: Chapter 12

I haven’t been to a proper tourney in years, and now I’ve been to three in as many days. I’d forgotten the press of people, the smell of spilled ale and horse sweat, the way coins change hands as people bet on their favorite challengers. I’d forgotten the way fights would erupt at the end of the night, the way men would bicker and swear and draw blades when they’d drunk their way beyond any common sense. When I was a boy, I found the crowds intimidating—and the soldiers terrifying. It wasn’t until Grey joined Worwick’s tourney that I learned I had options other than hiding.

Now I’m grown, and I’ve spent enough time as a soldier that I still carry myself as one. If anyone has a mind for trouble, their eyes skip over my weapons and look away. At each tourney, I spend silver on ale that I don’t drink, and I do as Prince Rhen suggested: I spread gossip that the king and queen long to host a competition on both sides of the border.

Some people are intrigued. Some are eager.

Some are wary.

Many murmur about how they can’t wait for an opportunity to legally spill the blood of people from Syhl Shallow. It’s been four years since a truce was formed between the countries, but bitterness lingers.

By the fourth night, I have one tourney left before I can return to the mountain pass that leads toward home. This one is two hours’ west of my usual path, nestled into a valley at the base of the mountains, and I’m almost tempted to skip it. But no; I asked for a task, and I’ll see it through.

We ride into the town of Gaulter at dusk, and the livery isn’t crowded, so I pay extra for Mercy to have a stall instead of a tether. I don’t get as lucky at the inn, which only has group rooms left, which means I’ll have to sleep in my armor again. I inwardly sigh. At least my horse can get a good night’s rest. I’ve grown so used to being on my own that night after night of crowds and conversation has exhausted me in a way I didn’t expect. I’m eager to be done.

Most tourneys are situated similarly: a large arena surrounded by raised seating, further looped by a wide track where food and ale are sold, weapons are bought and traded, and horses are kept. I find this one to be a bit smaller than I’m used to, but Gaulter is more remote, and it’s not dark yet: early enough that the track isn’t full of people. There are more vendors here too, selling trinkets and cloth and jewels. I linger at each, trying to get a sense of the people here, because the atmosphere is slightly different: less drinking and gambling, more jovial and excited. Some children are in the crowd, which isn’t exactly rare, but it’s definitely less common.

Maybe this tourney won’t be too bad.

One of the vendors is selling painted wooden figurines, and I pause to trace my fingers over a red horse that’s been expertly carved. Then my eyes land on the figurine of a scraver, the wings fashioned with singed black silk, the claws made of steel.

Iisak. I frown.

But no. That’s impossible. It must be a coincidence. He’s been dead for years.

The girl working the stall sees my attention and turns my way with a wide smile. “Do you like the fantastic, my lord?” she says. “I have dragons and mermaids, too.” She holds out a hand to indicate an array of brightly colored creatures, each more elaborate than the last.

I inhale to say no, but a shout from farther down draws my attention, followed by a startled cry and a rattle of metal against wood. Then the clear sound of a slap. The girl’s smile turns a little strangled.

“Just one of the champions,” she whispers. “They’re always a bit tense before the fights.”

I stride away from the vendor stalls, chasing the sound of trouble. We’re close to the horses, and the scents of hay and soiled bedding are thick. I weave through the thickening crowd toward the stables, and I don’t have to look far before I find a grown man in armor pinning a boy to the wall, the front of his shirt gripped in the man’s fist. The boy can’t be more than ten, and his cheek is flushed red. There’s blood on his lip.

“I told you,” the man says, seething, “to have my horse saddled first.” He lifts his hand to strike again. “I shouldn’t have to wait for your lazy—”

I catch his arm. The boy gasps, but the man swings his head around, and there’s a murderous look in his eyes.

“Let him go,” I say.

“This isn’t your business,” he growls.

“Surely not,” I say. “I can saddle my own horse. I don’t need a boy to do it.” I keep a tight grip on his arm. “Let him go.”

He lets go—but he also jerks free to turn and face me. He’s older, with a thick graying beard and small, dark eyes. He’s bigger than I am, too, but I’m used to that. When his hand reaches for his sword hilt, mine is already half drawn.

“Easy, gentlemen,” another man drawls, his words slow and lazy from behind me. Something about the voice is familiar, but I can’t place it. “Raolin, if you fight for free in the aisles, you’ll be out of a job.”

Raolin clenches his jaw, but he lets go of his sword. He spits at the ground at my feet. “Put some coins on the line and we can finish this in the arena.”

“I try not to humiliate people in public,” I say, and he glowers in response, but the man at my back speaks again.

“Go, Raolin,” he says. “You’re due in the arena in ten minutes anyway.” He pauses, and his voice tightens. “And the lord is right. You can saddle your own mount if you’re going to waste time abusing the help.”

Raolin swears under his breath and turns away.

I look at the boy, who’s watched this whole interaction with wide eyes. “Are you all right?” I say to him.

He nods quickly and swipes the blood off his lip. “Yes. Yes, my lord.”

I want to offer to heal his lip, but I remember the way Jax and Callyn reacted, so I keep my hands to myself. It’s a minor wound anyway.

The man at my back moves to my side. “Go ahead, Bailey,” he says kindly. “Get to the other horses.”

The boy nods and dashes off.

“Forgive my fighter, my lord,” says the man as I turn to face him. “The odds are against him tonight, so he’s got a bit of a temper—” He stops short as his eyes lock on my face, and then he does a double take. “Silver hell,” he says. “Tycho?”

“Journ,” I say, and I’m equally surprised. For a flash of time, I’m fifteen again, looking up at one of the tourney’s champions.

He shakes off the shock, then claps me on the shoulder. “You’ve grown!” He looks me up and down, then offers me a warm smile. “And you’ve gone far.”

“Well.” I smile. “A long way from Worwick’s.” I always liked Journ. He was good in the arena, a fair fighter who’d put on a good show. He was also a kind man, someone who carried sweets in his pockets for the occasional children in the crowd.

“You’re a long way from Worwick’s, too,” I say. Journ’s hair has gone more gray, but he’s still built like a fighter. No armor, though, so he must not be fighting tonight.

He shrugs, and something dark shifts in his eyes. “After the king was discovered, we had to leave Rillisk. There were many who thought I knew. The threats were … awful.” He sighs and breaks off. “Abigale nearly lost the baby from the stress of it.”

I lose the smile. “I’m sorry.” I pause. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s all right. It’s been a long time.” His voice is quieter now. “We’re in a good place here.”

Maybe he is, but I can’t quite tell if he blames the king for what happened or if he sees it for a simple twist of fate. I wonder how he’ll take the news of what Grey and Lia Mara are planning. “Still fighting?” I say.

“Nah, not so much.” He hesitates and glances out into the aisle where the crowds are steadily growing. “Walk with me? Or do you have …” His eyes skip over the insignia on my chest. “Duties?”

“I’m glad to walk,” I say.

The crowds yield to him readily, and kind greetings are common as we walk. He’s well liked here, but that’s no surprise, because he was well liked at Worwick’s, too.

“I came to Gaulter as a fighter,” he’s saying, “and I still go in the arena on occasion. But a few months ago, Talan Borry, the old man who owns the tourney, fell into poor health. I’ve been looking after the place more and more.”

“No wonder it seems so well tended,” I say, and he smiles.

“It’s not as big as Worwick’s,” he says, “but we do a good amount of business. We break even on the champions, but the scraver fights pull in a lot of silver.”

I jerk my head around, sure I misheard him among the cacophony from the crowd. “The what?”

“You remember. Worwick had one, too. Maybe it’s the same one, since Worwick’s escaped during—”

I grab his arm. “You have scravers here?”

He looks at me like I’ve grown two heads. “Well—just the one. We get a lot of men who like to try their luck with it in the arena. It’s good silver if you can last. But I told Talan they’ve got to be sober. We had a man nearly get torn apart last spring.” He shudders. “We keep it on a chain now—”

“You keep him on a chain?” I feel like we must be talking about two different things … but then I remember how I first met Iisak. Worwick kept him in a cage. Iisak never spoke, never gave any indication he could understand a word that was said to him. He was vicious with his claws, too, if anyone got too close. It wasn’t until later, once he escaped, that he befriended me and Grey and became somewhat trusting of humans. I remember the night we were all hiding in the woods, desperate and starving and exhausted, how Iisak brought us food and, later, how he taught the king to find his magic.

A cheer goes up in the crowd, and hooves thunder into the arena. The festivities must be starting. “I need to get into the stands,” Journ says.

I follow him. “Can I see him?”

“Who?”

“The scraver.”

Journ offers me a smile as we climb the steps. “Care to give it a try? Scratch up that pretty armor?”

He thinks I mean in the arena. I inhale to tell him no, that no scraver should be kept on a chain or in a cage, that they’re magical and wise, not terrifying and ignorant.

But I’m thinking of Iisak, as if he is the scraver who could be at the end of that chain. As if I’d walk up to his cage, he’d say, “Ah! Well met, young Tycho,” and I’d turn him free.

A man nearly got torn apart last spring.

This can’t be Iisak. This can’t be my friend.

But I remember the night Iisak died, and I know of one other scraver who was in Emberfall—one who definitely wasn’t anyone’s friend.

I fish in my purse for silver. “How much?”

Journ loses the smile. “Tycho—it’s a monster. I’ve seen it slice through armor—”

“How much?”

“Five silvers,” he says. “Odds are four to one if you can last five minutes.” He pauses. “Twenty to one if you can last ten.”

“How many people last ten?”

He laughs, but it’s a little strained. “No one yet.”

I nod. “Put me on the list.”