“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 had just exited. One was huge, with a wild red mustache 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.
CHAPTER 7
OF ELVES AND MEN
Thrace lay on the margrave’s bed in the manor house, her head carefully wrapped in strips of cloth. Her hair was bunched and snarled, blond strands slipping out between the bandages. Purple and yellow bruises swelled around her eyes and nose. Her upper lip puffed up to twice its size and a line of dark dried blood ran its length. Thrace coughed and mumbled but never spoke, never opened her eyes.