A knight dressed in white crashed to the ground below with a thud, his horse kicking up grass as he ran from the handlers. The gold champion bowed. Making sure to show off his gleaming armor that reflected the sun into the crowds’ eyes. The man balanced on his mare, but as he dismounted he got caught in the stirrup, following his adversary to the ground below. The crowd roared with laughter, shaking the wooden stands. Mud left over from yesterday’s short shower smothered both men. Dakens had already raced over to check on the white knight and tend to his wounds. A young squire was helping the gold knight to his feet. A group of boys came out and cleared the jousting field of broken shields and thrown lances, trying to scrape away the hoof prints, and officials called for the next riders.

  “Don’t you find this a bit boring?” Devro whispered from atop the box overlooking the field and the crowd below.

  Yellow banners flapped in the breeze. The stallion of the king imprinted on them. Bertin caught the sight of a pretty girl across the way. She wore a lovely purple dress, very short, and barely holding in her breasts. His favorite thing about summer. Unfortunately, it was ending soon. He prayed that Samosay would bring autumn and cold and the women would wrap themselves in layers of furs.

  Devro continued on, running his fingers through his blond hair, “Surely there are more exciting things to do.”

  “Like what?” Bertin said as he waved to the pretty girl who seemed to turn red. Hopefully I can find her later, he thought. “You’ve been here over five years, surely you’ve come to love the sport? A sport fit for kings.”

  “If I wanted to see men fight on horseback I would travel with the Northern clans.”

  Bertin huffed, the small crown on his head shaking. “Those barbarians don’t ride the same. They are rough, untrained. I hear they even make love to their horses.” He had to push the thought out of his mind as his face twisted. “The riders in Rowan are civilized. My father told me how before the flames, the winner of the joust would drown in women’s desire.” He imagined himself on a horse, fighting against the rebels during the Brutahki Flames, when the whole kingdom was shattered. He wasn’t trained all that well, but against rowdy peasants he could surely do anything.

  “I would rather watch a melee,” Devro took a moment then shook his head, “or maybe fire throwing, even sword swallowing.”

  Bertin sighed as he looked to Sir Wilclef, the head of his guard, behind him. The gruff man shrugged at Devro’s suggestion. “Let’s go find some sword swallowers.” Bertin said and stood, straightening his golden crown. In Rowan as well as other cities like Coastburg, Dunniage, any other place in the kingdom really, the people would stand and bow. Not in Gereduss. Not in a city full of the Gorthair people. “See that.” Of course Devro had seen it, they weren’t particularly fond of him either. “No respect for the rulers who civilized them.” Men with shaggy brown beards and hair with faces of contempt glared at Bertin and Devro and the knights and guards accompanying them. The woman across the stands kept her head down. At least I could fuck a woman if I wanted, these rosy cheeked men have nothing but hatred in their hearts.

  “I’ve been told some in Viguran are like that, though not as bad.” Devro said. “These people here would rather spit on the food offered by the king than feed their starving children.” His young cousin rolled his eyes.

  Bertin pulled Devro down the steps away from the box. Not wanting to act afraid, but not wanting the contempt to turn violent. “And these men would happily kill both of us and send our heads to our fathers.”

  “We would never let that happen, My Prince.” Sir Robalt said, one of his knights who guarded at the bottom the steps. “You have nothing to fear.”

  “I do not fear Gorthair.” Bertin lied. He trusted his men to guard him, but he trusted the city of Gereduss to be able to defeat a handful of knights if they so pleased.

  “At least my father would see me again.” Devro laughed as they turned a bend by a rock face.

  The tourney grounds of Gereduss were a spectacular sight to behold, Bertin hated that. The grounds in Rowan were old, falling apart, and never as busy. A rainbow cast by flags in the air rippled above the stalls and carts. Red, yellow, green. Smoke rose with the smell of baked bread, charred salmon, and salted meats. Dozens of ships awaited in the harbor for unloading of their wines and delicacies from the West and cold drinks from the North. Animals from Kruhesh; black and white horses, blue birds, striped cats larger than cows; kicked and screamed at their handlers and those who gathered to gawk at them. Fire shot into the air from a troupe of performers known as the Dragon’s Pride. Some believed they used magic in their craft, but no one investigated in fear of being right and causing the pride to be extinguished, and the onlookers didn’t care either way.

  They stopped at a melee ring. The official either did not realize who they were, or knew full well and chose to ignore them. He stood in their way blocking the fight. It wasn’t until Gordo, another of Bertin’s guards, showed him the dirk he wore at his side that the official moved. The two fighters were larger than bears, and just as hairy. Northerners. Bertin’s face contorted as he looked the men up and down. One had strange markings on his palms, swirling snakes it looked like, probably some clan insignia; the other had so very little teeth it was a surprise he could still eat, the ones he did have were rotted brown. The men shouted indistinct, rough words at one another as their fists flew. Left hook, parry, uppercut, parry. They danced together for another five minutes, onlookers shouting so loud for the men to beat each other to death and throwing coin for bets. Bertin could barely hear himself think.

  He was looking for another girl as he would probably never see the first one again. Preferably a Bruthak and not a Gorthair. He didn’t need a bastard running around with the people who hated him and his family. He looked at Devro. His young cousin was a bastard. Banished to Rowan seven years ago by his father, the king of Viguran. At least if Bertin had a bastard he wouldn’t know, so no problems in the future with sending him away or disowning him. He saw a pretty girl and was about to smile at her when the toothless bear fell to the wet ground. Mud splashing on Bertin and Devro’s shoes. Shoes lade from the finest leather, cobbled in River’s Meadow and fetching a high price.

  The official quickly named the marked Northerner the winner. He was about to call for the next fighters when Bertin cleared his throat. “Are you forgetting something?” He pointed to his boots and the official saw the transgression.

  “Your Highness.” He said once he saw the crown, the crowd grumbling.

  “Do you travel to other tourneys?” Bertin asked and the man shook his head. “What is your name?”

  “Raif, My Prince of Rowan.” He bowed his head.

  “Do you wish to continue your travels?” Bertin crossed his arms and the skinny official nodded. “Then I believe there is something I ask.”

  “Let me assure you,” Raif cleared his throat, “this will be paid in full. The northern beast will give all his gold to make this right.”

  “It’s fi—.” Devro said, but Bertin cut him off.

  “We also demand compensation from the winner. He is the one who caused the other to splash our feet.”

  Raif fell to his knees. “Yes, yes, of course. I will make him pay. I will meet you right after the next match with pouches of coin.”

  Bertin nodded and patted Devro’s back. The whole crowd had been silent. The pretty girl had left. Spent so much time with this damn Raif I let another slip away. His cousin was bouncing on his feet. “You need new ones anyhow. Those are fit for no prince, maybe a farmer or vagrant.”

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  “I have gold enough.” Devro said.

  Bertin waved away his argument before he could say more. “No such thing.” He pulled out a gold coin from his pocket. A horse reared on the front, the back was printed with the words House Thomas. “You think any of these people would turn down gold? They say there is no coin in Gereduss anymore, but they would kill for it. Finally able to pay for some shipments of grain and chickens. Why should I turn down gold? Because I’m a prince? That isn’t my fault. I never asked to be born into this life.” He bit the gold to show anyone watching that it was the closest they would come to ever seeing the real thing, and put it back in his pocket. “Besides, it has my family’s name on it.”

  Devro rolled his eyes but chuckled before turning to the fighting ring. “Competing to take the title against the great Rufun of Moon Bay is Sir Mar of Ruwy.” The crowd was growing larger now, more active, excited at the names. Bets flew in and Bertin’s ears wanted to fall off. Sir Mar was one of Devro’s knights, the other, Sir Raimund, was behind Bertin’s guards somewhere, probably shaking his head as well. Now this is the man I should spend time with. He thought as he saw a horde of women cheering and waving their favors toward the knight. “May the Four guide your hands.” Raif stepped to the side and the men were off.

  Rufun, a man whose muscles definitely stretched his clothes, stalked near the fence, men and women trying to touch him. Mar didn’t seem to move. He swayed, never leaving too much weight on one foot. Rufun charged but Mar jumped, turning on his left foot and bringing a fist down on Rufun’s swollen neck. The fighter from Moon Bay fell into the mud below, the white of his eyes the only thing unscathed. He charged again like a bull, but Mar jumped and kicked at Rufun’s knee. The man fell again. Bertin made sure to keep his boots away from the fence.

  Behind them, Raimund pushed his way through. The knight supposedly from Viguran was a pale, black haired, tall man, clad in steel with a sword at his side. Bertin wasn’t sure if Devro’s father was too simple minded to be king or didn’t care, but Raimund was obviously a Northerner. His accent wasn’t perfect, and his intimate knowledge of Heller customs and language were a big giveaway. His father would never let an outsider become a knight of Rowan. But Bertin knew King Hurvir of Viguran paled in comparison to any king of Rowan.

  Devro didn’t turn but asked the knight, “Did you know he’d be here?” Sir Raimund found himself next to Devro, leaning on the fence, watching Mar and Rufun swing at one another.

  “Yestermorn Madam Arabell spoke to me about his newfound obsession. I didn’t want to believe her.” Raimund sighed.

  “You mean the woman who runs the whorehouse near the docks?” Bertin interrupted. “I’ve always liked her.”

  Raimund made sure to acknowledge the prince. “Yes that’s the one, Your Grace.” He cleared his throat. “Apparently he can’t even finish if the whores don’t call him their champion.” The trio chuckled. Mar dodged another blow before landing an uppercut. “I haven’t seen him in any fighting pit for years.”

  “He fought? When?” Devro asked. Bertin leaned in to hear the answer. He had known Mar ever since he arrived in Gereduss with Devro, but didn’t know much about the knight.

  “Long ago.” Raimund swatted away the question like a bug.

  Devro pointed to Raimund’s sword, Valkyr. “You think Mar will need protection?”

  “Not at all.” Raimund tapped on the fence. “But these festivals aren’t always safe. Don’t you remember Lord Geary telling you about the stampede that took place in Bardekan? Hundreds dead. Like fucking bulls let loose.”

  “The mites are very similar to bulls,” Bertin said and smirked as he imagined all the dead Rainvealandians south of the bay, “does that surprise anyone? But you think a lone sword could stop the whole of Gereduss?” He looked at his guards with their swords and daggers, circling their prince, keeping them away from some short sighted Gorthair freedom fighter. I’m not sure any amount of weapons would be enough.

  “It could help.” Devro shrugged.

  Bertin turned to the fight, where grunts and slamming fists were drowned out only by the ever growing crowd. “Continue to put in coin folks,” Raif cried, pretending the Gorthair had money. “Silver and bronze and all else. Any coin from the Kormat to the Kash. Longest fight I’ve had today.”

  Before anyone could throw coins, Rufun landed a right hook on Mar’s face. The knight fell to the brown mud for the first time. Rufun dropped to the ground and let his bear-like fists melee poor Mar’s face. The crowd shuttered while the official pressed for more money. Mar wasn’t moving, his face becoming more red than brown. Bertin was pulled aside by Sir Gerg as Raimund and the royal guards jumped the fence, yanking the mass of muscle from atop Sir Mar.

  The official ran over to Raimund. “My good Sir, you are disrupting my match. Sir Mar could have gotten to his feet.”

  “The match was over. The giant is the winner.” Raimund rested his hand on his sword.

  Bertin made a click with his mouth for Raif’s attention. The official’s eyes widened when he noticed who Raimund was with. “Of course, Sir, Your Highness. If you say the match is over then Rufun has won again. A great victory he had.” The crowd was booing at Mar being allowed to leave with his life and Raif turned to calm them.

  “I think paying for Sir Mar’s face is in order.” Bertin called. Raif stiffened but continued with the crowd. “I will have my coin now or send men to collect.”

  Raif rummaged through a locked chest guarded by a large headed man. He threw three pouches of stallions to Gordo who pocketed the gold, silver and bronze. Rufun the Great called out, “What of my match? My money?” He started for Raif, his guard not stepping in to help.

  “Time we leave.” Wilclef said.

  Raimund was dragging Mar away as Raif was pelted with rocks and Rufun cracked his knuckles. Robalt handed Mar a handkerchief for the blood.

  “Drunk already?” Raimund asked when Mar gave a sigh.

  “First thing in the morning. Need to be drunk to fight.” Mar mustered a laugh. “Will the girls still flock to me like Rowai sheep?” He waved at his broken nose, swollen cheeks, and blackened eyes.

  “They’re whores Mar, they’ll fuck a fish if you pay them.” Raimund said.

  “Madam Arabell always said my face was the best part about me, of course she hasn’t fucked me even though I offer her all my holdings in Ruwy.” Bertin let out a laugh. “What’s funny?” Mar asked. “Ruwy is beautiful in the winter when everything’s dead, it doesn’t smell like shit, and my family stays indoors.”

  “Why are you out here?” Devro wiped the mud from his boots.

  “Were. I’m finished. Rufun, that dumb oaf, is the champion. Hope you didn’t bet on me.” Mar spat blood.

  “You?” Raimund slapped Mar’s back who let out a groan. “Never.”

  Mar swiveled a quick fist. “Fuck off,” he said with a smile. He wiped his mouth that began to drool with blood. “I really am a mess.”

  Raimund patted his back and watched the muddy ground. “It’s time you came back to the cliff. You’ve drunk and whored around enough to last a lifetime.”

  Mar pushed Raimund’s hand away. “Madam Arabell’s is close enough. I was thinking I go there, get my mind off losing.”

  “Perhaps I’ll join.” Bertin said. “You can come too, Devro. I hear Madam Arabell’s is better than the one near King Artin’s statue.” Wilclef and Gordo were whispering with a lean boy who was out of breath. “What is it?” He left Raimund and Devro to worry about Mar.

  “A message, My Prince.” Wilclef said. “From His Grace, your father. He wants you back in the capital. Says it’s urgent.”

  Bertin rolled his eyes at the thought of no brothel, but said, “Well if he says it then it must be true.” He held great respect for his father. The man who doused the flames and brought the kingdom back together, even though his idea of urgency wasn’t always the same as Bertin’s. “I’ll tell my cousin.” The guards bowed their heads.

  Devro was telling Mar, “I don’t think the brothel is for me. Make sure you’re back so Raimund doesn’t have to search the whole of the city for you again.”

  “You know,” Bertin strutted from behind, “I’ve heard stories of men who have died in the act in Rowan brothels. The man and the woman are having a nice time then, before you know it, he’s stuck inside her dead. Must be traumatic for the whore.” He bounced his head. “At least they were paid.”

  “Shall we go back to the cliff or find more games to bet on?” Devro asked his cousin.

  “You do what you want, my father wants me back in the capital. Apparently it’s important.”

  “Hopefully not war,” Devro said. “That would bring an end to the festivities.” Father would never fight another war, would he?

  Raimund shook his head. “Not war. The Gorthair may not care about the world beyond their cliffs, but the word would spread. I hope you have a safe journey back.”

  “By sea or the marches?” Devro asked, almost like he wanted to go with Bertin. He hadn’t been to the capital in years. It isn’t much, cousin.

  “By road, young prince.” Gordo came forward. “News of a storm near Edincassone has come with the ships in the harbor, better be safe.”

  “And you trust the Gorthair won’t ambush us in the marches?” Bertin gulped. He didn’t want to bleed out in the middle of some rocky hills surrounded by his enemies. That’s not a fitting end for a prince like me.

  Gerg fingered his sword hilt. “They would be making a foolish mistake. An easy trip to see the Four and the Many.”

  “Be safe.” Devro said, his eyes shaky. Mar grumbled some words then coughed up blood.

  “And with that I’m off.” Bertin embraced Devro, not wanting to let go of his cousin and face whatever lay to the east. Then he shook Raimund’s and an aching Mar’s arm. “I hope to see you again in time for Meret’s Feast.” He strode away with his entourage of guardsmen and knights, people pointing to the crown atop his short brown hair. Glares never ending. He didn’t know if he should worry more about the marches or whatever his father deemed urgent.