The rider turned to Emel. “You’ll do well then to remember that the king cat patrol has the wall. Stick to the central market area.” The rider turned, moved off without waiting for a response.

“Nothing like a warm welcome,” Faylin said sarcastically.

Emel stroked Ebony’s mane, soothing away the last of the unease from himself and the horse. He couldn’t, however, sweep away the fact that he felt humiliated. Ebony Lightning was a champion. His pride and joy. How could anyone call such a magnificent horse a beast and treat it like it was nothing?

“I know what you’re thinking,” Faylin said. “Don’t do that to yourself. We’re in the Old World, different rules apply.”

Emel beaded his eyes. “What, they don’t teach manners?”

“Cat Patrollers are elitists. You would have got the same treatment if your skin was a golden bronze. Trust me on that.”

“I didn’t think there were any king cats this far north.”

“Gregortonn is an exception. The cats are born and bred here, domesticated. Well, as domesticated as they’ll ever be.”

Emel decided to broach a more dangerous subject than the king cats. “Do you think King William will listen?”

Faylin was silent for a time, then said quietly, “William Riven, King of Sever, is no fool. He has come a long way since his father’s death, since the coronation.”

“You say that as if you know King William personally. Do you?”

Faylin turned to Emel, his eyes unwavering, focused. “Emel, my friend, I am King William.” So saying, he spurred his mount and raced off, leaving Emel to wonder whether he was joking or telling the truth.

* * *

Bladesman S’tryil had a shallow wound stemming from navel to shoulder. In a day or two he would be able to compete again. Valam had a gash above his right eye and several other superficial wounds. Seth and Ansh Brodst were weary, but otherwise fine. Two sparring rounds remained and thus far the four had managed to keep their identities secret. A remarkable feat that wouldn’t have been successful without Seth’s help.

“Two rounds,” whispered Valam, “we’ve gone far enough to skip the individuals. We don’t have to compete tomorrow.”

Ansh, who had matched last, was still breathing hard as he spoke, “If we skip the individuals, take these last two rounds, we advance to the trios. If we lose a round, we have nothing to fall back on, no way to get to the championship round.” He emptied a pitcher of cool water over his head.

“S’tryil is wounded,” Valam said. “There is no way we can hope to win if another of us gets wounded. Two against three isn’t much of a match. I say we wait. In two days we will be strong, ready.”

“I side with Captain Brodst,” Seth said.

“And if you hold back tomorrow and one of us gets hurt, what then?” Valam asked. Seth didn’t have the heart for the barbarism of the rounds. He matched not for the kill, as did others, but to subdue. Valam knew this. He had said nothing of the matter until now.

“That’s unfair, Seth is better than both of us,” remarked Ansh. He was gaining respect for the elf with each day. “Do you really think the whisperers haven’t already relayed that we never arrived in South Province?”

“One thing is sure: They don’t know we are here. So let them guess,” replied S’tryil, wincing as he spoke. The wound looked worse than it actually was and it was only the salve Seth applied that stung.

Valam, imparted Seth, I once remarked that man’s fear was his greatest enemy. I think I was wrong about that. I also asked myself once whether the winner of these competitions would win your trust.

  “You have already earned my trust, Seth.”

Have I truly? If I do not hold back out there tomorrow or the next day and I kill a man, what will it mean? Will it be for something?

“My remark was uncalled for… I do not take oaths lightly. My father made an oath to your queen and I have signed on too…”

Seth spoke aloud. “But do you believe, Valam? This is what matters. Nothing else matters. Do you believe?”

  “Footsteps!” Brodst called out. The room quieted, then darkened as candles were snuffed out.

A knock came on the door. The four held still. “I was told I could find a man called Greer here,” said an unfamiliar voice.

S’tryil opened the door a crack, looked into the dim hall. “Yes?”

“Do you always greet friends so?” asked the other moving into the doorway.

“By the Father!” exclaimed S’tryil, “Come in quickly, quickly. Were you followed?”

“I don’t think so, but I’m afraid your charade hasn’t fooled everyone.”

S’tryil closed the door quickly, and ushered the speaker into a chair. “Go on,” he urged.

“I have grave news.” The man stopped, looked about the room as candles were re-lit. He went on to speak of a plot to kill the heir to the throne, Prince Valam.

“This is old news,” S’tryil said.

“They’ve tried, and failed,” Valam added.

“This news is fresh,” the man said, looking directly at Valam. “You must not continue. They plan to poison the blades. Dragon’s milk. One scratch is all it takes. You are all doomed. The prince especially so.”

We must go on, Valam, directed Seth.

Valam said, “Thank you, friend. We will be on our guard, but we have come too far to turn back. Death awaits us all, does it not?”

The man stood, looking indignant.

“Go,” whispered S’tryil. “I am grateful for the warning, old friend. Do not fear. We will be ready.” S’tryil ushered the man into the hall, staying with him a moment. When he returned, his face was visibly pale.

“What do you make of it?” asked Valam. “Does he speak the truth?”

S’tryil fidgeted with something in his hands. “He is an old friend. He handed me this to give to you, says it is proof.”