Session One Hundred and Fourteen - November 1, 2014

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

Session One Hundred and Fourteen - November 1, 2014

Postby Matt » Tue Dec 09, 2014 7:08 pm

Agrazhar 17, 732

Undeterred by torrents of rain pouring from the skies, the Lady Ialny Tournament of Chivalry begins its third day of jousts on a field festooned with pools of standing water from the downpour which began just after midnight. The assembled nobility congregate in the middle section of the risers under a large canopy, while the peasant turnout on the other side of the yard appears largely identical to the two previous days, Harnic folk, after all, being largely indifferent to great amounts of precipitation. Nevertheless, Sir Ewen Ravinargh turns to Kaelyn of Aletta to inquire about the severity of the weather to be expected throughout the day, given her known intellectual affinity for the cold and damp, but Kaelyn is dyspeptic and shrugs. “Damnit,” she grumbles, “only the gods can predict the weather.”

And so Sir Ewen and the other highborn spectators peer from beneath their shelter through diagonal sheets of rain, with thunder rolling a menacing timpani overhead, and attempt with some difficulty to make out the action taking place in the initial joust of the day. Sir Karison Dariune and Sir Tagin Plaganel are indistinct blurs of gray racing together, the hooves of their mounts kicking up a sequence of sprays which make tracking the motion of the horses feasible. Following an apparent miss by both knights on the first pass, Sir Karison rides past his opponent a second time and Sir Tagin vacates his saddle, although the crowd is hard pressed to make out quite how this outcome was accomplished. Squires slog out onto the field and assist Sir Tagin in extricating himself from the sucking mud while a peal of thunder crashes again, sounding directly overhead.

Sir Telberan Brailour, injured from the earlier rounds of the tournament, faces Sir Karsin Ubael next. Sir Telberan’s horse appears to slip in the mud just as a savage bolt of lightning splits the tiltyard in twain. For a brief instant the top of the unfortunate knight’s helmet is connected to the heavens by a blinding javelin of light, and as his horse thrashes into the muck Sir Telberan’s armor lights up with an eldritch blue glow. The collective gasp from the crowd is inaudible against the sky-splitting crack of thunder. A pair of squires splash across the field toward the downed knight while Sotor of Pelanby hikes his robes and high-steps it out onto the field, close behind the young men and appearing to shout something after them above the roar of the tempest. His cry is in vain, however, and the first squire to reach the Sir Telberan, bending to roll the knight toward him, recoils and commences a curious little dance over the prone form which he appears unable to cease for a few long seconds. Arriving at the squire’s side and mouthing some unsympathetic remonstrations at the youth, the physician takes the situation in hand and sets about gesturing instructions as more help arrives from the sidelines. The knight is determined to be severely injured but likely to survive, while his horse, still thrashing and coated with mud, is conscious but clearly in shock, terrified and badly hurt. Sotor supervises the knight’s transport to the medical tent, where the dazed Sir Telberan has his armor removed and the entirety of his body examined from head to toe by the fascinated doctor of physic.

Up on the risers, Sir Ewen calls a one hour delay in hopes that the more dangerous aspects of the storm will soon pass and the remaining knights might be spared the risk of further lightning strikes to their metal armor. A disappointed Cekiya, who had just decided that Sir Telberan’s electrocution had been the peak event of a dull tournament, looks around for someone to stalk. The red knight is nowhere to be seen, and the white knight stands innocuously off to one side, apparently intent upon waiting out the rain delay in visored obscurity. So Cekiya decides to go into the village to snoop on Sir Meden Curo at his inn, given that his seat under the canopy is conspicuously vacant. Heedless of the turmoil overhead, soaked to her skin, she slips through a line of peasant hovels, the common somewhere off to her right, and over to the White Horse Inn.

Two guards huddle in the doorway to the establishment, blocking the way into the common room while keeping an eye on the gate to the courtyard. Cekiya squints at them and sees that they are wearing badges with the Curo arms on their uniforms. Inside the wooden palisade courtyard, people are busy in spite of the thunderstorm, engaged in inn maintenance or bringing small bundles in from the outbuilding. Five more troops huddle at a small fire pit with benches, a tarp overhead rigged to provide makeshift shelter from the rain. Cekiya attempts to walk up to the door of the inn but is predictably instructed to halt and state her business. When she breezily asks after ale, the soldier on duty directs her to a tent some ways down the lane. Cekiya shrugs, walks back out the courtyard gate, and follows the wall around to the right, scanning about her for any idle witnesses to who might take note of her reconnaissance. As she circles the inn she counts the windows, making them into a pretty little nursery rhyme in her head. A single window by the door, two above on the second floor, no windows at all by the chimney stack, then a tempting pair high up in the back. Cekiya smiles, looking skyward at the churning clouds. The god wants her to climb.

Despite the rain-slick surface of the inn’s exterior, Cekiya easily spiders her way up to the leftmost of the two shuttered windows on the second floor. Maintaining an impossible toehold on the non-existent ledge beneath the shutters, she cranes her neck and peeks through the crack into a darkened room. She has to shake her head like a dog to release the droplets of rain clinging to her lashes, and then she can make out a small glow of a candle on the right side of the room, near the wall dividing this from the adjoining windowed room. Shifting her head slightly here and there, Cekiya can just make out the form of a man partially blocking the light from the candle, and then it becomes evident that two shapes are huddled before the small flame and appear to be inspecting the wall. Cekiya suspects, based on the flickering of the candle, that one holding the light might be Sir Meden Curo.

Curious to know what might lie in the adjoining room which is captivating the attention of these two persons, Cekiya sidles away from the left-hand window and gauges the lateral move necessary to land her at the second window. Hugging the rough surface of the building, she inches her way crosswise, careful not to disturb the shutters of the first window. She makes it to the lit window, and finds she can easily see past the shutters and some drawn-aside curtains. Within are two women, one with her back to Cekiya, reclining inside a small portable bathtub. This young person has flaming red hair, a lithe and comely back and shoulders, and a small round nose evident as she occasionally turns her profile slightly. Her maidservant is helping her bathe, and humming a merry tune all the while. Peeking about the room, Cekiya notes a bed against the wall, a table and desk, and a beautiful blue dress of obvious finery laid out on the bed. Cekiya memorizes the song, climbs back down the building head first just to prove to herself that she can, and makes her way back to the tournament yard, soaked and bedraggled.

Searching out Sir Ewen, Cekiya finds him ensconced under the canopy with Thilisa and the Serekela, the latter waxing voluble on the virtues of St. Ambrathas. Streaming water from her rough-spun clothing, Cekiya tugs upon Sir Ewen’s sleeve twice before attracting his attention. “The panther peeps upon a peer,” she volunteers unhelpfully. Sir Ewen frowns down upon her, while the Serekela looks quizzical and Thilisa rolls her eyes disdainfully. “Indeed,” Sir Ewen says equably, “pray allow me to finish with the good bishop.” Far from taking this as a dismissal, Cekiya stands alongside them while the Serekela takes up the thread of his thought again. The girl stands there for the remainder of the hour, nodding her head, for all the world like any member of the devout, and even shaking her head in apparent marvel at one interesting but obscure point of theology.

At the expiration of the delay the spectators retake their seats and the knights resume their scheduled contests. The rain shows no sign of letting up, however, and lightning cracks above from time to time. Sir Fargo Poulty and Sir Eris Karondal are the first to return to the muddy tiltyard. The contest takes a full seven passes to decide, with the knights missing each other on two gallops, with the ensuing rumble of discontent from the crowd emulating the skies. Sir Fargo triumphs after Sir Eris fouls his steed, making this the third round in which Sir Fargo has endured his steed being struck. This time, insult is added to injury, as an earlier pass sees Sir Fargo sustain a broken nose when a lance shard is driven past his helmet’s protection.

Sir Lanas Wyant wins on points against Sir Ban Faragar, both knights buffeting each other with solid strikes in spite of the execrable conditions, restoring the crowd’s confidence in the ability of doughty Harnic men to rise above a mere deluge. Sir Yebisi Immen then suffers a neck injury at the hands of Sir Sedris Indama on their first charge, and when the two knights line up again Sir Sedris dispatches him with a solid thrust which shatters his shield and tumbles him to the ground.

Sir Kornuska Harabor and Prince Brandis Elendsa brave the rain next, the peals of thunder having grown more distant in the interim. Sir Kornuska strikes the royal shield on the first pass, gaining a point, and then both score the second time around with Harabor’s shield absorbing a blow and Prince Brandis shrugging off a palpable hit to the royal right shoulder. Up on the risers, the elder Harabor is seen chomping at the bit like a restrained animal, red of face with a vein throbbing at his temple, his teeth clamped to the rim of a mug of ale. The next pass sees the royal heir struggle with his slipping steed, but still able to land a canny strike to the Harabor helm, and then the next charge has the Prince take a blow upon the shield, both men keeping their horses. When the riders pass each other again, Sir Kornuska clinches the contest on points, the prince circling back around and smartly saluting his victorious opponent.

Up the stands, the Earl of Osel, unbound, leaps to his feet and bellows, “Go on, my son!” Finding himself somewhat out on a limb as his words seems to hang in the air above the incessant patter of the rain, heads turning his way, the proud father sketches a hasty nod in the direction of his sovereign’s son. “Uh, well played, your Highness,” he calls.

Sir Teslim Doraster of the Order of the Lady of Paladins is felled in the very first pass against Sir Bulwar Tarth, crashing to the ground unconscious after a direct, cracking blow to the helmet. The squires wheel the cart out and load him in, laboring against the sucking mud as they trundle the insensate knight back to the sidelines.

By now the rain is letting up, in time for the much anticipated bout between Sir Scina Dariune and Sir Aeomund Legith. Sir Aeomund plies his shield well, deflecting at the last moment the incoming lance point while driving his own weapon across the armored temple of his opponent. Sir Scina reels in his saddle but manages to remain astride, although the first point goes to Sir Aeomund. As the horses circle around to the starting line for the second pass, the crowd on the noble’s side is heard to murmur, while across the field on the peasant side of things, a ripple of interest appears to propagate beneath the surface of the assembly. Spurs are touched to flanks and the riders barrel in again, miniature fountains springing up beneath every hoofbeat, and Sir Scina lunges, splintering his lance low on the shield of his foe, while Sir Aeomund’s lance finds the throat of the recoiling knight. Both armored figures crash into the cloying mud while their riderless horses canter away from splashing, scurrying squires. Both knights clamber laboriously to their feet and draw swords, Sir Aeomund hefting and swinging the new sword just given to him by Sir Ewen as he faces down his childhood rival. They circle and maneuver in the muck, Sir Scina attempting to say something to Sir Aeomund which only comes out as an unintelligible croak from his injured throat.

As the two combatants abruptly step to and close, Sir Ewen glances down the file of seats to observe the Lady Serli Ubael leaning forward intently, the fingers of her slender hands interlaced. Sir Ewen turns back in time to hear the clang of sword upon armor, both knights driving shield against shield while landing ringing blows to the chest. At this point the melee becomes swift and savage, the two adversaries locked together and intent upon socially sanctioned butchery. A vicious downward slash from Sir Scina, partially deflected by Sir Aeomund’s deft shield work, slices Sir Aeomund in the right foot and drives him three steps backward , the boot beginning to fill with blood. Driving forward to exploit Sir Aeomund’s recoil, his sword describing a broad and ambitious arc, Sir Scina finds his foe’s backpedaling to be a ploy, however, as Sir Aeomund has already ducked below where the swing would come around while cutting upward with his own blade. Sir Scina disengages, blood running from lacerated flesh beneath his left eye, and he croaks something laconic. Sir Aeomund barks a laugh in response and drives brutally inward, his blade cutting and slashing in three brilliant ellipses, blocked once by the Dariune shield and then again until the third of the flurry hacks through armor into the meat of Sir Scina’s right shoulder. A hiss of pain, or some other sensation, escapes the heir of Balim, and both knights lower their swords in unison, the third point having been scored. Sir Aeomund smartly scabbards his weapon and offers his hand to Sir Scina. The latter extends his own hand steadily in spite of runnels of scarlet seeping from the armor at his shoulder, and an audible clank of gauntlets ends the match. Sir Aeomund, a grim smile of satisfaction impossible to suppress, bows and then salutes the stands before limping to the sidelines.

The riveted spectators sit back in their seats with a collective sigh, many of them only then noticing that the rain had stopped completely at some point during the melee. Behind the risers, where Sir Aeomund is busy shedding his mud-spattered armor, Sotor of Pelanby seeks him out and enquires about the state of his injured foot. Sir Aeomund shrugs, and then grins at the physician. “The foot is fine, and I have another one. He only has one face.”

Back on the tilting yard, Sir Arlbis Hirnen saves Sir Celed Ubael the trouble of employing his spurs when he abruptly dismounts, disqualifying himself before his opponent has levelled his lance. The crowd, unimpressed with this supreme anticlimax, catcalls and razzes the heir of Nenda, who himself appears nonplussed to find himself standing astride terra firma, staring in dismay at the saddle of his unexpectedly traitorous mount. He trudges, dejected, from the field, no doubt reflecting bitterly upon the ill fate surrounding the horse, for impatient retrieval of which two men had been hanged during the early hours of the thunderstorm this morning.

Sir Rald Ertanar is unhorsed by Sir Stanis Gask in their first pass, although Sir Stanis appears to suffer some injury to his right forearm for his trouble, as Master Sotor is subsequently seen to peer dismissively at it, unimpressed with the patient in contrast to the fascinating lightning strike earlier.

Sir Colm Drascar is paired against Sir Baris Tyrestal next. Sir Baris is unable to block the lance thrust to his left boot in the first gallop, although he tags Sir Colm’s shield for one point each. Sir Baris appears to be more in his element today, handling his stallion well as both beasts close a second time on the slippery, uncertain turf, yielding a crash and splintering of lances. Sir Baris sweeps aside Sir Colm’s thrust with his shield while lancing the unfortunate Sir Colm square in the chest. Sir Colm slides from his saddle and plants himself face-down in the mud. Sir Baris, exultant, throws up his visor and beams, already summoning to his mind a long procession of victory ales. But the moment is spoiled when a stray thought intrudes in the course of his canter before the stands, and he frowns. Wait a minute, he mouths to himself. The ‘big man’ must be Ewen …

Sir Tellin Doraster is also thrown by his horse, struggling in the mud, allowing Sir Hamond Xalaker to advance. Up in the stands, Kaelyn of Aletta ponders the problem of the terrain and is unable to resist the urge to play a bit with her Quagmire spell. She succeeds only in drying out an irrelevant part of the tilt yard, depositing the resultant water behind the risers, creating an inconvenient amount of standing water in the vicinity of the bucket tents to the intense dismay of Kaldor’s finest, who must hike the skirts and soil their hose in the quest for relief.

Sir Brunis Odasart strikes the steed of Sir Klodel Selekos and retires in ignominy, followed soon after by Sir Merwyn Elorieth, who similarly fouls the horse under Sir Borne Tyndas.

The white-clad of the Black Knights jousts Sir Sterba Yardartha after these twin disappointments. Both strike solidly in the first charge, the white knight taking a cracking shot to the skull, and both are unhorsed and down. Swords flashing, the two knights come swiftly to grips, the white knight taking a blow on the right hip, losing a point, and then a second sword blow causes his shield to shatter, saving the point at the cost of the protection. Sir Sterba, clearly formidable with his bastard sword, slashes the right cheek of the white knight, starting a good flow of blood visible to all in the crowd. This seems to incense the white knight, who comes roaring back, and he drives Sir Sterba backward step upon step and lands a clean blow to the right thigh, gaining a point in return. The two knights square up and close, and the white knight brings his sword down overhand, but Sir Sterba is there with his shield aloft. The blade shatters against the shield, and the white knight steps back and casts the useless stump of his blade aside. As the crowd roars, he gamely draws his dagger and, sans shield or long blade, closes with Sir Sterba. The latter has no intention of letting the white knight get inside the reach of his sword, however, and instead sidesteps and swings underhand, landing a blow against abdominal armor, the clang of metal on metal signaling the third point and Sir Sterba’s victory.

The white surcoat now stained red, the vanquished knight bows slowly to Sir Sterba, and then turns and duplicates the gesture toward the gallery. When he removes his helmet, Thilisa inhales sharply and says, under her noble breath, “that son of a bitch.” She turns to Sir Ewen and says, “that is my father’s champion.”

In a voice loud and clear, but tremulous from his injuries, the white knight announces, “I am Sir Miren Tereneth, champion of the Earl of Vemion.”
Sir Ewen rises and nods, his own voice firm and clear. “Well fought, Sir Knight.”

Below, Sir Miren raises his sword and calls back, “Thank you, Sir Ewen.”

The final joust of the day is already lined up as the Vemion champion retires, Sir Mykel Vartuny pitted against the remaining, unrevealed, red-clad Black Knight. Sir Mykel gets himself off to a steady start by spearing the red knight’s right shoulder, but the point is evened up in the next gallop when the anonymous knight grazes Sir Mykel’s neck armor. But Sir Mykel soon succumbs to a grievous lance splinter driven into his right cheek with what Sir Aeomund, seated in the stands and watching with keen interest, judges to be a truly remarkable amount of force. Sir Mykel is thus harpooned through the face and thrown to the ground, where he lies barely conscious, groggy and concussed, until Master Sotor supervises his removal from the field.

Sir Baris manages to locate Sir Aeomund in the press of nobles vacating the stands. He seizes the knight of the Order by the arm. “I had an epiphany in the lists.”

Sir Aeomund comes to a halt and inspects him sharply, concerned at the unforeseen expansion of Sir Baris’s vocabulary. Even worse, the man appeared to be sober.

“The Big Man doesn’t want us to win. That’s Ewen. And ‘thistle’ sounds like Thilisa. It makes sense, that he would talk to his wife.”

Sir Aeomund shakes his head at this, skeptical, having met Sir Ewen’s wife. He gestures back at the tiltyard. “This will be decided by the gods, Baris.”

But Sir Baris insists that they confront Sir Ewen with what Cekiya had said, and Sir Aeomund reluctantly agrees to accompany him. They thread their way through the press of nobility and find one of the Blue Boars stationed outside the Ravinargh tent. Before Sir Baris can open his mouth, the guard says, “Sir Ewen is expecting you. Go right in.”

Sir Aeomund frowns, not liking it, but Sir Baris remains affable. “Thank you, Gorgas.”

Within, Sir Ewen is seated in a camp chair behind a small table. A tray is set off to one side with a flagon and three glasses. The two knights glance at each other as Sir Ewen rises smoothly, greets them, and then goes to the tent flap as if to ensure that it is secure. Sir Baris observes him make a familiar movement with his hands as he raises wards within the tent.

Later, when they leave their interview with Sir Ewen, Sir Baris bears upon his face an expression of burden and perplexity, while Sir Aeomund, his back characteristically as straight as a polearm, looks grim. Sir Baris peels off, muttering something about finding an ale tent, while Sir Aeomund walks on, deep in thought. When Cekiya intercepts him on his way to the tent where Prince Brandis’s feast is to occur, the knight of the Order frowns in a effort of concentration, trying to make out what the strange girl is asking him, calling silently upon the Lady to vouchsafe him patience. Once the question is clear, Sir Aeomund briefs Cekiya on the layout of the village inn, including which room is the best appointed in the establishment. The innkeeper’s own room appears to be the one with the peephole, a fact which Sir Aeomund is annoyed to find he was unaware of, in spite of his tenure as bailiff of Varayne. The room with the bathtub, he tells the girl curtly, disturbed at the implication, is the best room in the house.

Under the big tent the ground still remains squishy even though the rain has not returned. Some ladies are being carried into the tent by hopeful knights, solicitous of their finery. Inside the lantern-lit tent the ground is mostly dry, and the finest delicacies are arrayed in profusion, the Prince having obviously supplemented his fifteen pound contribution to the tournament. The tables have been rearranged into a large square, open on the end facing the entrance to the tent. Chairs and benches have been positioned along the outside of the three-sided arrangement of tables, while an area for servants to walk around has been left at the periphery. A plank platform has been erected in the center for dancing, and a band of merry minstrels are already busy strumming. Sir Aeomund spots Sir Baris across the tent, apparently having again forgotten to remove one element of his armor, this time his mail codpiece.

As the tent begins to fill up with the eighty invitees, Sir Ewen circulates and comes upon the Earl of Osel. Sir Ewen congratulates Harabor on his son’s victory.

This overture finds Lord Maldan unexpectedly congenial, and Sir Ewen is actually offered a drink, bidden cheers, and invited to sit with the Earl. As Maldan Harabor settles himself and glances about the tent, Sir Ewen gets the distinct impression that the Earl wishes to not be overheard.

“You know, you and I have not always seen eye to eye, Ewen. But there’s no real reason for that to continue, is there?”

“Not at all, my Lord.” Sir Ewen smiles, eying him closely.

“Let bygones be bygones, I say, and enough of this arguing about who has which head, and such.”

Sir Ewen chuckles in acknowledgment.

“You know, I might be in a position to help you.” Harabor leans closer. “I understand you are having trouble with your father-in-law.”

“Along the lines of banishment from his earldom, yes.”

Maldan Harabor nods. “I’m a man who likes to come straight to the point. I think we sleep better at night with a little clarity.” Harabor assays the filling tent again, wary. “In the horrible, tragic, lamentable, unthinkable death of the King …”

“Long may he live.”

“Long may he … Some are saying the long-dormant custom of a succession counsel may be revived. You and I don’t need to dislike each other. I like you just fine. Seriously, if such a succession counsel were to be called … not that you would be called, or have a vote,” Harabor hastens to add, “but you might have influence. I think you are pretty tight with Prehil Firith, and you have a controlling interesting in a fair amount of real estate. In the event of you supporting me, and my being successful, I would be open to reorganizing the comital structure of the kingdom. In short, strip Declaen Caldeth of his earldom and give it to you.” Harabor slaps the table. “I am a plain speaking man, and I lay my cards on the table.”

Sir Ewen flicks at some minute speck of dust upon his hose. Smoothing them with an elegant hand, he meets Harabor’s gaze fully now. “My ambition, Lord Maldan, is that that my son sit in his rightful seat as Earl of Vemion one day. I believe you and I understand each other.”

Harabor nods emphatically. “Very good. See, we can do wonderful things when we don’t fight.” As he rises, and departs to take his assigned seat, Sir Ewen has the distinct impression that the Earl is feeling insufferably pleased with himself.

Sir Ewen chats with Sir Prehil, asking how he enjoyed the mudfest today, and encounters the same shielding as before. As he makes his way to the head of the table, he briefly notifies Kaelyn of this.

Aethel Atan, swanning past, beams. “A fine day of jousting today, Sir Ewen?”

“A bit muddy, in truth.”

“Ah, you knights like it down and dirty.” Atan punctuates this last with an undulation of his posterior.

Sir Ewen encounters the two princes at the top of the tent, and greets Brandis with due deference. The Prince comes right to the point.

“Those were beastly conditions on the field. It would have been unseemly for me to have advanced much further.”

“Very nobly said, your Highness.”

“Have you met my brother?” Sir Ewen bows to the younger man, and notes that Prince Torasa seems disturbed over something.

“Did you enjoy the jousting, Highness?”

“I would have preferred to have participated myself. At least I have my royal brother to serve.”

“Ah, you are, of course, keen for the day of your own dubbing.”

Torasa agrees, his voice clipped. “It can’t come too soon.”

As the guests continue talking, the heralds open the entrance to the tent and announce newcomers. “Lords, ladies, and gentlemen. Lord Meden Curo, and his sister, the Lady Meleine.”

The latter is a slight, fiery redhead, with piercing green eyes, a small and sensuous mouth, and an overall pixyish air to her. Her nose, while well formed, is perhaps slightly too large, as are her eyes. A splash of freckles across her nose gives her a wanton look. She is wearing a fine and tight-fitting blue dress. Her appearance on the arm of her brother draws the attention of several men in the tent, and both princes.

As the meal runs its course, it is obvious that both princes are paying special attention to the young woman. Over the course of the evening, she dances with both of them, and when she does the neglected of the two brothers appears unhappy. Sir Meden never strays far from the trio. At one point he talks briefly with Sir Ewen about how terrible it is that the Prince lost, and then moves on. Sir Ewen tries to read Meden during the exchange, but encounters the same warbling impediment which is believed to be the work of the Shek P’var.

“Oh Baris, if only she wasn’t Meden’s sister!” Sir Prehil, it is obvious, has not seen her before. Sir Baris agrees with his assessment.

Cekiya, eschewing the tedium of noble parties, returns to the back of the inn, climbs up to the room that was lit, and pries open the shutters with ease. She enters the room, opens the chest, uncovers female clothing, and slinks over to locate the peeping hole and finds it. She hears carousing outside the door, in the hall. She exits by way of the window and climbs over to the other window, easier now that the rain has stopped and the wall surface dry. She enters the dark room, stumbles around a bit attempting to find a candle. Exasperated, she invokes her night seeing, a gift of the god. A double bed, and a chest. A staircase down to the kitchen, where she hears activity and doubles back. Bored suddenly, she leaves.

Back in the feasting tent, Sir Ewen throws a suggestion of preferring Torasa at Lady Meleine. Lady Serli Ubael, glancing with a slight frown at a ham-fisted attempt at a compliment by Sir Aeomund, shakes her head with a look of slight pity.

“That’s alright, Aeomund. We don’t have to dance.”

Agrazhar 18, 732

The following morning is a typical Harnic summer day, overcast and humid and warm. The mud on the field has dried out, with one particular spot in front of the nobles’ area appearing curiously arid, dusty and cracked with fissures. The commencement of festivities follows a somewhat lax schedule because of the fewer number of jousts at this stage of the tournament.

Sir Karison Dariune unhorses Sir Fargo Poulty on the very first charge. Sir Karison’s elder brother is boasting a large bandage on his cheek from his run-in with Sir Aeomund on the previous day, Sotor of Pelanby having tried to attend him only to be pushed aside by a personal Dariune physician. Sotor has pronounced himself unimpressed with the subsequent stitching, and is predicting a nasty scar as a result.

Sir Karsin Ubael is unseated by Sir Ban Faragar when the latter punches his lance squarely to his chest. Sir Sedris Indama and Sir Bulwar Tarth then engage in a lengthy contest in which Sir Sedris ultimately prevails on points.

Sir Aeomund Legith meets Sir Kornuska Harabor next. Sir Aeomund appears to struggle at first with his stamping stallion before the two knights spur horses and charge down the lane. Sir Aeomund levels and then lifts his weapon, as if he is not planning to cross lances at all, which causes Sir Kornuska to slow slightly before leaning into his own strike. At the last moment Sir Aeomunds kicks his horse to the right and lowers his lance deftly to catch the tail of Sir Kornuska’s horse.

A buzz of interest infects the stands as Sir Ewen rises and gestures to Sir Aeomund to ride closer so he might examine the lance. Thilisa, sniffing, says for all to hear, “The lance has hair on it.” Someone, off to the side, chuckles.

Sir Ewen peers and then nods in agreement. “Sir Aeomund’s lance has fouled Sir Kornuska’s steed. Sir Aeomund is disqualified.”

Sir Aeomunds whips off his helmet, as if in triumph. “The ruling is fair!” he asserts loudly, facing the stands, and then his opponent.

As his younger son rides from the field, assured a spot in the field of eight, Maldan Harabor leans in the direction of his host. “A difficult ruling, Sir Ewen,” he calls. “You are to be commended.”

Sir Ewen makes eye contact with Maldan and nods in acknowledgement.

Sir Celed Ubael catches Sir Baris Tyrestal in the left jaw, rattling him, in their first pass. Sir Baris, taking umbrage, catches the left cheek of Sir Celed in a crunching blow on their next gallop, opening a nasty cut from the splinters. The next pass sees both shields struck with resounding impact, and then Sir Baris finds the sweet spot on Sir Celed’s shield on the following tilt, evicting him with force from the saddle.

Sir Stanis Gask sustains a scrape to the left calf and then a slash to the right cheek before he slips from the saddle while selecting a lance for his third pass, allowing Sir Hamond Xalaker to advance. Sir Sterba Yardartha outlasts Sir Klodel Selekos, advancing on points. And then, in the final joust of the round, Sir Borne Tyndas is killed by the red knight.

Sir Borne handles his steed well at the outset of the pass, lunging gallantly and delivering a well-aimed strike to the anonymous knight’s chest armor. But the opposing lance comes in just under the chin of the helm and rips through, sending a fan of blood up into the air as Sir Borne’s armored head flops backward and comes to rest between his shoulder blades, still attached by exposed tendons, as the warhorse comes to an uncertain halt. The day’s jousting comes to an uncomfortable close as the squires labor to dismount the knight, who remains locked in his saddle as if frozen in that last effort of his life’s will, his visored gaze, hanging upside-down, following the backs of the departing spectators as they file from the field.

Later, at that evening’s feast, hosted by Sir Meden, the princes again monopolize the Lady Meleine’s time.

Agrazhar 19, 732

In the early morning, hours before dark, Kittiara responds to a sign left for her by Sir Aeomund. She slips soundlessly out of the pre-dawn shadows as the knight makes his way to the Laranian chapel.

“Aeomund Sir has need?”

The knight provides her information regarding the red-clad black knight, suggests that he might be staying in the woods, and instructs the barbarian woman to look for signs of heraldry, clan markings, and appearance.

Later, when the risers are again packed with knights, lords, and ladies, and the edge of the field across the span of the tiltyard full with the milling throng of goggling peasants, Sir Karison Dariune commences the festivities in understated fashion by advancing when Sir Sedris Indama prematurely dismounts at the behest of his froward stallion. Sir Ban Faragar, aiming for the hip, strikes the horse of Sir Kornuska Harabor, causing the latter’s father to cheer and even dance in the stands, reminding some of the jig performed by the unfortunate squire who had touched the lightning-struck armor of the ill-fated, but now-recovering, Sir Telberan Brailour.

Sir Baris Tyrestal then unhorses Sir Sterba Yardartha, but not before Sir Sterba inflicts a glaring ding upon the polished breastplate of Sir Baris’s expensive armor. And then, just as Sir Hamond Xalaker and the deadly red-surcoated black knight face each other down the lists, Kittiara finds Sir Aeomund and reports.

“Aeomund Sir, the knight in red has cave nearby. Was not able to enter cave.” Sir Aeomund has the impression that she did not get as close as she wished, but does not want to admit it.

Returning his gaze to the lists as the barbarian slips off, he is in time to see Sir Hamond take a thrust to the right cheek, yielding a rather bad, bleeding laceration, but also relief to the sympathetic, wincing crowd, who half-expected to see another partial decapitation from the pass. But the doughty Sir Hamond has managed to tag the black knight on the chest as well, and both gain a point from the encounter. On the next ride, however, Sir Hamond fails to get his shield over in time, and a crushing spear to the chest propels him from his saddle and, winded, rolling and gasping in evident pain, to the ground.

The round completed, a break for refreshments is in order prior to the afternoon’s final contests. As Sir Ewen departs the nobles’ pavilion, a young man attempts to approach him, and a pair of Blue Boars shadowing the Lord of Varayne immediately close to prevent this.

“Sir Ewen. I must needs speak with thee.”

Sir Ewen turns, and knows at once that this young man, a pretty youth with wispy blonde hair and translucent gray eyes, is a Deryni. Sir Ewen nods to the guards, and they obediently step back to a discreet distance.

The young man steps closer and sketches a refined bow. “I have been sent by my master to ask if you wish him to proceed any further.”

Sir Ewen considers this, and gives a small, light laugh. “My regards to your unnamed master, and I think he has gone far enough.”

“As you wish, Sir Ewen. My master withdraws.”

Some moments later, the red-clad black knight and his retinue are publically seen leaving the field.

Kittiara emerges. “Aeomund Sir, do I follow?”

“No.” Sir Aeomund shakes his head, and then limps over and salutes the red knight as his retinue passes. The red knight sees, reins up his horse, holding up a hand, and then raises his sword in return. He then kicks the horse into an instant canter and departs.

As the remaining knights enter the rarified field of four, Sir Karison Dariune fails to keep his saddle and thereby denies Sir Baris Tyrestal the pleasure of a tilt. And as Lord Kornuska Harabor’s opponent has departed the field, the action goes straight to the final joust of the tournament, between Harabor and Sir Baris.

Up in the stands, beneath the nobles’ pavilion, Maldan Harabor looks directly at Sir Ewen, who holds his gaze for a moment before slowly turning his eyes back upon the lists.

For those below who are close enough to hear, Sir Baris can be apprehended muttering inside his helmet as he mounts up and absently accepts the lance offered by a squire. He carefully walks his stallion over to the starting mark and, raising his weapon, gazes down the long line of the lists at the son of Osel, and then slowly lowers his visor into place. As the signal is given, he kicks the warhorse into the proper canter and braces himself for the impact, and the inevitable outcome which must follow.

As they approach, Sir Baris lunges hard and spitefully high with the lance, while Harabor shifts his shield to block. Both weapons strike home, the Tyrestal lance cracking a resounding blow to Sir Kornuska’s helmet, causing the young knight to struggle to stay atop his mount as they pass. But Harabor’s lance has done its work, driving straight into Sir Baris’s shield and punching him backward. Heavy with armor, releasing the reins, he crashes down to the soft earth.

A few moments later, Sir Kornuska Harabor is trotting his horse in a triumphal circuit of the field to the warm applause of crowd, nobles and commoners alike. He retires from the field, certain to be feted that night at the final feast of the tourney, with the awards ceremony to follow on the morn. Meantime, Sir Baris receives his due congratulations as runner up, and must suffer the bittersweet commendations and blandishments which attend such an achievement, one step below the highest of honors. Accepting Sir Ewen’s hand in formal, public congratulation, Sir Baris’s gaze is cold and unblinking.

The evening’s feast is hosted by the Lady Thilisa, who makes herself present tonight, having abstained from the previous entertainments. The party proceeds not unlike the previous two evenings, although the Lady Meleine this time appears to have wholly devoted her attention to Prince Brandis, who in turn covets the Lady’s favor and monopolizes her time. Kaelyn of Aletta, trying to attend to Aethel Atan’s abstruse disquisition on the ethics of Shek P’var practice, notices Prince Torasa drinking an awful lot. At several points, in fact, Sir Meden Curo can be seen gesturing to servants, who swoop in and refill the young Prince’s cup. Only partially attending to Atan, Kaelyn watches in fascination as Torasa, half-illuminated in the uneven lantern light, becomes increasingly agitated the more he imbibes, clenching and unclenching his fists from time to time, glancing repeatedly in anger over at his brother and the Curo girl.

Begging Aethel Atan’s pardon, Kaelyn breaks away from him and makes her way to the head of the table, where she gains Sir Ewen’s attention and whispers in his ear, causing the eye of the master of Varayne to take in the tableau developing across the tent. Kaelyn moves aside and Sir Ewen, after studying the younger of the royal brothers for a moment, silently gains the attention of one of the guards, directing him by way of a discreet hand gesture away from the path from Prince Torasa to the head of the table.

The next refill of Prince Torasa’s glass is downed in one gulp. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve and, reeling, gets up, setting his cup down with a crack. His face is stark in the lantern light. He climbs over the table to the outer perimeter of the pavilion and strides up to his brother and the girl, shouldering aside intervening guests.

“No one must have her but I!” His youthful voice is defiant and slurred, but the words manage to silence the tent in its entirety, as all heads turn upon the royal siblings. Torasa reaches to grab the arm of the girl.

Brandis laughs. “You are too much in your cups, brother.”

“Not so much that you get everything!” Torasa pulls the girl violently and thrusts her behind him, exerting more force than he likely intended. The Lady Meleine gives a small cry as she falls backward against one of the tables.

Prince Torasa draws a knife.

Sir Baris, off to one side, begins to move, attempting to clear an intervening table, but comes down hard on one knee and is too late. The young prince is lunging with the dagger toward his older brother as someone screams inside the tent.

With the practiced hands of a warrior, Prince Brandis easily twists the dagger from Torasa’s hands. In one smooth movement, he turns it around and plunges it to the hilt between Torasa’s ribs.

Brandis, his face hectic and aghast, takes a half step back and withdraws the dagger. Torasa folds over himself, reaches the floor, rolls onto his back, and then his arms spread wide and his back arches, a spreading stain black in the lantern light. The Curo girl screams. Prince Brandis looks in horror about the room, his face white, and calls hoarsely for his guards. He cast the dagger aside and rushes from the tent.

As he departs, the horrified onlookers begin to respond. Sotor of Pelanby, faster than the others, is at the side of the fallen prince. He reaches for the discarded dagger and, holding it up gingerly to the light, finds a residual substance on the blade.

“There may be some adulterance on this dagger,” he pronounces, looking to Sir Ewen. “He is dead.” Pandemonium begins to break out among the guests at the head of the table.

Sir Ewen raises his voice and enjoins calm upon the assembly. It takes some moments before he is heard.

“May I have everyone’s attention.” The hubbub subsides somewhat. “Prince Torasa has been slain, foully murdered.” Someone in the rear of the tent breaks into hysterical sobbing. “In the absence of my lord the Sheriff of Semethshire, I would ask the good Sheriff of Balimshire here to take temporary charge of securing the scene of this crime.”

Sir Eris Karondel promptly steps forward and begins taking things in hand. He scans the crowd.

“Ah, my Lord Harabor …”

“My men are at your disposal,” the Earl calls back. This prompts other worthies to contribute to the cause, save for Lord Curo’s men, who remain tightly clustered about Sir Meden, who has been watching the proceedings with detached interest as he sips his wine.

“By Save K’nor’s confusing inkblots!” Sir Prehil swears, adding his own contribution to the coalescing effort.

Meanwhile, Sotor of Pelanby has snatched up Prince Torasa’s drinking cup as well, and oversees a team of volunteers who begin gathering up the slain prince’s body to move it to the manor house. Sir Aeomund, who had moved to stand by Lady Thilisa, seizes the initiative. He calls for Sir Tenden Ryselith and dragoons a makeshift posse of Blue Boars and other guardsmen to pursue and, if possible, detain the prince at the stabling area before he can flee to Tashal.

Sir Baris, in the midst of the mayhem, has contrived to succor the fallen Lady Meleine, who is woozy from her fall and perhaps at a temporary disadvantage in her ability to be selective about whose arms she finds herself in. But the talk of pursuits and other daring endeavors distracts the knight from the supple form of the lady, and he begs her pardon and states that has duties to attend to.

Sir Rollard D’Audrieu has made his way to the head table accompanied by Kaelyn, where a tight-lipped Lady Thilisa has silently watched her feast devolve into the slaughter of a prince of the realm. Sir Rollard catches Sir Ewen’s eye. “Ah shall escort mah lady from this scene of huhrific violence.”

Cekiya has gone to the princes’ tent, where she sees Prince Brandis arrive with several of his guards. Brandis and his men quickly grab five horses and depart, instructing his remaining men to strike camp and ride to follow them with the upmost speed. Sir Aeomund and his deputized men arrive too late to collar the prince, but he orders Jak of Carthen to raise the hue and cry and sets about detaining the remaining royal guards.

Back in tent, Sir Meden continues to sit and observe, the Curo guards remaining in his vicinity and his sister having taken a seat with him.

Sir Eris Karondel, the Sheriff of Balimshire, gains everyone’s attention. “My lords, ladies, and gentlemen. The festivities have reached an unhappy conclusion. As further revels would be unseemly, let us each retire to our own reflections.”
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Matt
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