Page 15 of To Touch A Silent Fury
That’ll do. What did that mean? Had I passed it? I wanted to beg for a second question, or any follow up, but I couldn’t speak out of turn again, I was already regretting my choice to pipe up again on Groulin’s question.
I had a horrible feeling that I was failing this miserably, but I had no idea how to rectify it. It was over now, anyway, since the only question left was the Marriage test.
Thread Rasturnin nudged the oldest Thread on the council, who after his bark of laughter had returned his head to the bench before him. “Ersimmon.”
Just shy of fourteen spans, Ersimmon blinked and raised his head. His bored face, with its wide nose and warmer complexion, was punctuated with deep-seated lines of merriment. His Mark was more subtle: six white dots spotted across his right temple like a constellation. He was almost the image of Dional himself, the Tastelands’ jovial Founder. This morning’s look was completed with a small trickle of drool at one corner of his mouth as he rubbed at his eyes and cleared his throat. “Oh, yes, of course. The girl.”
I squared my shoulders, flexing my fingers once more.
He scanned me from head to toe. “Who will win the upcoming Laithcart Games?”
I hadn’t expected that question. Not at all.
The Laithcart Games occurred once every span, always in the middle of Ergreen, and the next one was this year, only a few weeks away. From what I had heard, it was a jousting tournament held on the Isle de Courvin, which sat in the middle of the Oktorok Lake at the very heart of the Senselands. It wasn’tsomething I paid attention to, something for noble second sons to join to grasp at some kind of glory.
The Dragon Prince, Langnathin, would be the favourite if he were to compete, though I could not imagine he would risk himself when he was Braxthorn’s heir. The Crown Prince of the Sightlands had no need for bounties of wine.
Who was a formidable enough fighter to win, but one who needed validation enough to compete? A couple of answers filtered through my mind. Lord Stalligin of the Sightlands, young and battle-hungry. He’d recently led a skirmish on their northern border against some Soundlands raiders, though, I considered, he was likely more suited to fights atop his yellow wyvern than in an arena. Prince Brascillan of the Scentlands, perhaps. Also young, and known to be a well-respected duellist.
Then I stopped myself once more.
I didn’t want to provide the answer Thread Ersimmon wanted. I wanted to get the question so wrong he never thought to pass me without believing I was purposefully flunking the test.
When I met Thread Ersimmon’s eyes, the answer fell into my head. “Whomever the bookkeepers favour.”
The Thread’s eyebrows went so far up that his Fated Mark disappeared partly into the folds of his forehead. Then he just shrugged, and leaned back onto the bench.
Behind me, I heard that cough again. I kept my composure, staring straight ahead.
Thread Isillim stood a final time, a scowl clouding his face. “That is all, Tanidwen. Your Fate will be read before all the Brothers at sunset. You may remove your wrist and go.”
With a small breath in, I raised my wrist up before I could overthink it. I grabbed the small piece of boiled cloth behind the box on the plinth and pressed it hard against the puncture in my wrist as I held my hand against myself. There was a little pain, but it was easily manageable and over now. My hand wasice-cold, and despite my feelings of complete and utter failure, all I wanted was to return to my bed and get a few more hours of sleep.
I bowed to the Threads, this time not looking at any of them in particular and only catching the five lines of rolling blood out of the corner of my eye.
Then I turned back to the main doors and saw the Dragon Prince staring back at me from a wooden chair dragged into the corner of the room.
He was unmistakable, and not only for his shiny dark hair that cast an almost reddish sheen in the candlelight, nor his all-black riding clothes instead of the drab greys I had become entirely accustomed to. Even his pale angular face, with high cheekbones casting a gaunt shadow against a wide jaw, didn’t immediately give away his identity.
It was his eyes. Bright red. Dragon-red and filled with mirth.
Langnathin nodded at me, and I returned the gesture, frozen to the spot.
Then he stood up, his creepy eyes now on the Threads. “I would like to request to meet Tanidwen after her Fate is delivered.”
The men exchanged uncomfortable looks.
Thread Isillim swallowed. “My prince, if we draw a Death Fate for the girl, it may not be safe for you to be around her.”
The Dragon Prince only chuckled. “I do not fear her.”
“Then it will be as you command, of course. Tanidwen will meet with you.” Thread Isillim bowed his head at Langnathin. Then he squinted at me as if confused as to why I was still there. “Leave us, girl.”
I bobbed down again, not recalling anything about how they showed respect in the Sightlands, and stepped from the hall.
The door closed behind me, and I gasped in a breath, holding the wall for support. What was the Dragon Prince doing at my Ceremony? And why did he want to meet me?
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