The king spoke louder still. “Thankfully, my valiant soldiers have managed to recover the malicious Artifact used in this curse.”
At a gesture from the king, a servant came forward, carrying a thin display cushion with something atop it. Aria lurched forward, then stopped herself. It was not a broken teacup or bloody towel the servant carried. It was a strange bronze box, small enough Aria could have lifted it with one hand.
What is happening?
Her father continued without falter. “As a result of these events, I make two proclamations. First, all Casters within the kingdom are confined to their homes until this matter is resolved. Any found to be sympathetic to Morton will be arrested.”
Illness swayed Aria on the spot. She remembered Baron standing before her father, speaking truth:I’ve done nothing wrong.Condemned for it anyway. He was out there right now, hearing this, bearing it like the burn of a fresh brand.
But the madness only grew.
“Second, any eligible man within court may take the Crown’s challenge—to destroy this Artifact, thereby rescuing my daughter. The man successful in this endeavor will be awarded Crown Princess Aria’s hand in marriage.”
“Father,” Aria hissed.
He didn’t look at her.
“Be warned—those who fail this challenge will receive punishment in accordance with failing their kingdom. I seek only the most inexorable among you, those with the power and determination to protect this kingdom, now and forever.
“We will prevent our kingdom’s fall from peace. We will stand strong, as Loegria has always done. In the face of threat, we will be noble, fearless, and undaunted!”
A cheer went up from the stands, shaking Aria’s world like an earthquake.
“Let the tournament begin!”
The flags fell. Jousters galloped forward, colliding in storms of splinters. The crowd roared. By the end of the first round of eliminations, a contestant had already been carried prone from the field. Senseless competition with deadly consequences.
“I’m surprised you’re still here,” Huxley called to Baron, craning his neck above the twins sitting between them. “You did hear the king, did you not, my lord?”
Corvin inched away from Huxley on the bench, nearly climbing into Leon’s lap, but for once, his twin didn’t protest. Leon sat like a statue, fingertips digging into his knees, no doubt resisting all the emotion boiling within.
For their sake, Baron adopted his signature calm. “Seeing as we share a carriage, Mr. Huxley, I thought you would appreciate the postponement of my house arrest until you could enjoy the tournament’s conclusion. If you’d prefer, we can leave now, and you’ll forfeit the bets placed on Lord Nicholas to win.”
Huxley returned his attention to the field, retaining a hint of satisfaction in his expression. As the next contestant was unseated, he cheered with the crowd.
The twins didn’t cheer or shout insults. At the last joust they’d attended, before Father’s death, Leon had been so eager to bellow abuses at a fallen jouster that he’d overbalanced on thestands and fallen himself, bruising his tailbone. Corvin would never have let him live down such an event, but he hadn’t seen it because he’d been trying to climb Baron’s shoulders to cry foul play at the other contestant.
Now they watched in silence.
Baron glanced toward the royal box where Aria sat in the canopy’s shadow. He could no longer see her face, but from her shocked expression earlier, her father’s declarations had been as unexpected to her as to the rest of court. Baron took a small bit of comfort in that.
Any amount of comfort was welcome—better than the veiled glares he received from all directions in the stands.
At last, the final clash roared from the lists and stands in crashing metal and screaming cheers. Henry Wycliff stood victorious over every participant.
Baron managed a hint of a smile. Earl Wycliff had seven sons, and there wasn’t a bad one in the bunch—not even Hugh, who had declared himself Baron’s official rival in swordsmanship years ago. Henry was second-youngest, barely eighteen, yet Baron wasn’t surprised to see a Wycliff distinguishing himself yet again.
From the field, Henry bowed to the royal box, helmet lodged under one arm, dripping sweat yet beaming all the same.
The king stood. “Your inexorable champion!”
The field thundered with applause as already-hoarse voices cheered once more. One of the field attendants hurried forward to present Henry with a golden trophy, which he raised high.
But the king wasn’t done. “A trophy is not all you have earned today, Henry, son of Earl Wycliff.”
Henry turned back, grinning.
Somehow, Baron knew what was coming.Inexorable.
