Chapter 10 – Chains of Gold

The next day, the Greystones’ carriage rumbled through the narrow streets back to the townhouse, and Valentina could still hear the roar of the debate in Parliament ringing in her ears. It still was exciting to watch Cosimo at work. His carefully placed arguments outside of sessions about the pirate threat and his subtle hints at riches to come had left visible cracks in the opposition.

“The Marquess of Timberpine was particularly persuasive today,” Lady Beatrice remarked as she fanned herself. “The way he calmly brings the other Marcher Lords to their senses, one by one, is truly impressive.”

The duchess nodded in agreement. “Merrick Ashbourne knows how to assert his authority without fuss. Even the stubborn Marquess of Coldby could offer little opposition to his arguments. Ashbourne is not someone you want to mess with.”

“Innogen’s father is working to make a war happen from which the Marches will not benefit in the slightest,” Vyxara murmured in Valentina’s head. “This wedding seems to be worth a lot to him.”

The Greystone townhouse greeted them as always with bustling activity. No sooner had they stepped out of the carriage than servants rushed over to them.

“A quick lunch is served in the small dining room, Your Grace,” announced the housekeeper, Dundee. “But you won’t have much more than half an hour before you must leave for the tournament.”

A light meal of cold chicken, fresh bread, and salad awaited them in the dining room. Valentina forced herself to take a few bites, but she simply had no appetite. Today, Lorenzo’s engagement to Innogen would be announced. The thought turned her stomach.

“You’re hardly eating anything,” Lady Beatrice remarked, looking at her with concern.

“The heat,” Valentina murmured. “And all the exciting debates in Parliament.”

“I’ve heard better lies from you,” teased Vyxara.

After the hasty meal, Valentina hurried to her chambers, where Margaret was already waiting with her afternoon dress in a muted lavender grey.

Lady Beatrice appeared in the doorway, already dressed in a mustard-yellow gown, and waited for her.

Together they went to the Duchess’s chambers, where they dressed Rosalind in an elegant dress in deep grey with silver accents.

The Duchess turned and looked closely at Valentina. Her green eyes narrowed slightly. “You look pale, my dear.”

“It’s nothing, Your Gra- Rosalind. Just the heat.”

Rosalind stepped closer and placed a hand on Valentina’s arm. Her grip was gentle but firm. “Today will be a… difficult day. For several people who are dear to me.” She squeezed Valentina’s hand briefly. “I expect you to keep your composure. Can you do that?”

Valentina nodded silently.

The drive to the tournament grounds took them through streets that were even more crowded than the day before. A little boy with a dirty face ran alongside their carriage, waving enthusiastically. He reminded her of her brother Thomas. Valentina managed a smile and waved back.

“Individual combat is much more technical than yesterday’s melee,” Lady Beatrice chatted, obviously trying to lighten the mood. “Compared to the individual combat the melee is just a mass brawl. The individual duels really show who knows his craft.”

The duchess sighed softly. “I’m worried about Lorenzo though. He’s a skilled fighter, but his heart isn’t in it. He’s not as bloodthirsty as some of the young ruffians competing in this tournament.”

“I don’t know his fighting skills well,” Valentina said cautiously, “but I know he’s an excellent healer. And I’m willing to help him myself if anything happens.”

“As long as his head is still on his shoulders, we’ll be able to patch him up,” Vyxara chuckled in her head, and Valentina had to suppress a flinch, which only amused Vyxara even more.

The tournament grounds welcomed them with the noise of thousands of voices, just like yesterday. The wooden stands, hung with banners in all the colors of the realm, towered above them.

They took the same seats as the day before. The royal family was already enthroned in the middle. King Edmund looked extremely satisfied and relaxed, which was no surprise. After all, he had spared himself the boring parliamentary session and left the tedious work to his Lord Chancellor.

Duke Cosimo was already there, deep in conversation with the Earl of Redpool. But Valentina’s gaze immediately sought out the tournament field.

There stood Lorenzo at the edge, in full plate armor with a tabard in the Greystone colors over it. The Greystone moon with its glowing red eyes looked eerie. He seemed nervous, drumming his gloved fingers against the hilt of his sword. For a moment, their eyes met across the distance.

A murmur rippled through the crowd as the Ashbournes arrived. Marquess Merrick led his family to their seats, the Marchioness Alessandra at his side, and Innogen behind them. Innogen looked ravishing, and anyone who hadn’t yet heard about the impending announcement of the engagement must have had an inkling when they saw her.

She wore a fantastic pale blue silk dress that made her artfully braided golden hair shine. But she looked fragile, like a delicate doll that could break at the slightest touch.

“We’ve never seen her so hollow,” Vyxara murmured sympathetically.

The herald stepped forward, his sun-lit crimson tabard standing out against the muddy field. “Noble lords and ladies!” His voice echoed across the square. “The single combat with swords begins! A battle of man against man, where skill triumphs over brute force and technique over luck!”

Valentina sat up straight and forced her face into a mask of polite attention.

The crowd cheered enthusiastically. In the noble grandstand, the ladies leaned forward expectantly, while the gentlemen had already begun to discuss the chances of the various combatants.

“Twenty gold crowns on young Whitehall winning his duel,” Valentina heard a baron a few rows behind her shout.

“A fool and his gold are soon parted,” his neighbor replied dryly. “The boy still hasn’t gotten over his defeat yesterday.”

The first combatants entered the field. A young knight from House Garandon against a son of the Crowleys from a collateral line. Both bowed stiffly to the royal box, then took their positions.

The fight was mediocre. The Garandon scion wielded his sword as if it were a pitchfork, while the Crowley had obviously spent more time with dance teachers than with weapons masters. After a few clumsy blows, the Crowley tripped over his own feet and landed in the mud.

“By all the flames of the Martyr,” Lady Beatrice murmured next to Valentina. “I regret promising you more refined fights now. Was that a duel or a comedic performance? If Sommerland has to go to war with these guys, I fear the worst.”

The duchess suppressed a smile. “Don’t be so harsh, Beatrice. Not everyone can be a born warrior.”

“Fortunately,” Vyxara snorted in Valentina’s head. “Otherwise, these boring fights would probably take even longer than they already do.”

The next fights showed significantly more skill. A young Ravencroft demonstrated impressive fencing technique against a Montfort, both dancing with their blades in a long back-and-forth of attack and parry. In the end, the Ravencroft won with a clever feint. But even the two of them looked like the Tower could easily eat them for breakfast.

Then the herald sounded again: “Lord Lorenzo Greystone, son of the Duke of Duskenshire!”

A polite round of applause rose from the noble grandstand. Valentina felt her shoulders tense. Next to her, the duchess also sat up noticeably straighter.

Lorenzo entered the field in full plate armor, his tabard bearing the silver moon and glowing red eyes of the Greystones giving him a commanding presence. He moved with a controlled calm, obviously trained and somewhat used to wearing armor, but he lacked the aggressive swagger of a born fighter. He was no Tristan Whitehall.

“His opponent,” announced the herald, “Lord Percival Brandwill, son of the Earl of Westham!”

The young Brandwill was the exact opposite of Lorenzo. He was broad-shouldered young guy, with a confident grin, and like Lorenzo, he had trained with the sword every day since he was five years old. Unlike Lorenzo, however, he had not spent a few years learning Essence Weaving as well. Maybe that would give him a slight edge in sword fighting.

“Ten gold crowns on Brandwill,” Valentina heard someone say behind her.

“Accepted,” Duke Cosimo replied coolly, without turning around.

Both fighters lowered their visors, bowed to King Edmund, then took their positions. Brandwill twirled his sword demonstratively through the air, while Lorenzo simply waited, his sword in a relaxed guard stance.

The referee raised his white cloth. “Begin!”

Brandwill attacked immediately with a powerful overhead strike that forced Lorenzo to parry hastily. The clang of steel on steel echoed across the field. The earl’s son pressed on, landing a series of quick blows that pushed Lorenzo back step by step.

“He’s too defensive,” muttered a lord nearby. “He’s letting himself be pushed into a corner.”

But Valentina saw it differently. Lorenzo was closely tracking Brandwill’s movements. He was studying his attack patterns. When the next blow came, a predictable side slash, Lorenzo was suddenly not where he should have been. He slid to the side and his sword shot forward, hitting Brandwill’s shoulder hard with a metallic clang.

“First hit for Lord Lorenzo!” cried the referee.

Brandwill became more aggressive, his blows more powerful. Lorenzo parried and dodged, but there was no joy in his movements, no fire, no hunger, like he was fulfilling an unpleasant duty.

“He fights like other people chop wood,” Vyxara remarked mockingly. “Because it has to be done.”

Brandwill seemed to sense this. He became even wilder, trying to overwhelm Lorenzo with sheer aggression. A particularly violent overhead blow struck Lorenzo’s helmet with a deafening roar that echoed across the square and made Valentina flinch. Lorenzo staggered, his sword dropping for a moment.

“Now he’s got him!” someone shouted.

Blood seeped from under Lorenzo’s helmet and soaked the collar of his grey gambeson. The duchess gasped softly.

“It’s nothing serious,” Valentina reassured her. “Head wounds always bleed heavily.”

Brandwill rushed forward to pursue and capitalize on his hit, victory already in sight. But Lorenzo was already in motion. At the last moment, he stepped aside, grabbed Brandwill’s outstretched sword arm, and used his own momentum. With a fluid movement that looked more like Essence Weaving than sword fighting, he spun his opponent around and threw him into the dirt.

Before Brandwill could get up, Lorenzo’s sword tip was at his visor as he pressed Brandwill into the mud with his sabaton on his shoulder.

“Surrender,” Lorenzo said calmly.

There was a moment of silence, then Brandwill raised his hand in surrender. The crowd burst into enthusiastic applause.

Lorenzo stepped back and helped his opponent to his feet, a chivalrous gesture that earned further applause. Then he took off his helmet, and the extent of his injury became visible. He had an ugly cut above his left eyebrow and blood was running down his face.

The duchess tensed. “He needs a healer!”

But Lorenzo was already raising his hand, waving away the helpers who were rushing to his aid.

He placed his gloved hand on the wound, felt it, and for those with the gift, a gentle glow of Leb Essence became visible. The crowd fell silent, watching spellbound as he worked.

The blood stopped flowing. The wound closed, the torn flesh coming back together like melting wax. Within moments, there was only dried blood on his skin, but no trace of the injury.

“Not bad, just with ambient Essence,” said Vyxara.

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. The common people reached for wooden amulets beneath their clothing, murmuring prayers to the Martyr. In the noble gallery, several lords leaned forward.

King Edmund nodded with obvious satisfaction. “A young man of many talents. Just what the realm needs.”

“I wish we had more Essence Weavers in knighthood. Imagine a band of warriors who can heal themselves,” Duke Aldwin Whitehall breathed excitedly to his neighbor. “The battles that could be won with that…”

Duke Cosimo beamed with paternal pride as he collected his winnings from a grumpy nobleman. “The boy does me proud.”

Lorenzo bowed to the royal box, then turned to the Ashbourne section and raised his sword in a formal salute.

“This victory,” his voice carried clearly across the field, “I dedicate to Lady Innogen Ashbourne!”

The noble grandstand exploded in delighted whispers. The ladies sighed, the gentlemen nodded appreciatively at the chivalrous gesture.

Valentina watched as Innogen rose gracefully. The smile on her face was perfect… and completely empty. She bowed her head in acknowledgment, raising her hand in a delicate gesture of thanks.

“I’m melting!” whispered a young countess behind Valentina. “He’s fighting for her honor!”

“And heals himself to show her that he can always protect her,” added another one.

“I’m going to be sick,” Valentina thought as Vyxara laughed inside her head.

“Let them talk,” Vyxara giggled.

The duchess watched the scene with an inscrutable expression. But Valentina noticed how her eyes wandered not only between Lorenzo and Valentina, but now also included Innogen. There was a calculating look in her green eyes.

Lady Beatrice gently placed a hand on Valentina’s forearm, just for a moment. It was a small gesture of sympathy, but Valentina was grateful for it.

Lorenzo left the field to sustained applause. As he passed the Greystone section, his gaze met Valentina’s for a tiny moment. There was something in his eyes. An apology? A silent admission of the absurdity of it all?

Then the moment was over, and he was gone.

“The next fight!” cried the herald. “Sir Roderick of Northmoor versus Lord Jasper Tauntburn, son of the Earl of Zenchford!”

But the attention of the noble gallery was still divided on what had just happened. Small groups everywhere were discussing Lorenzo’s demonstration.

“If that’s the kind of man Bridgewater University produces,” said an elderly lord thoughtfully, “perhaps we should support the establishment of another university in Goneford after all.”

“Bah, university!” snorted his even older companion. “The boy has it in his blood. Nobility cannot be taught.”

The sun was now high in the sky, and the heat was becoming more oppressive. Servants hurried through the rows with jugs of diluted wine and water. The clang of steel on steel from the ongoing duels provided a metallic backdrop to the endless conversations about the perfect union between Greystone and Ashbourne.

Valentina forced herself to look ahead and watch the fights, but her thoughts kept circling. During the break, the engagement would be officially announced. The chains that were ready yet to bind Innogen and Lorenzo would be publicly celebrated, cast in gold, and displayed for all the world to see.