“See him?” Fanen pointed to the man in the brown suede doublet. “That’s Sir Enden, possibly the greatest living knight after Sir Breckton.”
After another day’s travel that left her drowsy, Arista was at the Pickering’s camp, hiding from Bernice. The two boys shared an elegant, single-peak tent of alternating gold and green stripes, which they pitched at the eastern edge of the main camp. The three sat out front under the scallop-edged canopy held up by two tall wooden poles. On the left flew the gold falcon on the red field of the House of Essendon, on the right the gold sword on the green field, of the House of Pickering. It was a modest camp compared to most of the nobles. Some looked like small castles and took hours for a team of servants to erect. The Pickerings traveled lightly, carrying everything they needed on their stallions and two packhorses. They did not have tables or chairs and Arista sprawled in a modest gown on a sheet of canvas. If Bernice saw, the old woman would have a heart attack.
Arista did not mind. She thought it was wonderful to lie back and stretch out under the sky. It reminded her of Summersrule when they were kids. At night the adults would dance and the children would lie on the south hill at Drondil Fields counting the falling stars and fireflies. It was all of them then—Mauvin, Fanen, Alric, even Lenare—back before the Pickering’s sister became too much of a lady. She remembered feeling the cool night breeze rush over her, the sensation of grass on her bare feet, the vast spray of stars above, and the faint melody of the band as it played Calide Portmore, the Galilin folk song.
“And there, see the large man in the green tunic? That’s Sir Gravin; he’s a quester. He does most of his work for the Church of Nyphron. You know recovering artifacts, slaying monsters, those kinds of things. He’s known to be one of the greatest adventurers alive. He’s from Vernes, that’s all the way down near Delgos.”
“I know where Vernes is, Fanen,” Arista replied.
“That’s right, you have to know all that stuff now, don’t you?” Mauvin said. “Your high exulted ambassadorship.” The elder Pickering offered an elaborate seated bow.
“Laugh now—just you wait,” she told him. “You’ll get yours—one day you’ll be marquis. Then it won’t be all fun and games. You’ll have responsibilities, mister.”
“I won’t,” Fanen said sadly.
If not for him being three years younger, Fanen could be Mauvin’s twin. Both had the dashing Pickering features, sharp angled faces, dark thick hair, bright white teeth, and sweeping shoulders that tapered to narrow, athletic waists. Fanen was just leaner and a bit shorter and unlike Mauvin, whose hair was always a frightful mess, Fanen kept his neatly combed.
“That’s why you need to win this thing,” Mauvin told his brother. “And, of course, you will, because you’re a Pickering, and Pickerings never fail. Look at that guy over there. He doesn’t stand a chance.”
Arista did not bother sitting up. He had been doing this all night—pointing out people and explaining how he could tell by the way they walked or wore their sword that Fanen could best them. She had no doubt he was right; she was just tired of hearing it.
“What is the prize for this contest?” she asked.
“They haven’t said yet,” Fanen muttered.
“Gold most likely,” Mauvin replied, “in the form of some award, but that’s not what makes it valuable. It’s the prestige. Once Fanen takes this trophy he will have a name; well, he already has the Pickering name, but he hasn’t any titles yet. Once he does, opportunities will open up for him. Of course, it could be land. Then he’d be set.”
“I hope so; I certainly don’t want to end up at a monastery.”
“Do you still write poetry, Fanen?” Arista asked.
“I haven’t—in a while.”
“It was good, what I remember at least. You used to write all the time. What happened?”
“He learned the poetry of the sword. It will serve him far better than the pen,” Mauvin answered for him.
“Who’s that?” Fanen asked, pointing to the west.
“That’s Rentinual,” Mauvin replied, “the self-proclaimed genius. Get this. He’s brought this thing, a huge contraption with him.”
“Why?”
“He says it’s for the contest.”
“What is it?”
Mauvin shrugged. “Don’t know, but it’s big. He keeps it covered under a tarp and wails like a girl whenever the wagon team bounces it through a rut.”
“Say, isn’t that Prince Rudolf?”
“Where?” Arista popped her head up, moving to her elbows.
Mauvin chuckled. “Just kidding. Alric told us about—your misunderstanding.”
“Have you met Rudolf?” she asked.
“Actually I have,” Mauvin said. “The man has donkeys wondering why they got stuck with him as a namesake.” It took a second then Fanen and Arista broke into laughter, dragging Mauvin with them. “He’s a royal git that’s certain, and I’d have been plenty upset if I thought I was facing a life kissing that ass. Honestly Arista, I’m surprised you didn’t turn Alric into a toad or something.”
Arista stopped laughing. “What?”
“You know, put a hex on him. A week as a frog would—what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said, lying back down and turning onto her stomach.
“Hey—look—I didn’t mean anything.”
“It’s okay,” she lied.
“It was just a joke.”
“Your first joke was better.”
“Arista, I know you’re not a witch.”
A long uncomfortable silence followed.
“I’m sorry,” Mauvin offered.
“Took you long enough,” she said.
“It could have been worse,” Fanen spoke up, “Alric could have forced you to marry Mauvin.”
“That’s really sick,” Arista said, rolling over and sitting up. Mauvin looked at her with hurt, surprised eyes. She shook her head. “I just meant it would be like marrying a brother. I’ve always thought of you all as family.”
“Don’t tell Denek,” Mauvin replied, “he’s had a crush on you for years.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh, and don’t tell him I told you either. Uh—better yet just forget I said that.”
“What about those two?” Fanen asked abruptly, pointing toward a massive red and black striped tent from which two men just exited. One was huge with a wild red moustache and beard. He wore a sleeveless scarlet tunic with a green draped sash and a metal cap with several dents in it. The other man was tall and thin with long black hair and a short trimmed beard. He was dressed in a red cassock and black cape with the symbol of a broken crown on his chest.
“I don’t think you want to mess with either of them,” Mauvin finally said. “That’s Lord Rufus of Trent, Warlord of Lingard, a clan leader and veteran of dozens of battles against the wild men of Estrendor, not to mention being the hero of the battle of Vilan Hills.”
“That’s Rufus?” Fanen muttered.
“I’ve heard he’s got the temperament of a shrew and the arm of a bear.”
“Who’s the other guy, the one with the broken crown standard?” Fanen asked pointing at the other man.
“That, my dear brother, is a sentinel and let’s just hope this is the closest either of us ever get to one.”
While Arista was watching the two men, she saw a silhouette appear against the light of the distant campfire—very short, with a long beard and puffy sleeves.
“By the way, I want to start early tomorrow, Fanen,” his brother said. “I want to get out ahead of the train. I’m tired of eating dust.”
“Anyone know exactly where we are going?” Fanen asked. “It feels like we are traveling to the end of the world.”
Arista nodded. “I heard Sauly talking about it with the archbishop. I think it is a little village called Dahlgren.”
She looked back trying to find the figure once more, but it was gone.