Page 48 of To Touch A Silent Fury
After I explained my conversation with the Dragon Prince, Thread Ersimmon had reluctantly allowed me to attend today on two conditions.
The first, that I dress myself, not trusting the woman who had assisted me in the last two days. I had contorted myself into one of two remaining dresses, a loose-fitting pink number with matching gloves. It made me look younger, which I am certain was an intentional move from the Thread, who waited in the same room with his back to me, holding the matching bead set for my face. It was embarrassing to fold my body into a dress with the Thread in the room, but he seemed more troubled by it than I was.
The second condition was that we sit further back, next to one of the arena exits, which didn’t help my view much, but atleast it saved us from the flecks of mud launched at the front rows. I knew his reasoning had far more to do with fleeing an assassination attempt than any preservation of his carefully selected attire, though.
“I do not understand why I am such a threat to them,” I said. It had been the one thing I struggled to answer all night, and I hadn’t slept a wink, tossing in bed and expecting a knife in my side every time I closed my eyes. “So what if I make my Mark? You can influence others, after all. Why am I so different?”
“You met with the prince on Eavenfold, did you not?”
I nodded.
“You must have shown him something which gave him pause,” he said.
I folded my gloved hands together even tighter. “Then it is my own fault.”
The Thread patted my covered wrist in an awkward gesture. “Never think that. If you show someone your strength and they choose to be threatened by it, the weakness is theirs alone.”
I looked up at him, my cheeks warmed by the genuine kindness I heard in his words. He watched me sagely, his mouth sombre and his brow furrowed.
“They may be weak,” I said. “But if Braxthorn wants to kill me, then I am probably already dead.”
“I fear I may agree with you there.”
More bannermen entered. These were from the Sightlands. I didn’t see the crest of the royal family, and even though the prince had already given his word he would not compete, it put me at ease. I had thought from his absence he may have changed his mind. The banners of Sight were deeper in tone, with blues, deep greens, and blood reds: the colour of dragon scales.
Finally, the banners of the Scentlands appeared. The crowd went wild; most of those gathered had come from the Isle’s nearest coast, from Lavendell to its neighbouring meadows andgrasslands. The banners of white, pinks, purples, and pastel greens nodded to the land's famous flowers. I recognised the banner of King Canenrill, the pale purple with a white tree.
Did I want Brascillan to win? He seemed my greatest supporter, which was novel enough to appeal to me. But there was something arrogant in him, something that made me worry that once he had me, I would become another flower on his sill. Would he let me roam? Or would our marriage be a cage?
I thought of my own land, how everyone marched under the same banner. The white hand on green fabric. We didn’t have counts, lords, or barons. There was only the Sword and the Shield, brother and sister, Konidren and Kalidwen. Our leaders were always family, but only with each other, not of any dynastic blood or lineage. Any pair of any standing could compete for the titles, and the household supporting them was barely more glamorous than the shepherds, millers, and vine tenders. It was a deep shame there was no competitor from the Touchlands, for then I might be able to return home and lend my powers to those who needed it most. Instead, I imagined I would be a tool in the household of whichever man wielded me.
Once all the bannermen had run about the arena, they filed out, and then the competitors entered. The volume in the arena was cacophonous.
Some wore chainmail, and others came laden with full plate, only recognisable from the insignias marked on their chests or backs.
“Do they choose for their movement, or to save their coin?” I asked the Thread.
“Most with the means would wear plate, but that one there,” he said, pointing to Lord Stalligin who walked in with no fanfare, “has only ever worn chainmail. Even on the battlefield.”
“Why?”
Thread Ersimmon shrugged. “He claims he uses his whole body to see. He doesn’t like to be confined, it makes him blind to his opponent.”
“What do you make of it?”
“The men fear him. So the tale has met its objective.”
I could see his findings clearly. The lesser lords from each land gave him a wide berth, none wanting the quick elimination at his hand.
I recognised Lord Kilmorrin, Count Fordonne, and the younger lords, Dranislan and Sparrospen, who were likely within a span of my own years. Some soaked up the crowd, some ignored them entirely, focused on positioning themselves or stretching. Sparrospen searched the faces, peering around the near rows before staring further back.
He found me eventually, and his searching paused as his mouth widened in a grin. I flushed, realising I was the object of his search, and that I was staring back at him. I had to admit Sparrospen was good-looking. Not in the way that Brascillan was with his elegant and refined beauty, but in a more wild way, with unruly hair and a cheekiness I struggled not to smile back at.
Sparrospen bowed deeply to me, and blew me a kiss, which drew the eyes of several other nearby competitors. I forced a smile onto my face and waved down at them. Two of the men whooped, holding their swords up.
Prince Brascillan walked in last, his faceguard up. He paid no heed to the screaming crowd. He stepped boldly right to the centre of the arena, a place most of the others had neglected, favouring a wall at their backs.
A group of squires blew their trumpets, and the horns signalled the entry of Prince Cratollan, the heir to the Scentlands throne and Brascillan’s older brother. Lord Ravillin, the last winner, walked just behind him. The crowd fell quieter,some sporadic shouts of support infrequently punctuating the clanking of armour.
