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Sir Theobald Gumbar, Captain of the Knights of North Gumbia, was many things. He wasn’t, he noted as he wiped sweat from his brow, getting any younger. Princess Jet was properly putting him through his paces, and though he could have blamed it on her small size or the length of their practice, the ache in his ribs made reality all too evident. He was winded, tired out, in a way that would mean waking with stiff joints and a crick in his neck.
You old fool. You’re not as fast as you used to be.
“Can we go again, Theo?” Jet, on the other side of the sparring ring, didn’t look winded in the slightest. As a matter of fact, she was bouncing from foot to foot, eyes sparkling and smile bright. As if this were her first round of the day, not nearing their thirteenth.
“Yes, Your Highness,” Theo replied automatically. He rolled his shoulders back, ignoring the unpleasant crunch and pop of his joints settling, and reached down to recover Broadsicle from the shifting pink sand beneath their feet. When he did so, Jet gasped.
“You’re hurt!”
“No, I’m not.”
Even as he said it, something twinged along the side of Theo’s thigh. He’d foregone the full suit of his armor for something as simple as sparring with the crown princess, opting for pauldrons alone to even the playing field, and Jet must have nicked him with her blade when she’d done that particularly tricky flying leap. Spending entirely too much time with Ruby and her Bulb-damned circus arts, clearly.
Jet let her rapier drop as she put her hands out to him. “Go inside, rest up. We can fight again tomorrow.”
“I promised to show you disarming blows today, Your Highness--”
“I won’t feel good about disarming you if you’re hurt,” she argued. “It’s only satisfying to beat you when you’re at full strength. There’s more honor in it.”
Theobald sighed and lifted his sword again. Jet looked ready to continue protesting-- or, more childishly, to stomp her foot and insist-- so he slung it over his back, reassured by the familiar weight as Broadsicle settled into its sheath. “Alright, alright, Princess. But only if you promise to go and attend to the rest of your lessons. If you think that dismissing me for an injury is going to get you out of finishing your report for the Chancellor--”
His words fell on deaf ears, as he’d figured they might; Princess Jet had taken off in the second it had taken him to agree. Of course she had.
He took his time tidying up the sparring ground, returning blunted weapons to their racks and righting the barrels and crates that Jet had knocked over in her enthusiastic dives from one side of the ring to the other. She was determined, he had to give her that. It made him smile, somewhat, a memory of his own determination when he’d first signed on as a squire of North Gumbia. Before the Ravening War.
With every step Theo took on his way back into the castle, he could feel his knee protesting, furious at him for attempting to do so much more. Damned Ravening War had nearly shattered his leg, taken all the king’s proverbial horses and men to put him back together. Though he often argued that the twenty-year-old injury was nothing to worry about, it liked smugly reminding him that twenty years wasn’t as large a fraction of his life as it had once been.
With the slash on his leg still bleeding, Theobald was faced with the rather irritating prospect of having to visit the castle’s sick bay rather than patch himself up in the privacy of his chambers. He had plenty of bandages, but his supply of tinctures for pain management was growing spare by the day. Perhaps he could swipe a few on his way out. Keep the others from figuring out just how badly he often felt. The shelves of glimmering glass bottles were so close to the door of the sick bay, and his hands were large enough that he could snag at least one or two. Depending on how well the bay was attended, he might be able to get away with more.
All of these hopes, including the hope that his day would improve, were dashed the second he saw who was attending the sick bay.
“Captain Gumbar,” Chancellor Cadbury said primly from his desk, not even looking up from the mountain of papers piled in front of him. His ears twitched slightly. “What brings you here today?”
“None of your business,” Theo replied before he could think better of it. Injury be damned, he didn’t much like speaking to the chancellor. As he spoke, he reached out to curl a hand around one of the bottles on the shelf behind him. His claws clicked against the bulbous purple glass, and he cursed silently when the rabbit’s ears twitched again. Clearly, he’d picked up on the sound.
“It’s my shift, so I would argue that it is, in fact, my business, Captain.” Lapin sniffed. “But if you don’t require my help, you’re free to go.”
Theobald didn’t need any encouragement. He turned, and was halfway back through the door when Lapin added, “Of course, that also means you aren’t permitted to steal from our potion shelves any longer. I’ll need you to put that back.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Lapin finally did look up, and gave Theo a look of such whisker-twitching smugness that Theo nearly smacked him. “I keep a very careful inventory of our potion stores, Captain Gumbar. You think I haven’t noticed a small army’s store of numbing tonics and anti-inflammatory elixirs going missing?”
Theo felt his lip curl, but fought to keep his expression in check. “There are plenty of people in this castle who could benefit from those potions, Chancellor--”
“But not nearly as many veterans of the Ravening War, who might have injuries that require constant care--”
“And what would you know, Cadbury, about the Ravening War?” He couldn’t help himself; he felt a bittersweet satisfaction when the rabbit jumped. “As I recall, one of us was on the front lines while the other cowered.”
Lapin’s ears flattened against the side of his head, but he stared back at Theo for a long moment, long enough that one of them would have to blink. Theo’s satisfaction only deepened when Lapin blinked first.
*
Being threatened with a speeding missile somewhere in the weight class of one hundred and twenty pounds would have once sent Theobald diving for his shield. Three of them at once would have seemed an untenable threat. Twenty years of living in Castle Candy had changed him, as Jet, Ruby, and Liam flung themselves at him. He spotted them coming a mile away-- stealth and excitement didn’t mix-- and managed to kneel down and extend his arms before all three of them were piling onto him in a delighted and overly enthusiastic tackle of a hug.
“You’re amazing,” Ruby squeaked, from where she was tucked under his arm. She and Liam had each gotten scooped up, Liam with tragic proximity to an armpit, with Jet squished against his chest. There were times that Theo wished his size was at least marginally smaller, but holding the young nobles of Candia wasn’t one of them. “You really are a champion!”
“I’m not a champion yet, Your Highness.”
Jet wasn’t hearing any of it, and bounced up and down, nearly banging her head into his chin. “You’re the champion of Candia! You were picked to represent all of us, and that means we get to cheer you on!”
“You’re the best knight I’ve ever seen,” Liam said quietly, wiggling out of Theo’s grip just enough to look up at him.
“Rightly so,” boomed a voice from down the hall, as King Amethar entered the hall. He’d presumably come after the children to see what all the fuss was about, although there was also the possibility that he’d been the one to incite this fuss in the first place. “Captain Gumbar is the finest in jousting and close combat that the kingdom of Candia has to offer, and he will doubtless bring glory to our house.”
“Can we go?” Jet ducked out from beneath Theobald’s elbow to give her father her most pleading expression. “Please, Father? I want to see Captain Theo wipe the floor with all of the other champions.”
“Please,” Ruby and Liam chorused, imitating her expression with varying degrees of success.
“I don’t see why not.” Amethar puffed out his chest, letting his voice echo through the halls at its full kingly volume. “A king needs his court, and you three are all the court I could ever desire.”
Liam’s smile could have burned the Bulb out of the sky. The affirmation, once again, that he was a desired member of the Candian royal court and of Amethar’s family, lit the boy like a fire. Theo couldn’t help a smile of pride and of recognition-- he recalled being a young squire of North Gumbia and feeling the very same.
“You’ll need a chaperone, for their Highnesses the princess, and his lordship Wilhelmina.” Chancellor Lapin’s reedy voice cut through their conversation. He’d poked his head out of the palace library’s doorway, no doubt prepared to chastise them for making noise. He pushed up his reading glasses, small and pompous, on the end of his nose. “Assuming you’ll wish to partake in traditional tournament festivities, Your Majesty.”
“Well, of course.” Amethar slung his arms over his daughters’ shoulders. “We attend tournaments for two reasons, dear Chancellor. To get glory and to get drunk.” Jet stuck her tongue out and extended her hand for a high-five, which her father immediately granted.
Lapin sniffed and flicked his eyes to the side, making unwitting eye contact with Theobald. It was the first time that Theo knew immediately what the chancellor was thinking. The king needs a chaperone more than his children do.
“You’re the perfect chaperone, Chancellor!” Liam knelt down to scoop his pig up from the carpeted floor. “Aren’t you trained as a healer?”
“Indeed I am.” Lapin looked rather proud of himself.
“And if Theo’s the champion, he might get hurt, and we need him to be in his best shape for fighting.” Preston paused in his intent licking of Liam’s face to snort his agreement.
Jet fixed Theo with a stare. “Are you back to normal from yesterday?”
“Since yesterday, Your Highness,” Lapin corrected.
“Since yesterday,” she amended, breaking eye contact to roll her eyes.
“Never better,” Theo lied. He’d officially run out of numbing tonics last night, and been late to morning report with the Tart Guard, every step stiff. He could see the concern in the princess’s face, and gave her a smile. “Trust me, Your Highness, I’ll be more than ready when the time comes.”
*
Theobald finished doing up the straps of his armor and stood, feeling the comforting security of full plate settle onto his shoulders. He turned, reaching for his helmet, only to find it missing from the table where he’d placed it. “Liam?”
The young ward raced over, Theo’s helmet tucked under one arm. He’d volunteered to serve as squire for the tournament, beating out a disappointed Jet, and taken to the job with surprising skill. Already that morning, he’d fed Theo’s Meep mount, helped him polish his armor, and poked around for information on the other champions. Preston had curled up in a corner of the stable, Sprinkle on his back, the familiars bonding as one’s master taught the other’s everything he knew. “Right here, sir!”
“Excellent.” Theo accepted his helmet, taking in his own reflection in its mirrored surface. He didn’t look quite as nervous as he felt.
Liam saluted, not exactly right but trying his damnedest. “Do you need anything else, sir?”
“No, no, I’m alright. Do you have any questions?” He donned the helm, pink and white ribbons cascading down his back. He’d always hated gaudy plumage and decoration on his armor, but the chance to bear Candia’s fighting colors was enough of an honor that he was willing to feel a little foolish. Having Liam as his standard bearer made the moment even better. Theobald could remember the first time he’d served as a squire in a joust, for a knight of North Gumbia when he himself had been little more than a boy. He’d handed off lances, tossed rings in tournaments of skill for his knight, been sprayed with spit and sweat and blood as knights were unhorsed and the proceedings inevitably turned to melee. In those moments, tasting blood that was not his own for the first time, Theo had been stricken with the want, more than anything, to join them. To become a part of something bigger than himself, to fight for something truly worth fighting for.
“Pass weapons, throw rings, try not to get hit or trampled. Am I missing anything?”
Theo chuckled. “No, that’s exactly right. Now, are you ready?”
Liam nodded firmly, and stepped aside while Theobald saddled his Meep. The first competition would be this morning’s joust, a traditional tilt with the last man on horseback the winner. Next the tournament of skill, each champion put through their paces in targets and skilled riding. Tomorrow’s finale would be the close combat fighting, a melee, and the idea gave Theo a flutter of anticipation, even as he tried to pretend it didn’t. It had been a long time since he’d really allowed himself to fight-- not to spar with the king he was terrified to injure, not to teach the princesses skills they would never use, but to properly swing his sword and taste blood once again.
Theobald tapped his knuckles against the brow of his helm, giving Liam a salute, and the bay doors of the stable were pulled open, flooding the space with light. With a kick to its side, the Meep charged out, stirring up crumbs as the duo entered the field. Screaming cheers went up from the Candian section of the stands. Theo could make out no individual faces, just a handful of pennants waving, but he let himself pretend he could pick out Amethar’s hearty laugh, Ruby’s overeager clapping.
“Riding in the colors of pink and white, the champion of Candia, Sir Theobald Gumbar!”
Theo and his Meep circled the field once at as fast a pace as he could manage, before pulling to a stop at his weapons stand. It bristled with weaponry, peppermint lances and his shield and, of course, Broadsicle propped against the side. As he awaited the announcement of the next champions, he took the moment to scan the few already on the field. The broad-shouldered woman in Ceresian gold and white would be Dame Campanele; the whisper-thin knight just to the left of her Skyr Tothson, in the yellow and blue of the Dairy Islands; the absolutely massive man in studded leather armor with a spike at the crest of his helmet could be none other than the Meatlands’ champion, Sir Chorizo.
The bay doors opened once more, and the next steed charged onto the field. Its rider looked barely older than Jet and Ruby, and Theo was frozen by the not entirely unfounded concern that one of the princesses had found their way into the tournament out of sheer stubbornness. The pair of eyes beneath her helmet’s visor, however, were a bright green.
“Riding in the colors of emerald and violet, the champion of Fructera, Dame Razalind de Beri!”
Dame Razalind pulled her horse into a tight turn, the ribbons of her helmet streaming. Her shield bore twisting blackberry vines and a shining lemon, the emblem of Fructera’s Summerfruit house.
“And, riding in the colors of orange and green, the champion of Vegetania, Sir Keradin Deeproot!”
The final champion entered, and Theo surprised himself with the recognition of the name. If that hadn’t tripped up his memory, the shock of green plumage decorating the knight’s helmet would have. Sir Keradin was a paladin of the Bulbian church, one with whom Chancellor Lapin was often grudgingly associated. Theo had never faced him himself, but he’d heard the occasional mutterings that the knight liked to play dirty.
Senator Ciabatta, officiating the tournament from a regal box above the field, raised both hands to quiet the crowd. The gesture reminded Theo, rather suddenly, of gladiatorial combat. “People of Calorum! We are gathered here to find this year’s champion of our fair empire. In three competitions of strength, skill, and savvy, your chosen representatives will fight for the honor of an Imperial knighthood!”
Theobald’s stomach twisted, and he squinted against the Bulb’s light, searching for reactions on the faces of allies he could barely see. No one had told him there was anything more than honor and glory at stake. Silently, he tried out the title, words sweet as Candian wine on his tongue.
Sir Theobald Gumbar, Knight of North Gumbia, Lord Commander of the Tart Guard.
Champion of Candia.
Sir Theobald the Curious, Knight of the Concordant Empire.
“Our first competition,” the Senator continued, “is the tournament of strength. Your champions will face off in pairs down the tilt, with lance and shield, until one of the pair is unseated!” Another cheer, waving arms and flying pennants. “Squires, prepare your knights!”
Liam lifted one of the lances from its stand, passing it up to Theo. His gauntlet closed around the long shaft of twisted sugar, pulled by expert hands in swirls of pink and white. As always, the second he felt its weight, an invisible change passed over Theo. His posture hardened; his vision sharpened; his ears all but closed until all he could hear was the rush of blood to his head. King Amethar always called it a rage, but to Theo it was more of a tactician’s clarity. Adrenaline made some people angry, some anxious, some just sick. For him, it made everything make sense.
With the crash of a gong, he spurred his Meep forward, charging down the tilt with his eyes locked on his opponent. Thane Tothson, the Dairy Islands champion, leveled their lance too early-- only by a second, but enough for Theo to seize on the weakness. He lifted his shield to block his torso from a catching blow, angled his own lance, and struck. Tothson caught the blow across the chest, and was knocked backwards off their mount as Theobald’s weapon shattered in a burst of peppermint splinters. His Meep overshot and had to stagger before stopping, but he managed to maintain his balance.
The assembled crowd sent up a roar, loud enough to drown out the disappointed boos of the Dairy Islanders. On the other end of the pitch, Liam threw his arms in the air, and Theo could tell from the expression on his face that the boy was screaming too.
Dame Razalind unseated Dame Semolina; Sir Keradin and Sir Chorizo’s lances caught but both managed to remain on their mounts. Theo steered back to his weapons rack, and extended a hand to Liam for a new lance.
“That was incredible!” Liam called up, his eyes bright. Theo’s second lance, the Pixie Stick, took all of the boy’s strength to lift.
Theo took it with one hand. “Not bad for an old man, eh?”
Sir Keradin lifted his chin to him from the other side of the field, eyes glinting at him through the slats of his helmet. Even before he spurred his mount forward Theo suspected he might be in trouble. Keradin’s balance and speed were greater, and his vine-wrapped lance struck out in time to catch Theo square across the shoulders. He flew backwards, barely remembering to roll as he hit the ground. The gong sounded again, a cheer went up from the Vegetanians, and Theo surprised himself by laughing.
*
After Sir Keradin had taken the first bout in an unequivocal victory, the champions had been given only an hour’s leave before the tournament of skill. Theobald had taken the entire hour to sit at his place in the stables, trying to rally his body for another round. The fall he’d taken hadn’t hurt badly in the moment, but it had fully settled over him now, and his joints ached. A bruise, a darker spot of pink that had begun to harden, was forming on Theo’s upper arm. Out of curiosity, he pressed his thumb into it. The tender new soreness, really, was the only of his pains that wasn’t with him every day-- his right knee in particular had begun to make a clicking sound when he shifted.
“How good is your aim, Liam?” Theo rolled his shoulders back, pushing himself to standing.
Liam shrugged, kicking his feet. “I played ball games with my brothers for years.”
“Oh, you pitched, then?”
“No, no, I was the target. But if they can all throw, I’m sure it runs in the family.”
Theo put a hand on Liam’s shoulder, making eye contact with the boy. He wanted to say a million things, but what he settled on was, “You are ten times the man of any of your brothers, so it should fit that you have ten times the aim.”
A second of hesitation, and then Liam threw his arms around Theo, hugging him tight. His arms didn’t quite meet around Theo’s sides, but it was one of the nicest embraces Theo had received in some time.
Of course he hugged him back.
Theo mounted his Meep once again, and the pair re-entered the field to thunderous applause. At his weapons stand, someone had stacked rings in bright colors, wide enough to fit around his wrist. Two racks down, Dame Razalind spun one of her rings on her finger, so swiftly it was a blur; Sir Keradin leaned against the fence, doing pushups with one hand behind his back. Showoffs.
The Bulb overhead had dimmed somewhat as they moved into afternoon. Theo could see his Candian allies in the stands without squinting now, and waved to them. Jet and Ruby immediately waved back, armed to the teeth with pennants in Candia’s white and pink. King Amethar pounded a fist against his heart. Chancellor Lapin didn’t respond in kind, but his wide eyes were fixed on Theobald, and appeared to have been for some time. Hexing him, perhaps? Watching a brutish competition of strength, an ultimately pointless clash of sword and shield, didn’t seem the kind of thing Lapin would have enjoyed. Still, his gaze lingered, and Theo would have been embarrassed to admit he was the first to look away.
“For this next bout,” Senator Ciabatta called, “your champions will demonstrate their accuracy and skill with the help of their squires. They will traverse the field and catch thrown rings on their lances, and he who catches most will be advantaged in tomorrow’s melee!”
Tests of skill like this, challenges requiring delicacy and hair’s breadth accuracy, had never been Theo’s strong suit. He was built for close quarters combat, for brute force. In the Ravening War, he’d made a name for himself carving a path through enemy lines. Little of his talent had anything to do with catching flying rings on his lance. Even so, the idea of an advantage in the final fight tomorrow was hard to pass up. After the morning’s joust, he was beginning to suspect the other champions might be more than he’d bargained for.
The knights aligned their mounts, and when Theo’s name was called, he readied Pixie Stick. Liam raced to the center of the field, where the wooden tilt had been, fruit loop rings stacked up his forearm. He gave Theobald a wide smile, then hefted the first ring into the air. Theo charged forward, holding his lance out to the side, and let out a chuckle of amused surprise as the ring spun its way down the pole. Someone in Senator Ciabatta’s box struck a gong.
“One ring for Sir Theobald of Candia!”
He pulled his Meep up short to pivot, Pixie Stick extended to catch the next ring Liam threw.
And the next.
And the next, until Sir Theobald Gumbar of Candia claimed six of the seven rings thrown his way. Until, after all six champions had ridden, he was honored with second place.
*
The crouton cobblestones swam before Theobald’s eyes as he took a stumbling step forward, throwing his hands out to catch himself a nearby wall before he fell. Finding his way back to Candia’s assigned quarters in one of the Ceresian neighborhoods would have been hard enough sober and in broad daylight. Mead and adrenaline and darkness were all working against him; the steady flow of blood down his side certainly wasn’t helping.
The white-hot pain, sharp and sudden, as the cloaked stranger plunged their dagger between his ribs---
Fallen into his cups at a banquet after the tournament of skill, Theo had let his guard down. He’d been reminded of the fighting camaraderie between the Knights of North Gumbia, talking strategy and swapping war stories with the other champions. He was paying for it now.
Blood, sticky as syrup, poured from the gash in his ribs, and an involuntary growl of pain escaped him. The numbers on the villas he passed blurred the harder he squinted, and he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to focus again. As long as he could remember which door was the right one, everything would be fine. Of course, that was asking a lot of his memory at the moment.
The quiet laugh, heavy with malice, that accompanied the sound of the dagger as it slid out of his flesh---
Theo pounded on the door in front of him, his massive fist leaving a smear red as maraschino. When there was no answer, he knocked again. Perhaps the occupant was long asleep, or would see him through the peephole and simply decide against helping him. Perhaps his mysterious assailant hadn’t worked alone, and their allies were here, waiting behind this door to finish him off. Nauseous with pain and a growing sense of fear, Theo could only imagine possibilities that left him bleeding out in the streets of Ceresia.
The door was thrown open, then, and Theobald came face to face with Chancellor Lapin, who blinked up at him. The dim light behind him meant he at least hadn’t been asleep. Whether he would turn Theo away had yet to be decided.
“Captain.”
“I’m sorry to bother you, Chancellor. I--” He paused, to suck in a breath. “I didn’t know who else I could trust.”
“You’re injured.” Lapin’s ears pinned back, as he caught sight of the spill of blood.
“I was attacked---”
“Come inside.” He cut him off, not louder but more insistent. “It isn’t safe to talk out in the open.”
He moved aside a little, then gauged Theo’s size in proportion to the doorway and stepped back entirely to allow him in. The Ceresian villas to which they’d been assigned were small, with spartan decor and ceilings low enough that Theo had to duck. Nearly all of the space was taken up by a bed, a chest of drawers, and a writing desk with a spindly, three-legged stool. The only light came from a candle on the writing desk, but its flame burned solid and strong.
“Sit.” Lapin flicked a hand toward the bed, not even looking at Theo when he said it. He was digging through the chest of drawers, bottles clicking in the semi-darkness. “You say you were attacked.”
Theobald didn’t sit so much as collapse, dropping onto the foot of the bed. The springs creaked beneath his weight. “What, do you not believe me?”
He did look, then, fixing Theo with a stare that pinned him in place. “I didn’t say that.”
“I was ambushed as I walked back from the banquet of champions. Someone must have followed me.”
“Are you certain it was someone from the great hall? Not a common rogue?”
Theo attempted to angle himself so he wouldn’t bleed all over the bed. It proved a fruitless endeavor. “They didn’t say anything, didn’t ask me for money. Simply ran me through and ran off.”
Lapin returned to his desk, lining up a series of bottles. In the candle’s light, he selected one, and handed it over. “Drink up.”
Theo uncorked the phial, but paused before taking a swig. The bottle was familiar, the same as the sort he often swiped from the sick bay back home. “This is only for pain. Isn’t it?”
“Your knee was bothering you during the tournament.”
“Indeed.” He tried to catch the chancellor’s eye, but was unsuccessful. “How did you know?”
Lapin shrugged. “It’s my duty to notice things, Captain. Now, did you notice anything about your attacker?”
Theo drained the bottle in one swallow, his assailant’s laugh still ringing in his ears. “Nothing of any use. Entirely got the drop on me.”
“I supposed they might have. From all that I’ve heard of your prowess in combat, I’d be rather disappointed if you’d lost that badly.”
He snorted, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he watched Lapin, who had taken a seat on the stool and was paging through a heavy book. A golden ring on his thumb caught the light, decorated with a coat of arms worn smooth over time. After leafing through the book too fast to have read anything useful, Lapin set it aside.
“Alright. Close your eyes, Captain.”
“Close them?”
“You said you trusted me, didn’t you?”
Theobald closed his eyes, and felt Lapin touch his side rather gingerly. The brush of his long fingers sent pain shooting along the wound, but Theo kept as still as he could. This was nothing compared to the agony of battlefield medicine years ago, to bones snapping back into place with no choice but to get back on his feet and fight again. At least he could sleep tonight, wake with enough time to put some distance between himself and his injuries before he was back on the tournament field.
A faint smell caught his attention, rich as burnt sugar and slightly bitter. Against his eyelids, Theo saw something bright enough to leave an afterimage, something he could only rationalize as purple. By the time he opened his eyes again, whatever it had been was gone, leaving only shadows in its wake. Theo blinked it away and peered down at his wound. Or, rather, where his wound had been. The gash was no more than a swath of smooth pink flesh, slightly warmer to the touch than the rest of him but otherwise unremarkable. As if it had never been there in the first place.
“Bulb above,” he breathed, pressing his fingertips to the spot.
Lapin snorted. “I’m a skilled healer, Captain. The Bulb had nothing to do with it.”
“Well, Bulb or no Bulb, I appreciate the help.” Theo pushed himself to his feet, some of his strength renewed.
The chancellor stood as well, cleaning bloodied hands on the front of his robes. As he did, the candle on the desk guttered, the light in the room dimming just enough for Theo to notice something unusual. Reflected in Lapin’s eyes was a swirl of something violet.
Theobald shook his head, ridding himself of the image as the light returned to normal. “Have a good night, Chancellor. Lapin.”
Lapin nodded, watching as Theo crossed the small room to the door. Just as his hand grazed the doorknob, he heard the rabbit speak again. “Captain?”
“Yes?”
Something had softened about Lapin’s voice, until Theo didn’t dare to look back at him. “You know what this attack means, don’t you?”
“That they think I’m a threat.”
“Precisely.”
Theo felt his chest tighten. With pride or disgust, he wasn’t certain: pride, that even at his age he was considered dangerous; disgust, that his opponents were too cowardly or too underhanded to take him in honest combat and face to face. “Is this your way of telling me I should be careful, Chancellor?”
“No.” He could smell, faintly, that burned sugar again. “It’s my way of telling you to fight well. Prove them right. Make all of Calorum remember why you are a threat, Captain.”
“Theo.” He wasn’t sure why he said it, but it was out before he could take it back.
It sounded as though Lapin was smiling. “Good night, Theo.”
All Theo could do was nod, disarmed by the tenderness with which he’d spoken. He stepped out into the night, suddenly certain beyond a doubt that he would be getting little rest before his fate dawned bright as the Bulb in the early morning.
*
Whatever Lapin had done last night must have been nothing short of magical. Theobald had woken up feeling more himself than he had in years. His shoulders didn’t ache, his neck wasn’t stiff, and though his knee clicked with every step, he wasn’t quite as aware of it as usual. His armor on its stand was an invitation instead of a warning sign.
Theo was halfway through dawning his armor, buckling the strap of his left pauldron with his teeth, when Liam came bounding into the room. Though no mounts were used in today’s melee combat, he’d still chosen to prepare himself in the stables. Sprinkle liked it there.
“Good morning, Liam.”
“Good morning!” Without being asked, Liam hurried over and began to do up Theo’s right pauldron. Theobald had been doing up his own armor for decades, but it was surprisingly pleasant to allow someone else to do it for him. “I have something for you.”
Theo startled at that, and set down the gauntlet he’d been preparing to don. “Do you?”
“A favor.”
While Liam fished in his numerous pockets, Theo racked his brain for what the boy could mean. Favors were often gifted to knights before tournaments or duels, but he had no one who would think of him enough to give him one. No child to pass him a flower atop his mount, no lover’s handkerchief scented with perfume. What favor could Liam hold? A bit of a flower or a seed the ward himself had found… or perhaps another attempt to sabotage him, by another champion afraid to be bested.
What the squire produced was none of these. In the palm of his hand, glinting in a shaft of dusty light, was a small golden ring. Theo picked it up, between two fingers, and held it up for a closer look. It might have been a signet ring once, but whatever coat of arms it had once borne had been rubbed away by time or nervous habit. “Where did you get this?”
Liam bit his lip. “Someone handed it to me, told me to give it to you. A token of good luck for Candia’s champion.”
“No chance you’ll tell me who?”
“He told me not to tell.” Liam shook his head.
Theo was oddly touched, both by Liam’s loyalty and by the gesture, and slipped the ring on. It was too small to fit on any but his littlest finger. Looking at it tugged at a memory, one Theo was only half-sure was his own. “You’re free to go now, Your Grace,” he said finally. “Go join our court.”
He nodded solemnly. “Are you going to win, Theo?”
“I certainly hope so.”
Liam scampered out of the stable, headed for the stands, and Theobald was left alone. As he lifted Broadsicle, fingers wrapping around the familiar hilt, Lapin’s words from the night before echoed in his head. Make all of Calorum remember why you are a threat. This was his last chance to prove to everyone assembled that he was just as much to be feared as they all believed, to wield his sword and shield and make his attacker pay. If he were to lose today, not only would he be disappointing the kingdom he’d come to represent, he would be letting whoever had stabbed him know that they had gotten the better of him. And Theobald had never liked letting people get the better of him.
The doors to the stable rolled open, and he stepped into the light, taking a deep breath before walking out onto the field. Rubbed one thumb over the already worn face of the signet ring. When his finger touched its surface, he felt as if he’d been shocked, sparks jumping from the ring and into his skin. Far from burning, they moved up his arm, lighting up every bit of skin they touched. Theo caught a whiff of burned sugar as he stepped into the ring.
The other champions were already out, squaring up in their own sections of the field. Theo took a moment to survey them as he assumed his spot. Sir Chorizo of the Meatlands wielded a massive hammer that he swung in wide practice strokes, spikes studding its faces; Dame Razalind flicked a whip-thin rapier bound in stinging nettles; the thane of the Dairy Islands spun a trident between deft fingers. Dame Semolina’s gladius caught the light and its edge gleamed, wickedly sharp. Melees in tournaments were often fought with first blood as a qualifier, but Theo had heard stories of Ceresian combat. Doubtless there would be more than first blood on the line today.
“People of Calorum!” Senator Ciabatta leaned against the rail of his viewing box, clearly invigorated by the tension in the morning air. “Before us stands the final challenge of our tournament, the melee! In Concordant tradition, each champion’s first blood signals their forfeiture of the fight, but we play a little differently here in Ceresia. When a champion is disarmed, they are out of combat, and the last man standing with a weapon is the winner. You may bleed as much as you like, as long as you don’t let go of your sword.”
Theo tightened his grip on Broadsicle’s hilt. As long as he could hold on, he could withstand any blows that came his way.
“And, begin!”
Instead of the gong from the jousts before, a horn sounded over the field. The horns of battle, crying out. Theobald extended his sword arm and swung, clearing three wide streaks in front of him. The blade whistled through the air, and he followed it with a lunge forward to close some of the space between himself and the other champions. With every clash of metal on metal, every grunt and gasp of effort, Theo’s vision narrowed further, focusing in. Brute force may have been his greatest asset, but there was calculation behind his every move just the same. When Sir Chorizo swung his hammer, Theo was ready, and hefted his shield in time to block the blow. Sparks flew at the contact.
He pulled his other arm back, bringing Broadsicle up in a wide, sweeping arc that caught the other knight between the shoulders. A flat strike, not enough to draw blood, but Theo had been on the receiving end of a similar blow enough times to know it would leave his opponent seeing stars. With his swing, he tasted more than smelled some remnant of the previous night’s burnt sugar. As if it were following him.
The banging of mace against shield sounded behind the dueling pair, and Senator Ciabatta’s horn blew again. “The first disarmed is Thane Tothson of the Dairy Islands!”
A series of blows exchanged with the Meatlander extricated him in time to slash away an attack from Dame Razalind’s rapier. The stinging nettles around the blade lashed at his wrist, leaving thin streaks of blood in their wake. First blood. Theo pulled his arm back and wrapped both hands around Broadsicle’s hilt, bringing it down in a chop across the back of the Fructeran’s hand. With a cry of frustration, she dropped her sword.
The horn sounded once more. “Dame Razalind of Fructera has been disarmed!”
Theo had no time to relish his small victory. Someone snarled behind him, and Sir Keradin was upon him, twirling his mace with a lazy strength that was somehow more frightening than another man’s screaming fury. Through the slats of his helmet, his eyes glittered, just as narrowed as Theobald’s.
Keradin swung first, and the green spikes of his mace caught Theo square in the stomach. Theo heard his armor crumple slightly, and took the hit like a punch, but prepared his sword for a returned blow. Something about the way Keradin fought put him off guard-- the other champions had fought with skill and with honor, properly engaging one another in each part of the melee. The Vegetanian struck like he was going in for a kill.
With every stroke they exchanged, the world around them faded away. This wasn’t the tactical narrowing Theo was used to, but something blurrier and harder to calculate. Keradin hammered hard with his mace, until blood ran from Theo’s knuckles over the hilt of his sword; until his breath came in pants and the taste of copper joined the burnt sugar on the back of his tongue.
Keradin slammed his mace into Theo’s shield, hard enough that he let go as the metal buckled against his fist. When he did, the other knight laughed, a sound low in his throat that sent a chill of ice up Theo’s spine. A sound he recognized immediately. In the second that he hesitated, to register the sound, the paladin struck. Hit him again, with more power than a simple swing should have wielded, and knocked Theo backwards and onto his knees. A spike of Keradin’s mace caught him across the cheek.
Everything Theo heard next was dulled by a pounding in his ears, as if he were underwater. Another knight was disarmed, the victory announced by the Senator above them; the roar of the crowd and the keening of horns were barely audible under the echo of Keradin’s insidious laugh.
Even as fear momentarily gripped him, it was edged out by a single-minded purpose. Keradin had been afraid of him? Considered him a dangerous threat? Then it was danger and fear he was going to get. Theobald pressed a bloodied hand into the dirt and propelled himself off of the ground, lifting Broadsicle as he leaped and driving it toward Keradin’s chest. The other knight took the blow in a spray of sparks, and, to Theo’s surprise, threw his shield aside.
He’s not out for a victory. He’s out for blood.
The other remaining champion, Dame Semolina, threw herself toward their fray. Without even looking, Keradin delivered a strike of his mace so hard that her gladius went skittering ten feet away. The horns must have sounded, but Theo couldn’t hear a note. He wiped his bleeding nose on the back of his hand and lunged forward for another swing. If first blood had decided the competition, they would both have lost ten times over. It trickled from Keradin’s scalp, pooled in the chinks in Theo’s armor, poured down both of their arms in five shades of red. And still, neither was willing to submit. The crowd must have sensed that something had shifted away from entertainment and toward a duel.
Theobald gritted his teeth, then caught Broadsicle in both hands, holding it between them. Instead of striking with it, he shoved forward, slamming his sword into Keradin’s chest. The carrot grunted, staggering back, and Theo pushed again. This time Keradin was the one on his knees, and Theobald seized him by the plumage at the top of his helmet, swinging around to hold Broadsicle’s edge to his throat.
“Submit,” he called, voice rough with exertion and fury.
“Never,” Keradin hissed.
Theo leaned closer, until he was sure Keradin would be able to hear him whisper even through his helm. “You can drop your weapon and forfeit, or I can slit your throat. Or I can tell the people of Calorum exactly what I met with in the alley last night.”
A second of hesitation, and then the other knight’s mace hit the dirt with a quiet thump. Theobald kicked it away, then released him, in time to hear the victory horns again. In time to hear his allies chanting his name.
“People of Calorum, may I present your tournament champion, newly awarded, Sir Theobald Gumbar, Knight of North Gumbia, Lord Commander of the Tart Guard, Champion of Candia, Honored Knight of the Concordant Empire!”
Theobald tossed Broadsicle into the dirt and let himself take a staggering step backwards, shoulders heaving. A wide grin spread across his face, and he wiped the blood from his chin with his free hand. He barely had time to catch his breath before the Candians had flooded the field and were hurling themselves at him. The first person who flung themself in his direction, he caught, and wrapped both arms around them. They held on tightly with arms around his neck, and it took Theo the better part of a minute’s embrace to realize that he was holding onto none other than Chancellor Lapin.
The chancellor released him and stepped back, smoothing out his robes with a rather apologetic look. “Forgive me, Captain, I don’t know what came over me--”
Theobald silenced him by hugging him again, and heard a quiet “Oh,” as Lapin settled into the hold. His hands were still bloody, his body aching, but holding onto the chancellor as his heart pounded and his chest heaved made him smile.
“Thank you for the ring,” he said, letting go at last to remove his helm and tuck it under one arm.
Lapin sniffed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Right. Of course. Well, I was anonymously given a favor before the battle, and I suppose it must have been good luck.” Theo gestured with his right hand, the bloodied ring glinting in the high Bulb light.
“You’re an Imperial knight now, Captain--”
“Theo.”
If he’d been looking for it, Theobald would have said Lapin was smiling. “Theo. You don’t need good luck when you are a champion.”
Theobald did look for it, and smiled back. “I suppose you’re right.”
The other Candians had pushed through the rest of the crowd, and were fighting their way onto the field. As Theo knelt, extending his arms for Jet, Ruby, and Liam to leap into, he heard Lapin add, “Although, superstition has power. So I suppose, if you feel it brought you luck, you had better keep it.”