Page 8 of The Sun King's Noon

Now they wheeled to opposite ends again. The drums began to beat. The horses pawed at the sand. Richard stared at Kaelen, taking in the steady shoulders and the perfect angle of his lance. Was Kaelen frowning behind the helm? Or was he smirking in anticipation?

The trumpet sounded. Hooves thundered. Lances levelled. The crowd’s roar multiplied.

Richard saw the instant Kaelen’s victory was assured. Corwin, in his attempt to ensure his lance hit, leaned too far in his saddle. It was a habit Richard had tried again and again to coax out of him, and now, Kaelen saw the opening. He struck his lance hard against Corwin’s shield.

Wood cracked. Corwin went flying. People surged to their feet, stomping and clapping. Flags waved, and flowers were thrown into the air.

Flames flared along Elara’s arms, singeing her chair’s upholstery. “Yes! That’s how you do it!”

Richard bit back his smile. A part of him had winced at Corwin’s fall—an older brother instinct too far ingrained. But another part of him welled with pride as Kaelen raised his lance towards the stands. The cheers morphed into a chant of his name.

Kaelen didn’t linger in the glory. He swung down, handing off the reins to a squire, before crouching by Corwin’s stirring frame.

Corwin gingerly sat up, lifting his visor to spit out sand. Kaelen reached for his arm, but was shoved away.

Richard sighed as Elara cackled. She bent over the rail and cupped her mouth.

“You petty child, Corwin! Accept your loss with honour!”

“Sister,” Richard muttered, hoping Corwin was too far away to hear. But from the way Corwin yanked off his helm, his hopes were low.

Suddenly aware of the quiet on his left, Richard turned. Briony had chewed her thumbnail down to the quick. Her eyes flickered over the assembly of people, her chest heaving.

“Briony.” Richard tugged her thumb down. “Are you well?”

Briony flinched at his touch. “Yes, Brother…it is just too loud.”

Richard gaped. Loud had never bothered Briony a day in her life. But before he could press, the herald’s assistant appeared at his shoulder. “Your Majesty. It is time.”

Richard rose with his sisters and was ushered down from the royal stand, through a corridor of guards, and out into the yard where a podium had been erected. The crates that formed the floor were wreathed in red cloth and decorated with flower garlands.

Silence fell as Richard mounted the steps. He took his place at the centre, Elara and Briony behind him on either side. Kaelen and Corwin approached from opposing sides of the yard. Corwin limped slightly, dark hair flattened with sweat and sand smudging his cheeks.

The herald handed Richard a ribboned bouquet of roses. Corwin stopped in front of Richard, his mouth fixed in a surly grimace. Richard leaned in, pretending to brush off grit from the boy’s chin, before he seized the collar and jerked him close.

“You will not sulk,” Richard hissed under his breath. “Not in front of our people who are trying to forget ruins and screams. Now, straighten your face and make them believe you care more for them than your bruised pride.”

Corwin glowered right back, but once Richard released his collar, he forced a grin and waved to the crowds. Richard pressed the bouquet into his hands.

“For courage and skill,” Richard announced. “Prince Corwin, second place in the King’s Tourney.”

The cheers that resounded were almost drowned out by the shrill whistles and coos from a gaggle of young ladies. Corwin’s grin widened, and he blew the ladies a kiss before joining Elara and Briony.

Richard’s pulse quickened when Kaelen stepped forward. He, too, was drenched in sweat, but his armour gleamed. Unseated not even once throughout the tourney. Dain,patrolling by the stands, puffed up his chest and smoothed his moustache.

Kaelen’s smile faded as he met Richard’s eyes. He bowed, fist thudding against his breastplate, and then stood rigid, face blank.

“Your Majesty.”

“Congratulations, Sir Kaelen.” Richard passed a bag of gold. A modest sum—some fifty gold pieces. “Your prize.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Kaelen said stiffly.

“And—” Richard hesitated, warmth creeping up his neck. He reached into his tunic’s inner pocket and drew out a dagger. The crowd ooh-ed as he unsheathed it, revealing its glossy black surface and emerald-encrusted hilt. “This was gifted to me by Princess Seola of Frostheim. The obsidian comes from their deep ice caves, and slices through the toughest leather as easily as paper.”

Kaelen’s brows twitched into a frown. “I recall, Your Majesty.” His voice dropped. “You tried to slice your throat with it.”

Richard fought the urge to roll his eyes. Two months prior, he’d attempted to carve out the Lumeron. Kaelen had panicked over how the Lumeron sat over his carotid and had tackled Richard to the ground.