Page 13 of The Kingdom of Flames

Celestine felt a wave of relief. Whatever happened, her people would have time. What happened here echoed in the Painted Realm.

Do I truly consider throwing myself on the painted shield, for not one Lord but all?

She thought of all those lonely nights, in darkness. Wishing for love. Now her wishes would be cast upon her, answered like arrows that pierced her.

Celestine looked at Lord Blackdawn. At Lord Emberfell. At Lord Pollen. All beautiful. So much power reigned here. So much finality. These were masters of the sky, wind, soil, and all that grew in it.

She shuddered.

“I accept.”

“Blood it is then,” Blackdawn said. He looked so young, like her. So tragic. So forlorn. As if he lamented needing her shared. But she knew beyond certainty he would be the death of her.

Cedarheart rose, pulling an axe from his throne. He walked like a beast, stalking toward the court.

“It’ll be my banner her crest breaks upon, and my Season she comes to first.”

“Here, here.” Emberfell raised a goblet.

Lord Vermilion rose in his sickening and haunting way. He withdrew a long sword, more like a needle than a blade. “Blood is my realm to taste, Cedarheart.” So spoke the quarter of Spring.

It was Silver, who rose now from the Winter quarter, who said nothing. Twin blades flashed at his side. His eyes settled on Celestine in a piercing blue, and she felt herself flutter.

That one doesn’t seem so bad.

But finally, it was Lord Encarmine, who rose with his circlet of broken swords on his brow, his armor etched with names, she saw now, and they shifted upon his armor as if being written over by a live hand. His back was straight. His hair was chestnut and close-cropped. He raised a shield of steel with leather trim.

“Come, Lords,” he said. “Let us prove who will take the crest of the final bride of Calendar.”

The four champions circled and began.

“Stay close to me,” Captain Aidric pulled her from the central dais. “This has not happened in some time. You may get hurt.”

Celestine nodded, terrified and exhilarated at what she was watching.

“It is to first blood.” Aidric’s hand did not leave her shoulder. She took it as a comfort instead of holding her in place.

Celestine watched the four Lords circled one another.

“Their lust fuels them. They will take their spurned wrath out upon one another,” Aidric whispered.

The grand duel began, the duel for her.

Vermilion reached out suddenly, drawing first blood from the Silver-Bannered lord of winter. The Lord laughed and held up a necklace of dark, bloody jewels. He tossed them to the brigand who sat on a throne of plunder in autumn.

“Return that, thief.” Vermilion spat from the dueling circle.

“I think not,” the rogue laughed and held up the necklace. “Been after this for some time.”

Vermilion turned to pursue him, so entranced by the thievery that Lord Cedarheart cracked him across his pale crown, his circlet of bone and blood nearly coming loose. Scarlet spun and roared, taking the fight to Cedarheart. The wolfish lord roared, feinting and moving, swinging his axe mightily.

Lord Encarmine of the Red Banner did not move. He stood at attention in a knightly manner, waiting his turn.

“Why does Encarmine not strike?”

“He would believe it unworthy.” Captain Aidric said. “His is the way of honor.”

Vermilion and Cedarheart fought. Cedarheart was ferocious; his assault savage. Vermilion was liquid on his feet, so fast, striking everywhere and nowhere, like a hunting cat. But there was a disdainful impatience to his movements, as if he despised even the air that touched him.

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