Chapter 1946: Collecting Wreaths (Part One)

"Ox. Cart. Ox. Cart. OX. CART!"

In the Imperial Box, Sybyll let out a long, hearty laugh as she watched Reynold pulling the crowd into the match.

"Ye see that, lasses," she said, smiling broadly at Cossot and Roseen. "That’s a man ye can ride wit’ right inta’ tha’ jaws o’ death, and ye might just ride back out again. Look fer men like tha’ ta’ fight wit’ an’ ye’ll never find yerself alone on tha’ field, no matter how foul tha’ odds be."

"I understand trying to get under his opponent’s skin," Roseen said hesitantly as she watched the champions preparing for their charge. "But will it work against a man like Taghai? Does he speak the king’s common tongue well enough to know what the insult means?"

"Do it matter?" Sybyll asked. Her crimson eyes gleamed with mirth and her lush lips curled into a wide smile as she took the opportunity to school her squire and her handmaiden. "Whether tha’ barb pricks Taghai or not, Reynold knows he planted it. Fer his own mind, tha’s a victory. If it works, tha’s two."

"Remember lass," Sybyll added. "Yer armor protects yer flesh. Yer heart an’ yer mind are still plenty vulnerable, an tha’ same is true for those ye fight. A sharp tongue will do almost as much as a sharp sword."

Cossot nodded several times, looking as though she were committing every word to memory, perhaps to be written down in a notebook when she returned to her chambers. As interesting as the events in the Imperial Box were, it was clear that this was the moment she’d most been looking forward to seeing, and she was unwilling to look away from the upcoming joust for even a moment.

"Does your approval mean you’ll be offering him a spot in your new order of knights?" Thane asked mildly as he came to join his first student and her followers. "He seems to fit well with your brand of warrior."

"Ye know I won’t," Sybyll said with a snort. "I’ve only an interest in lasses fer me order. Tha’ Potence o’ Blood be a fine gift, an’ I won’a waste it on lads who have their own paths ta’ strength an’ power. Ye should take him in," she suggested, turning to look at her teacher. "Ye said ye’ needed a true apprentice."

"This one is already spoken for," he said, nodding in Dirar’s direction. "I might have taken him on, but with Lord Erling’s loss, it’s unlikely he won’t enter Dirar’s camp."

"So share him wit’ Dirar," Sybyll said, as though it were a simple thing. "Or challenge him fer tha’ lad. Ye know ye could win tha’ day on that." ℯ

"And lose more than I gained," Thane said, rapping Sybyll lightly on the head with his knuckles. "I let Ollie go, and I’m far more invested in his success. I can pass on Reynold too. I’m in no rush to build an order of Knight Commanders," Thane said. "We can win the next war without them. The one after that," he said with a shrug. "Let’s see what men like Reynold show us before we make up our minds..."

On the field, Ashlynn’s voice rang out through the night as clear and loud as a bell, and Reynold and Star Chaser didn’t waste as much as a heartbeat before they shot off the line.

The instant they moved, the knights in the nobles’ section leaned forward, some in surprise while others nodded in silent understanding. They could calculate the odds as well as anyone, and many of them had come to the same conclusion that Reynold had initially reached; the only chance of victory was to outrun Taghai, preventing him from building momentum in his charge.

In the Dunn seating area, Sir Gavin Ashford’s hand drifted upward, unconsciously massaging the shoulder Sir Ollie had healed to demonstrate the power of witchcraft.

"He’s going for the wreaths," Gavin said, pulling his wife, Isolde, closer to him without taking his eyes off the field.

"Do you think they’ll make the difference between them?" Sir Bedwyr asked, shifting nervously in his seat.

"You’ve seen what Sir Ollie’s witchcraft is capable of," Gavin said, letting go of the shoulder along with the memory of the old hurt that the flame-haired witch had erased. "Empress Ashlynn’s witchcraft seems even more impressive. If it were me, I’d try the same. But actually hitting those wreaths with a lance," he said, shaking his head.

"I might manage four or five out of the thirteen," Gavin said, giving himself an honest appraisal. "If I had to wager, I’d put a gold sovereign on Rain Aleese to get at least seven," he said grudgingly. His loss to Rain Aleese had come with an injury that haunted him for two long years, but he was knight enough to admit that it had been the other man’s skill, not luck, that knocked him from his horse that day.

"How many do you think Lord Reynold will manage?" Isolde asked, hanging on tightly to her husband’s hand. "More than Sir Rain would have?"

"I’ve never ridden against Lord Reynold," Gavin said honestly. "But how he takes the first wreath will tell us a great deal..."

On the track, Reynold and Star Chaser hardly looked like they were in a hurry. Reynold held the reins lightly in his left hand, keeping the icy heater shield tucked close to his body while applying familiar pressure to Star Chaser’s ribs with the toes of his sabatons.

They were moving at a steady pace in a controlled, collected canter as they approached the first tree and Reynold set the lance at the ready.

The first wreath hung forty paces ahead on his right, out at the end of a branch that reached across his path at about the height of his own shoulder.

Reynold brought the point up, and the point climbed and it fell, drawing a slow figure in the air with every stride Star Chaser took. It drifted up as he gathered and down as he landed, swinging as much as a full foot with each stride.

Don’t aim the lance, he reminded himself.

Reynold stopped watching the point of his lance and watched the ring instead. The swing of his point was large enough to cross the whole width of the wreath, but it didn’t matter how much the lance swung. All that mattered was where in the arc it was when he reached his target.

"Close," Reynold said as he watched the distance falling away before he nudged Star chaser with his heel and asked for a half-stride of collection. The rhythm of Star Chaser’s hoofbeats changed instantly, and the point of the lance came up out of its arc exactly where Reynold intended it to.

The wreath came off the branch.

It slid down the shaft, a cold weight running the twelve feet from point to grip faster than he could follow it, and burst against the lance’s vamplate in a shower of ice and pale light.

As it exploded, Reynold felt something flowing up his arm.

It wasn’t a warmth, exactly. More like the feeling a man got when he’d been carrying something heavy for a long while and then finally set it down. A sense of relief that flowed all through his body and made the lance feel a touch easier to control.

Beneath him, Star Chaser’s stride changed slightly as well. It wasn’t faster. Not exactly. Easier. Like the cold, frozen ground no longer bothered him as they raced toward the next target.

"That’s one," Reynold told his trusted partner. "Just twelve more to go..."