A certain repulsive smell, mixed with something strangely alluring. First the stench, then it began to smell pleasant, and then there was a faint tapping sound, followed by gentle knocking. Someone was grinding something, chopping and mixing it; the pestle first struck the dark granite mortar, the blows softened by the mixture being crushed inside. The impacts were dull, then came a grainy scraping sound, stone grinding against stone — an abrasive noise that slowly began to wake Desimir. His eyes opened gradually, slowly and with great effort.
"Where am I?"
The question echoed in his head, accompanied by the clacking sounds of wooden clogs. Above him he could see nothing but a dark stone wall, uneven and as rough as his eyes could discern. Hanging above was an iron chandelier, rusted and ancient, holding several lit candles.
"Maybe it should fall on me…"
Gloomy thoughts passed through his mind as pain coursed through his body. "Finish me off."
He clenched his fist angrily, turning that anger inward. Had he failed his comrades once again?
"No."
He opened his eyes wide, staring at the candles as wax slowly melted and dripped down.
"I have to find them as soon as possible…"
He tried to rise, but pain struck him again. His face twisted as he lowered himself back onto the straw beneath his head. He lay on a stone table, beneath him a brown cloth stained with blood. He could move his head just enough to see what was happening around him.
"I'm wearing only trousers… is this my blood?"
He didn't know where to begin.
Once more he heard the clacking of heels and turned his head to the right. An elderly man with a pale face approached, dressed in a wide black robe that covered his entire body. A leather belt encircled his waist, holding various vials — some clear, others filled. Filled with what? Desimir wondered. The old man approached slowly, carrying a bowl from which a strange white steam rose. The scent of stinkwort, rank lilac, and other herbs filled the stone chamber.
"I see you're awake," the man said in a weak, slightly hoarse yet gentle voice as he came closer. He helped Desimir into a crooked, half-seated position. Pain flooded the young man, drawing sweat to his face — pain on the right side of his abdomen, near the liver. The old man supported him.
"Drink this."
He pressed the wooden bowl to Desimir's lips. The stench made his eyes water, burning his sclera.
Then he poured it all down his throat. Desimir was surprised when he tasted sweetness. The smell was awful, but the flavor was mildly sweet — probably from alaria petals, he thought, recalling how his mother once told him that crushed petals of that flower were used as a sweetener in certain recipes. The old man pulled the bowl away from Desimir's lips, now wet with the strange concoction, but did not lay him back down, keeping him upright.
"This should help you," the old man said softly, setting the bowl beside him. Then, with his other hand, he pulled a vial from his belt and sprinkled Desimir's wound — one he had stitched earlier. Pain surged again; Desimir's eyes flooded with tears as the burning sensation forced a grimace from him. Then the old man lowered him back down.
"It stings a little, I know," the man in black said, returning the vial to its sheath.
"But I must make sure it doesn't fester."
"Who are you?" Desimir managed to ask. "Where am I?" One question after another. "How long was I unconscious?" Pain returned as he pushed himself onto his forearms.
"I am the Herbal Whisperer of this stronghold," the old man explained — the man in charge of medicine.
"And the stronghold is?" Desimir asked roughly, then realized the man's hospitality. "If you could tell me, I would be very grateful."
At that moment, light footsteps sounded from the top of the stone stairs. Desimir turned his head toward them while the Whisperer continued his work. The clacking grew closer and closer, until he saw the lower hem of a dress bouncing gently with each step downward. Despite the pain wracking his body, Desimir's eyes worked perfectly.
He saw a beautiful young woman with pale skin and rosy cheeks. Waves the color of night framed her rounded head and fell to her shoulders. Her black hair gleamed in the lantern light, accentuating her equally dark, almond-shaped eyes of medium size. She was slender and carried herself well, and even through her dress Desimir could discern her modest breasts, firm beneath the light gray fabric. Her lips were small and elegant, her eyebrows thin and gently arched, matching her delicate, well-shaped nose.
"Is our guest giving you any trouble, Whisperer Burkhard?"
Her gentle voice matched her appearance perfectly, just as Desimir had expected.
"Not at all, my young lady," the old man replied confidently. "He has just awakened. Would you be so kind as to explain where he is?" he asked, resuming his mixing of various herbs — the scraping sound began again. "After all, that is the host's duty."
"The host?" Desimir wondered. "Is she my host? But she's far too young to be the lady of a stronghold." He concluded she could hardly be older than himself, if at all.
"Where are my manners?" she said, stepping closer to the table. Her hair appeared even shinier and smoother up close, her eyes darker and more beautiful. She bent her knees slightly, lowered her head just a little, and made a half-bow, her hair falling over her face.
"My name is Line Braurels. You are in Stone Ridge, near the coast of the Kingdom of Ganalor — a stronghold owned by, and whose lawfull heir is, my father, Lord Gerlach Braurels." She straightened.
"Welcome."
She smiled, and Desimir paled for a moment, taking the last of the potion beside him to steady himself.
"I'm in enemy territory," he thought, but quickly calmed himself and took a deep breath.
"Thank you for saving me," he said calmly, trying not to sound suspicious, "but I would like to leave as soon as possible. I have somewhere I must be."
"You must rest at least until tomorrow," the old man's creaky voice chimed in. "If you intend to move at all with that wound afterward."
"You'll have to speak to my lord father about leaving," she continued, waiting for him to introduce himself. "He is extremely interested in your story…"
"Desimir. My name is Desimir."
"A pleasure, Desimir," she smiled. "I very much look forward to hearing your story."
The candles dimmed for a second, then flared again, casting light across the room. A strange draft descended the stairs, and the pestle and mortar continued their work as Desimir thought of how desperately he needed to find his comrades.
Trumpets sounded every ten minutes, each time two jousters rode out to face one another. After every bout, cleaners collected the broken wooden lances and leveled the arena floor. The sun was pleasant, the wind fresh, and the air clean. Several hours had passed since the tournament began, and the crowd could not complain about a lack of action. More than a hundred participants had entered — some from great and wealthy houses, others from poorer yet well-known ones, and some of humbler origins who wished to follow in the footsteps of the former King of Leaves and turn their cottages into a place of life called Spring Castle.
"I can't believe young Lord Tasserah was eliminated in the first round," grumbled a pale-brown-haired man, upset that he had wagered three silver coins on him. It seemed he would now have to find another favorite.
"I told you so," crowed the red-bearded man.
"You could tell by the way he sat his horse that he wasn't much of a rider. And don't even get me started on how a tournament lance throws you off if you're not used to it." He took a deep gulp from his tankard; the wine had long since gone cold, but he was determined to drain every last drop.
"Well, at least your man is still standing," the other said, staring into his empty tankard.
"That's right. I told you he's gone far in several past tournaments — why not this one too?"
"What exactly did you bet on him again?"
"That he'd make it to the third round. I heard there were over a hundred participants, so they'll use a five-round system, then semifinals and finals once four remain."
"And the odds?"
"Three to one that he reaches the third round. I put down five silver coins and one gold."
The red-bearded man was convinced his favorite would reach the mark.
"That would be good money…" the light-brown-haired man mused, wondering if he too should have bet on Gordon Tair.
Time passed slowly. One jouster fell after another, lances shattered, shields splintered.
In the high box, King Ailred watched the flow of the tournament carefully. Several important lords and ladies sat around him, occasionally asking questions, which he answered briefly, trying to enjoy the spectacle.
"My king, the vineyards of the Southern Valleys bore a very rich harvest this year," said a man approaching as the arena was cleared. He had a square face, a short black-and-gray beard, a balding head, and a somewhat plump build — a man in his early fifties.
"I would be honored if you found the time to visit us and taste the wine we'll make from this year's harvest," the man said, smiling more like a giggle.
"Who knows,perhaps after this tournament we'll have more reasons to socialize." Ailred smiled sourly upon hearing that.
"If only your hair bore fruit as generously as your valleys, Lord Tair," came a manly,commanding voice from the stairs, "we could stuff cushions for the whole arena." Light-brown-haired, with a neatly trimmed beard shaping a square face that looked older than his thirty-one years. His hair was short and sharp, lifting slightly at the brow, light brown with a hint of blonde sheen. His pale face and deep, narrow hazel eyes radiated seriousness, though not in this moment. When he shook hands with Caerwyn, he stood at least a third of a head shorter — yet no less imposing in presence.
Beneath his tucked-in trousers and his light, nearly translucent green linen shirt tinged with gray, one could glimpse broad, solid chest muscles, well-shaped shoulders, and a lean frame. He was like a wire — slim and sinewy, yet far from weak. Over the casual shirt he wore a shimmering, light-cut chainmail of smaller, lighter rings made from a different material than usual, nearly white, gleaming blindingly in the sun. His black leather trousers were tucked into dark, deep boots. Around his waist was a belt bearing a crest worn only by the finest in Tolan — a symbol of the kingdom's freshness and calm, though those who wore it embodied valor, honor, and duty. The crest was a black pointed shield with two crossed golden wheat stalks and a dark green band at the center.
Lord Tair's face reddened — more from anger than embarrassment — as King Ailred took his hand and patted it.
"I would be honored to visit the southern part of the kingdom, Lord Tair," the king said with a smile. Normally serious and cold, Ailred seemed unusually warm and relaxed that day, as if he had taken on the spirit of the beautiful weather blessing the occasion. Lord Tair scratched his head and returned to his seat a few meters away, his face now lightly flushed.
"You've finally joined us," Ailred said, his voice deepening, sharp now.
"Captain Elalynn."
The captain of the First Royal Division of Tolan smiled and stood beside Caerwyn.
"My apologies for being late, Your Majesty. I had some important matters to attend to." He stood upright, adjusting his belt. The king merely turned back toward the arena, watching cleaners remove the broken lance fragments from the previous round.
"Whores?" Caerwyn whispered, leaning toward Neremyn.
"Several," came the whispered reply.
"I thought you preferred tournaments," said the captain of the Second Division.
"With so many participants, you start wondering whether every bastard who ever held a sword is present. I figured I wouldn't miss much, so I relaxed."
"I'm sure they relaxed you," Caerwyn grinned, followed by Neremyn.
"Very much so."
The arena was cleared. The ground was dry and firm, a little dust rising — nothing to trouble the jousters.
The trumpets sounded again. The stands fell silent, broken only by a faint murmur of conversation. Then the announcer spoke, his voice deep and melodic:
"Prince Vesryn of Spring Castle and Ser Kiren Kobl. Step forward and take the yellow field. May fortune favor you, and may your lances be a true reflection of your will and honor."
From the far side of the arena emerged Prince Vesryn atop a jet-black stallion. The muscular beast with its dark mane wore a deep green caparison adorned with russet flowers. The cloth nearly reached the ground, leaving room for the legs, covering the hindquarters, back, flanks, and part of the neck. The prince wore full plate armor and a helmet exposing only his eyes and beard. His shield was a classic pointed type, painted green with the same motif as the horse's caparison — russet night-polaris flowers.
His brown eyes fixed sharply on his opponent, who sat opposite on a dark-tailed bay horse without a caparison, wearing similar but lesser-quality armor. His shield bore the same shape, but with a brown background and a yellow ash leaf at its center.
"Well, look at that," said the red-bearded man.
"At what?" the other asked.
"Has the wine really hit you that hard? That's the lad from the coast."
The man squinted, then widened his eyes.
"You're right. Shame he drew the prince so early."
"Yeah… he's tall and broad — at least half a head taller than the prince, I'd say," the red-beard concluded. "Though the prince looks good — upright and confident. Built like his father." The other smacked him on the head. "Careful. You know people are divided about his father. Even the kingdom is divided, you might say." He whispered now, so as not to draw attention.
"Watch your head — you've had too much wine."
"And even if he loses here, the lad has the potential to become a fine knight," the red-beard added.
They fell silent, focusing on the bout.
Both jousters wielded identical tournament lances — fir wood, softer and easier to shatter. They lowered their notched lances with blunt tips, aiming at one another.
"Oh, the young prince looks serious," Caerwyn observed.
"How can you tell from here?" Neremyn asked, but Caerwyn ignored him, absorbed in the action.
"Still," the First Division captain grew serious, "he must win this tournament if he wishes to win her hand — and become king." That was what he thought, though what he said aloud was, "It's a fine day, isn't it?"
Caerwyn glanced at him, noticing his gaze lifted to the sky.
"And I hope you succeed in that goal, young prince," Neremyn silently cheered him on, his face betraying nothing.
The trumpets blared, loud and trembling. The crowd roared. Spurs flashed, horses leapt forward. The ground trembled, dust rising in their wake. The wind seemed to pause — as did the crowd — when lances struck shields. Both hit true, yet neither fell. The prince wavered slightly; the young knight remained steady in the saddle.
"New lance!" the prince shouted irritably. Both were handed fresh lances by attendants. The next pass went the same, and the one after that — solid hits, no fall.
"They seem evenly matched," Caerwyn concluded. "I imagine you're glad you didn't miss this round, Neremyn." He glanced at the calm, cold captain of the First Division, then returned his gaze to the arena center.
Spurs rang again. The horses began at a trot, then faster and faster until they reached a full gallop.
"Nothing will stop me," the prince thought. "I'll crush them all." His eyes effusive.
They charged again — but this time it was different. A blow — dull, piercing. The crowd gasped, then fell silent. The horse continued to gallop — riderless — while its former master choked on the ground in his own blood, his airway blocked. The prince had leaned in and struck his throat in the collision; a shard of the lance lodged in his windpipe, tearing an opening from which red poured forth.
Several men rushed to the young knight. One stopped the horse — but who would ride it now? On the ground, the knight thrashed in dust and blood, clawing at the dry earth — hopelessly — clutching his throat — hopelessly. He had come to the tournament to become the new King of Leaves — hopelessly. The prince rode out; his opponent was carried out on a stretcher.
"He had a bright future," said an older man beside the red-beard.
"Fuck the future…" the red-beard replied sadly. "He didn't even get to drink properly with us."
In the high box, some chatted and discussed what had happened.
"A pity," Caerwyn spoke first.
"Today is not a day for dying."
"So young," King Ailred commented.
Neremyn remained silent, watching as cleaners shoveled sand over the blood and leveled the ground.
"We will achieve our goal, my prince," he thought, as the tournament slowly continued.
Inside the stranger's house it was warm. The fire burned, dry logs crackling with a pleasant sound as smoke rose through the chimney. Elstan, Gerde, Ervin, and Ujiyoshi wore wool trousers and linen shirts, warm and dry, while their clothes heated above the fire.
"They'll stink of smoke," Ujiyoshi thought as they sat at the table eating a porridge of milk, bread, and chunks of beef prepared by their host. Ervin scraped the wooden bottom of his now-empty bowl.
"There's more if you want," the man said with a smile, and Ervin handed him the bowl.
"Please," he said, and the man refilled it from the pot.
"My children love this dish too. Whenever there's nothing else to eat, this saves us."
"It's very tasty," Elstan remarked, mouth full.
"Ah, thank you. Now then — I heard you say you're merchants traveling to Nilfalion," the man said calmly, coldly. Gerde shot Elstan a sharp glance, which Elstan returned.
"Yes… that's right," Elstan confirmed.
"The road to the capital is long from here. Horses — and new clothes — might help you, wouldn't they?"
They all stopped eating. The crackling of the fire broke the silence.
"What exactly are you implying?" Elstan asked suspiciously.
"I know what merchants of these lands look like, gentlemen." He leaned on the table with his elbows. "More seafaring traders pass this road than anywhere else in the kingdom — and I've never seen you before."
Elstan reached for a sword hilt that wasn't there, realizing none of them were armed — everything lost in the storm. But Gerde moved swiftly, snapping a wooden spoon against the table, fashioning a sharp stake and pressing it to the man's throat. The chair fell behind Gerde as he stood over the man, the small spike at his neck.
"Stop, Gerde!" Elstan shouted. Ervin and Ujiyoshi stared, frozen. The man's two sons were not there — they had gone to fetch firewood.
"Easy," the man said, raising his hands.
"I want to make a deal."
He remained calm, but sweat flooded his face.
"You help us — and we help you. Doesn't that sound fair, gentlemen?"