailed abdomen. But then Sir Tenden Ryselith, commander of the King’s Low Guard, jousts Sir Leofric Labiera, and some aggressive riding and deft weapon-work unsaddle both knights in the same pass, and the crowd surges and cheers at the prospect of a melee with unbated weapons.

Both warriors climb to their feet, drawing bastard swords and securing their shields as squires rush away the war horses. Sir Tenden’s sword arm is held awkwardly as they circle and close, the commander clearly having sustained an injury in the process of being unhorsed. Sir Tenden takes an impaired swing, and things go from bad to worse when his shield is split under Sir Leofric’s sword blow. Undeterred, Sir Tenden casts the useless shield aside and grasps his sword two-handed, barreling in toward his opponent, but Sir Leofric deftly sidesteps. The swords clash against each other, ringing, and both knights dodge and then close again, swinging and ducking as the sunlight strikes off their armor and blades. Sir Leofric manages a clanging blow to Sir Tenden’s right calf, gaining the first point, but then Sir Tenden gets through Sir Leofric’s parry, striking his foe’s right upper arm and evening up the points. They briefly draw apart, but to the spectators’ delight are disinclined to circle and feint, Sir Leofric charging hard and delivering a slashing blow to the elbow of Sir Tenden’s already-injured arm, putting himself up two points to one. Sir Tenden, wielding his sword left-handed now, plunges straight back at Sir Leofric, however, striking his thigh and then standing fast while a flurry of savage sword thrusts gains each knight a third point at virtually the same instant, extending the bout following a nod from Sir Ewen. Scarcely pausing to catch their breath, the two knights close and Sir Tenden manages a canny dodge and left-handed slap to his opponent’s helm to clinch the contest. An extended round of standing applause from the spectators pays tribute to the two exhausted warriors.

The action briefly returns to horseback with Sir Celed Ubael, a relative of Sir Ewen’s brother-in-law, prying Sir Garader Dathual from his saddle in their second pass. But then Sir Harant Martaryne, a knight whom Sir Ewen recalls lives north-east of Mangai Square near the Coin and Broom, jousts against Sir Rald Ertanar and, upon the fourth hard-riding pass, finds himself launched off of his horse and spread-eagled upon the sward across from a similarly recumbent Sir Rald. More cheers from the crowd as Sir Harant climbs to his feet and draws his sword, his chest obviously discomfiting him and his left leg slick with blood from the lance work. The squires scurry out to seize the horses’ reins and lead them away, and Sir Harant limps into position facing Sir Rald. The city knight is fighting at a disadvantage, however, and he suffers the indignity of a slicing wound to his left cheek, while Sir Rald shrugs off the countering blow to his own helm. Sir Rald strikes again, a solid smack to the hip, and then earns his final point by inflicting another cut to the unfortunate Sir Harant’s face. The spectators politely applaud the outcome of the uneven contest, and Sir Harant is helped off the field and finds himself subjected to the ministrations of Sotor of Pelanby.

Sir Rafe Tyart is disqualified for careless lance contact with Sir Colm Drascar’s horse, and then the crowd gasps audibly as Sir Slather Larquste waddles out onto the yard for his joust against Sir Colth Zord. Sir Slather is morbidly obese, and voices from both sides of the field commence to good humored japes at the unwieldy knight’s expense. Sir Prehil Firith, weaving and tipping as he stands, flagon in one hand and the other arm around Maryna’s waist, boisterously leads the laughter. Sir Slather takes it all in good cheer and waves to both the commons and the nobility. Multiple squires are needed to mount him, the warhorse and sympathetic souls in the audience groaning under the burden. Somehow Sir Colth gives the impression of being a bit alarmed as spurs are touched to flanks and the opposing horse and rider begin bearing down upon him, but Sir Slather’s stray lance inflicts a harmless scratch to Sir Colth’s horse, sending the latter to the second round and Sir Slather ponderously, visored, toward the disqualification tent.

The next bout finds the lances aimed high, so Sir Sorol Margant has to endure a disfiguring gash to his nose from a wooden shard while sweeping Sir Hennis Jopler from the saddle with a ringing blow to that unhappy knight’s helm. Sir Parquin Dezaller fouls Sir Tellin Doraster’s horse, and then the field is cleared for the joust between Sir Baris Tyrestal and Sir Edric Quarne.

Some puzzlement ensues when Sir Baris is not in evidence after the second calling of his name. Squire Kalas, somewhat panicked, can be heard insisting that the knight had been present only moments before. Up in the stands, Sir Ewen cringes inwardly, expecting Sir Baris to suddenly appear before them all with some garish, be-tusked monstrosity clapped upon his head. Down below, Sir Edric can be seen leaning from his saddle and asking some rather pointed questions, but then Sir Baris finally appears, having been located relieving himself of a surfeit of ale somewhere behind the stands. To Sir Ewen’s immense relief, his helmet is perfectly ordinary, and not the long-threatened boar helm.

Sir Baris shows little sign of having been drinking as he thunders his stallion down the length of the lists and drives a splintering lance to the neck of his opponent. Sir Edric reels in the saddle and veers wildly for a moment, but manages somehow to remain planted in his seat. The crowd cheers as Sir Baris selects another lance and they both line up for a second run at it. This time the charge is more measured, and Sir Edric crushes his lance against Sir Baris’ shield, but his horse visibly shies as it comes abreast of Sir Baris. Sir Edric reins in and circles back toward Sir Baris, leaning forward and clearly saying something pointed and vociferous, although his words are indistinguishable up in the stands, muffled by his helmet. Moments later, upon the commencement of the third pass, his restive mount balks entirely when Sir Edric touches flanks with his spurs, and the unfortunate knight is thrown over the front of his saddle by the aggrieved horse. Spouting oaths, the defeated knight picks himself up from the dust and tears the helmet from his head. Spitting, he throws it toward the sidelines in disgust. “It was a cheap victory!” Sir Edric snarls under his breath as a still-mounted Sir Baris draws abreast. Muttering and gesturing to no one in particular, he stalks off the field.

Shaking his head, Sir Ewen sits back in his seat and studiously avoids glancing in the direction of his wife’s withering gaze. He watches the next series of jousts with less than rapt attention. Sir Hamond Xalaker advances when Sir Tybalt Wythian is disqualified, and then Sir Talvar Sigan moves on to round two as well when Sir Jasyn Margayn suffers the same fate. Sir Bereden Pawade, Constable of Heru Keep, makes short work of coaxing Sir Dalon Linnot from his saddle. The well-considered Sir Halsin Wearn is upset by his underdog opponent, Sir Alva Nimos, losing on points. And Sir Avin Torolla unhorses Sir Stenyl Obrin on their second pass.

Sir Gorbar Elorieth, heir to the barony of Nubeth and one-time suitor to Lady Thilisa, has to veer from a nasty lance point to the neck on the first run against Sir Brunis Odasart. Each gains a point on the second tilt, but then Sir Gorbar mistakenly spears his opponent’s horse, which thrashes to the ground, and some time must be taken clearing the field while Sir Gorbar suffers the ignominy of leaving the lists with his visor shut.

The afternoon is wearing on now, but the sun remains clear of the treetops beyond the manor walls and Sir Ewen still has hopes of the full round being completed before sundown. Sir Norbin Valdacy is quickly disqualified in his contest with Sir Merwyn Elorieth, and then Sir Tellas Valador, scion of the noteworthy Vemion vassal clan, is separated from his mount by Sir Klodel Selekos. Sir Jorald Kressenta, completely outmatched, is unsaddled right off the mark by Sir Braen Vardyn. Sir Hiril Skally defeats Sir Tohal Belgine. And Sir Borne Tyndas seems aptly named as he bores away at Sir Bulda Zolaster, stripping him first of his shield and then, one by one, of his points.

When the second of the three anonymous Black Knights of the day approaches the lists, garbed in white, Sir Ewen again attempts to probe for Deryni shields but fails to detect anything. This Black Knight beats Sir Zuril Charion on points and retires from the field without incident. Sir Mykel Vartuny’s defeat of Sir Korph Haquinta is locked up in three tilts, three points, like water wearing down a stone. Sir Romlach Ethasiel, heir to the Barony of Setrew, dismounts Sir Stok Mirdarne with a slash across the neck in the first pass. Sir Holm Vareth vanquishes Sir Laes Nargalas, the tilt between Sir Rogan Kilew and Sir Ornild Chelya is a bit bloody but ultimately won by Sir Rogan on points, and Sir Fodial Ubren is levered from his saddle by the stalwart Sir Retel Pierstel.

The shadows are growing long and the summer light dimming by the time the two final tilts are undertaken. Sir Parvin Labarn, head of that important clan and holder of many manors, joins the rolls of the dishonored when he strikes the horse of Sir Sterba Yardartha, whom Sir Ewen recalls meeting recently at Galopea’s Feast. And, when Sir Ewen again reaches out with his mind toward the third, and red-clad, of the day’s Black Knights, he abruptly finds his target shielded, aware of the probe, and aggressive in thrusting back against the intrusion. Sir Ewen withdraws. He leans forward in his seat, however, his gaze avid, and pays close attention to that particular rider in the final joust of this eventful day. The unknown knight makes short work of his task, and Sir Femeth Forwarty is thrown aloft with little ado. The exhausted crowd, sated by the long day of martial contests, pays scant attention as the third of the Black Knights departs the lists and rides toward a small, anonymous retinue awaiting him at a discreet distance from the tilting grounds.

Unmarked by anyone, a small and slender figure glides silently along the shadow of the risers cast upon the field by the declining sun, and follows.
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Matt
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