Page 46 of To Touch A Silent Fury
A very tall man, wiry and thin. He had competed near the end of the day and won his bout against a man double his size. He was a few spans older than me, but he moved like water itself. By his bout, the Thread had been deep in his cups, and as such, I knew nothing of him.
I glanced at the Thread, just as he whispered in my ear. “Count Fordonne, he manages a large estate in the west of the Scentlands. He is not well liked, but he is wealthy and has influence.”
I kept my eyes on the count, and he stared back at me.
Another portly man grumbled his agreement. “Nox-cursed,” he spat. “The lot of them are up to something.”
He had not competed today, from my recollection.
“Baron Feltsheaf,” Thread Ersimmon volunteered under his breath. “His influence dwindles as quickly as his coffers. He will not win tomorrow.”
Baron Feltsheaf folded his arms, unaware of the casual appraisal of his irrelevance. “What happens if we refuse her?”
I tensed. This was it, this was the moment they all declared how much they didn’t want me. I was ready for this, I had expected it, and yet it still filled me with an emptiness that felt like a blow.
“If anyone would prefer not to participate tomorrow knowing they may win Tanidwen as their bride, that is for each man to decide.” Thread Ersimmon commanded the room once more. How changed he was, from the jovial but sleepy man in the Ceremony Hall. “Though, I would ask that they retire their challenge tonight and not risk Breaking a valuable Moontouched for no good reason.”
Sparrospen, who’d pulled me around in a merry jig an hour ago, now laughed. “As if you would refuse her, Feltsheaf. She is far more beautiful than anyone within twenty miles of Cajim.”
“I didn’t say she weren’t a beauty, boy,” the baron grumbled, nodding to me with a passing interest. “No offence to you, my lady.”
I only nodded. Now seemed the optimal time to use the Thread’s gracious advice. If in doubt, do not speak.
“She is a treasure, for certain,” another said. It was Lord Stalligin. Good looking, with pale blonde hair unusual for the Sightlands and a wicked smile. He had won his bout handily, and now he looked at me as if I were but another thing to topple before him. “I look forward to children with bouncing white curls.”
I blushed, the brazenness of the statement far from rolling over me. I unfolded and refolded my hands, glancing down to recover my dignity. I raised my head as the chatter continued, and it was then that I accidentally met the Dragon Prince’s eyes.
He watched me with such focus it made me feel faint. I struggled to pull my eyes away, keen to discover what he was thinking, but his face was a mask again, and the intensity did not give away the emotion causing it. I wished then that I had been born in the Sightlands, that I had the ability to perceive the tiny touches of his face more readily. There were tells there, if I had the comprehension to see them. But my powers were locked behind touch, and after his threats there was no good reason to let him touch me again.
Prince Brascillan stepped forwards, and I met his conflicted study. “I, too, am gladdened by the news of this lady’s Fate. This is the greatest prize the Games have ever seen. I would compete solely to win this bride and no other boon.”
A few murmurs rose, but I realised they were murmurs of agreement, and not mirth. I swallowed, unused to this feeling. These men wanted me for their wife. Not all, but many. Both Brascillan and Stalligin were interested in my hand, and they held some of the best chances of victory. This was really happening: I could unlock my Fate.
Brascillan raised his hand, and the men fell silent. “Though, I find it odd to hear this announcement on the same day we hear of Prince Langnathin’s arrival.”
I blinked, surprised by the deftness of Brascillan’s allegation as most of the eyes in the room turned to Langnathin. I let out a breath as the pressure of the constant assessment faded. I noted that Princess Derynallis never took her eyes from me, not for a moment.
I heard the young Lord Dranislan lean into one of his companions. “Did he know of her Fate?”
More boldly, Sparrospen stepped forwards. “Is this why you have come? To compete yourself and take her from us?”
At that, the room erupted into conversation. Still, I noticed the caution. No one else was quite so bold to accuse him; there was fear even as they suspected the Dragon Prince of foul play.
Langnathin finally held his hand up. Indifference painted his face. “Men, let us not quarrel,” he said. “I confess I knew the girl’s Fate. I visited Eavenfold as their patron and witnessed her Ceremony.”
Two men who’d lost their bouts grumbled. “Your family never competes, and now you stand to win the only white sister?”
The other yelled into the room, his voice cracking. “It is not fair. He must know her power.”
Silence followed.
The Dragon Prince stared at him, and I saw the man take a step back, visibly cowed. After a hideous pause, Langnathin finally sighed. “I will only say this once, so listen and keep your mouths shut.”
No one spoke, and for a moment it felt as if no one breathed. I certainly didn’t. I watched him along with the rest of the room, not knowing what he might say, but seeing him study each man, seeing his eyes glaze as if he was thinking hard.
“First, I have no intention to compete,” he said. Immediately, I felt the room relax, and the coiled spring in my stomach loosened by a fraction. “And second, I would like every man in this room to make a sworn agreement.”
Still, no one spoke, following his implied threat. But looks were exchanged.
