Chapter 18 - Hothead.
The upper city hummed with the muffled noise of the market, traders calling to one another, crockery clinking, and footsteps coming down heavy on the cobbles. William moved through the current of it without seeing the faces, the stalls, or where he was going.
The inhuman voice did not let up, duller than any intelligible speech, taking the place in his head where his own thoughts should have been. He walked, knowing that whenever he stopped the pressure began to build, thick and aching, pushing at his skull from the inside. Movement eased it, holding it at a level where he could still think, though where exactly he was headed William did not know.
The man standing directly in front of him he did not notice at all, and his forehead met a hard chest plated in steel, which put William down on the cobbles with a bruised tailbone and a ringing in the crown of his head. He rubbed his forehead, blinked a few times and slowly raised his head.
Sir Alistair Sterling stood over him, looking down with a grave face. William looked up at him for a few moments and only then opened his mouth.
"S...Sir Alistair...forgive my carelessness!"
A calm, slightly hushed woman's voice came from behind him at that same moment.
"And where is it you are so carelessly going?"
William froze, feeling his chest draw slowly tight, and shut his eyes, letting a long breath out through his teeth.
"Holy Goddess...not this..." he muttered under his breath.
William turned slowly, knowing perfectly well who he would find behind him.
Queen Edith Valdrich stood two paces away, her golden hair gathered into a tight braided crown, a green velvet cloak on her shoulders and a gown worked with gold leaf over a brown corset, and her gaze was straight and intent, without the least trace of a smile.
William swallowed slowly, doing all he could to keep his unease from showing.
"My Queen...I...I only wanted a walk and some fresh air..."
Edith let a pause run, looking at him with that same level look.
"Curious. I was under the impression that anyone would want the chance to walk and take fresh air in the inner courtyard of the royal castle."
William forced out a nervous laugh, at which Sterling, without moving, narrowed his eyes.
"Are you going to sit in front of the Queen much longer, or will you get up?" he said.
William came up off the cobbles at once and straightened, while the dull pain in his head went on aching.
Edith took an unhurried step towards him without changing her expression, and William's stomach drew in, though he kept his back straight, his eyes just above hers, and held his breath.
Sweat came out slowly at his temples, and his lips stayed pressed shut.
Edith tilted her head slightly to one side, studying his face closely.
"You came out for a walk, and I see it is not doing you much good. Have you been taking the Archiater's remedies?"
"Y...yes, my Queen...I simply need more time. When you sit inside four walls all day you start to look like a corpse whether you mean to or not," William answered with a short laugh.
Edith watched him without a single feature of her face changing, and the heavy silence held for a few seconds, until she stepped back.
"I see. In that case I will not keep you."
Edith turned and set off towards the castle, her cloak swinging with the turn. Sterling walked around William, holding his eyes on him a few seconds longer, and then followed the Queen. Once the two of them were far enough off, William breathed out, feeling his heart beating hard in his chest.
As Edith walked on down the upper city street with a cold, unmoving face, she spoke to Sterling.
"Send someone to follow him."
"As you command," Sterling answered, keeping behind her without slowing his step.
The market hum of the upper city did not reach the castle wing, where the barracks of the Green Order looked out onto an enclosed inner courtyard.
Behind the stone walls of the Order's block the silence held, broken only by the occasional tread of a guard along the long corridor, while Sir Rowan Hart lay with his eyes open, staring at the low stone ceiling.
For a few seconds he stayed still, gathering the sensations one at a time, the tight binding across his ribs, the aching weight in his left forearm, the pulsing pain in his cheekbone. Hart raised his torso slowly, his ribs answering with a sharp protest, and then, taking quick stock of his condition, he levelled his breathing, closed his eyes and focused.
The gift of the fourth threshold responded at once, and the energy went out through his body in measured waves, reaching into every damaged point.
Hart held the concentration for about five minutes, feeling the pain slowly lose its edge and fall back to a bearable background, then opened his eyes, sat a few seconds without moving, swung his legs off the bed and stood, crossing to a chair where a neatly folded stack of civilian clothes lay.
Dressed in a plain shirt, jacket and trousers, he went out into the stone corridor of the barracks. Direct daylight struck his eyes where the corridor opened onto the outer courtyard, forcing Hart to raise a forearm and squint.
"Rowan!" a voice came from the side.
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Hart lowered his hand and turned, making out Gunard coming towards him along the wall, the knight he had spoken with before going out onto the tournament ground.
"Gunard," Hart said, his face not changing.
"Glad to see you in good health. You didn't listen to me at the tournament after all," Gunard said with an awkward smile.
Hart looked him over, and a slight puzzlement showed on his face.
"What do you mean?"
Gunard sighed and looked off to the side for a few seconds.
"I mean I told you, hothead, not to do anything stupid. And in the end... you got your arse handed to you."
Hart watched him for a few seconds without changing his expression, then turned without a word and set off down the corridor, limping slightly on his left leg.
Gunard clicked his tongue and picked up his pace at once, catching Hart up.
"Oh come on, I'm sorry. That isn't what I meant. I just had to get it out at you somehow! We're your brothers in arms, and we do care about you!"
"If you cared, you wouldn't have gone into that damned tournament with such enthusiasm," Hart said, walking straight on without turning.
Gunard kept level with him, neither falling behind nor taking his eyes off him.
"Give it a rest, are you really still going on about that? They never even finished the tournament anyway."
Hart stopped and turned his head slowly to Gunard with a look that demanded an answer.
"What? What do you mean, never finished?"
Gunard sighed and let his eyes run down the corridor for a few seconds.
"They stopped the tournament for a few reasons. First: the surviving girl from the Trade League came round and told them what happened in the forest. Only the council and the Queen know about it so far. But what we do know is that Magister Kyle is going to trial. Second: your bout with the Aisengard woman."
"What is there to settle? I challenged her, she won, she spared me. Humiliating. Either way it was all done by the laws of the duel."
Gunard smiled nervously and rubbed the back of his head with his palm without thinking, turning his eyes away.
Hart lifted one eyebrow, the rest of his face unchanged.
"What? What is it?.. Out with it, come on!" he said sharply.
Gunard let out a short nervous laugh and then broke off.
"You don't remember, by the look of it... you'd already gone out, I suppose... but... it isn't exactly that she spared you..."
"Just say it straight, stop dragging it out!" Hart growled, making no attempt to hide his irritation.
Gunard raised both hands palms out, trying to stop him.
"All right, all right, calm down!.. At the last moment, when she should have killed you, she threw a piece of your own blade at you, but somebody saved you."
Hart stared at him while his expression slowly gave way to open bewilderment. Gunard paused a moment and went on, looking straight ahead.
"Some unknown lad... black hair, ordinary clothes, covered in runic tattoos... jumped straight down off the stands and shoved you clear at the last moment, so the blade went into the wall instead of your head. That boy stepped into your bout, took the opponent's place, and in the end managed to make her surrender."
Hart shook his head slowly, moving his eyes from Gunard to the empty air in front of him.
"Wait, wait... what?.. You're telling me some boy jumped out of the stands... unarmed... and fought that..."
Hart gestured with his hands, jabbing a finger at an imaginary point, and Gunard nodded shortly with his brows up. Hart stared at a fixed spot in front of him, and his shoulders came slowly down.
"Who even is he?" he asked, raising his eyes to Gunard.
Gunard thought about it a moment and shrugged.
"We don't know ourselves. You can tell at a glance he isn't one of ours. But I saw him just black out after the bout, and Sir Aurey caught him in time. Right then three people ran down to him from the stands: a young woman, a man and a small boy, ours by the look of them. So it's hard to say what exactly he is... but what I do know for certain is that nobody here has ever seen magic or energy like that."
Hart gave no answer and went on down the corridor in silence, his shoulders down. Gunard walked beside him, filling the next few minutes with details of what had happened on the ground after Hart lost consciousness, how the stands had reacted, what Sterling had done and where they had carried the boy's body. Hart listened without a word, his gaze fixed on nothing.
The main gates of the outer palace courtyard showed at the end of the corridor, where the open air of the upper city was already coming through. Hart was still turning what he had heard over in his head when he noticed Gunard reach for his helm and snap the fastening shut.
"Have you got some special assignment?" Hart asked, looking at him.
From under the helm Gunard's voice came noticeably more muffled, though the words could still be made out.
"Sir Alistair ordered me to keep a quiet eye on one of ours who survived the Sacred Hunt, so instead of the tournament I'll have to make do with that. Right, see you."
Gunard gave a short wave and went out through the gates, disappearing off in the direction of the upper market.
Hart followed him with his eyes, waited a few seconds and breathed out slowly. He turned to the royal castle, ran his eyes up the high walls that climbed past any comfortable line of sight, felt his ribs make themselves known on a deep breath, and moved on.
In the lower city, where the same noise came down thicker and closer, the cobbles lay uneven and the houses stood hard against one another, letting out into the street the smell of cooking, smoke and damp timber. William walked without choosing a direction, going around the market rows and the occasional passer-by. The unease in his chest would not settle, lying there as a pressure he could feel, and neither moving nor stopping did anything against it, while the inhuman voice went on echoing in his head.
Three men stood along a low stone wall at the crossroads, caught up in a conversation, gesturing and cutting across one another every so often.
"Sure, you don't often get to see a thing like that, but it's still a shame they never finished the tournament."
"And who is that lad anyway?"
"Hell if I know, but there was some girl and a boy a few rows below me shouting something like... Ar... Aron?.."
"Nah... I heard from the front row how he named himself to that Aisengard woman. Aren."
"You'll take any excuse to brag that you grabbed yourself a front-row seat! You'd do better to sort yourself out and find a woman!"
"Shut it. Unlike you henpecked lot, I enjoy a full and free life."
"A virgin life. You forgot to specify."
All three laughed over one another, until William stopped and stepped up to them.
"You there. Tell me more. Who is this Aren?" he said.
The laughter cut off, and the men exchanged a look before turning to him.
"And who are you?" one of them said, on his guard now.
"Sir William Grant. Knight of the Green Order."
The men looked him over from head to foot in silence, taking in the plain cloth garments, the pale face and the damp temples. One of them, the one who had joked about the front row, smirked and jerked his head towards the third of them.
"Well... you're about as much a knight as he is a ladies' favourite."
Two of them burst out laughing, while the third jabbed the speaker in the shoulder and turned away.
William breathed out slowly through his nose. The unease in his chest, the pain in his head, the voice, the dry throat and the rising pressure came together inside him from every side at once and brought up something he did not manage to hold back in time.
Suddenly the first man took a straight kick to the chest and went backwards into the nearest doorway, breaking the door out of it and sliding across the floor to the back wall. The second man William caught by the throat in that same instant, closing his fingers at the base of the neck. The third reacted instantly, swinging in from the side with a strangled shout.
"You son of a bitch!"
William put an arm up to block without turning his head, covering the forearm in a dense layer of energy shell, and the man's fist landed exactly on that surface. The crack of the break was distinct, and the third man went down onto the cobbles with a cry, clutching his hand. William looked at the man held in his grip, who was clawing at his fingers with both hands in fright, trying to ease the pressure, while the cries of pain went on behind them.
"Talk. Who is Aren. And where do I find him," William said.
The people in the street stood still and came no closer. The man he was holding rasped out through the squeezed throat, forcing the sounds with difficulty.
"I... I don't know... wh... where... he..."
William's eyes narrowed as a stranger spoke up on his right, calm, without a trace of panic.
"I know where he is."
William turned and found a man of middle years at the wall, with deep lines in his face and a thick dark beard going early grey. The man looked back without fear, his hands hanging loose at his sides.
"Talk," William said.
"Let him go first," the stranger answered.
William opened his fingers, and the one he had been holding sank to the cobbles, gulping at the air and going into a hoarse cough. William stepped towards the stranger, stopped two paces from him and waited. The stranger waited a short moment, looked him over and spoke.
"Black-haired lad... tattoos showing on his neck. Me and the lads usually see him at the Merry Ploughman, over in the western district," the stranger answered, and William was already turning on the last word.
Without looking back and without slowing, he moved off, leaving behind the creak of the broken door, the coughing and the fading groans, swallowed up in the noise of the lower city.