Page 161 of Shadows in Bloom

“Kyrios!” He called out, voice shrill with unfiltered panic. “Your shield, Kyrios.” Stable boys were responsible for what happened in the stables, and though Astor wasn’t sure if that included a knight forgetting his armour, he understood the boy’s shiver. He understood why he had used the formal greeting of a lord, despite the fact that the Damaryan was barely older than he was.

The diverge was enough for the already agitated crowd to burst out laughing. They showed their impatience by shouting at the riders, and it didn’t help when the Damaryan’s horse hinnied and kicked up his feet. Rather than panicking, the rider swirled them both around in one smooth movement so that they faced the stable boy, who held up the missing gear. Astor rolled his eyes theatrically at the Novarian students, making them snigger.

The Damaryan, Illias Mothvora, finally put the helmet over his head, masking the golden strands that seemed to be a trademark for his people. With one flick he closed his visor, then took hold of the shield. The green shield, Astor realized once it was held up straight in front of a rider’s chest, portrayed a sun and its rays, cascading them where they transformed into hands.

The trumpet played the high brassy notes they had heard so often during times of war.

There was no war now. Only the herald, who raised the white and red chequered flag with a dramatic gesture and kept it there, as if waiting for the audience to turn quiet once more —as if if toying with time as it dragged on, painfully slowly and delicately melting into that moment they’d all been waiting for.

The flag came down. “Knights, begin!”

The crowd exploded and Astor’s horse whinnied loudly, raising its feet as he once more threw his lance toward the sky and let out a battle cry. A dramatic gesture, even he knew it, but Novarians enjoyed a good show.

“Go and bring me back my prize, Lyssipos,” Cosmo howled over the crowd, but Astor ignored him as he rode by, steering his mare further down the roped-off enclosure. Adrenaline rushed through his ears, dimming the external sounds coming from the arena as he clicked his tongue and held out his lance in a pointing accusation toward the Damaryan rider who copied the gesture as he too clacked his tongue, making his horse leap forward. They rode fast, the only sound the clopping sound of the foot heels. Still, the approach felt as if in slow-motion, the jerky movements like sluggish bumps as he stared at his opponent, unblinking, and tried to block out his treacherous curiosity when the lance came into view, and with it those swirling, immaculate drawings into the blade.

Focus.

Determination.

Confidence.

“They’re a fascinating people,” was all he mused instead. And then they were there, crossing each other in a fleeting climax of metal as they stabbed and steered, shielded and shouted. Astor cried out one more time as he howled their battle cry, the words ancient and no longer used in contemporary Astorian. Though everyone knew what they meant:

Péthane gia ména, o polemistí.

Die for me, oh warrior.

His lance hit the shield and Illias steered his horse to the side, avoiding further impact without losing speed. They passed each other in a flurry of wind, the moment gone before they could draw another breath. It wasn’t until he returned to the end of his line, that Astor realized the Damaryan hadn’t attacked him.

Guiding their horses back, they were once more in position on their far end. Only this time, the Damaryan held Astor’s gaze. His face was obscured by the silver mask, the metal gracefully drawn into the lines of his long, slender neck.

To have those green eyes fixated on him was something else. It made Astor feel heavy and featherlight at the same time.

Then the trumpet blazed and the flag which had been raised flung back. “Round two!”

The horses ran, the rhythmic thud of their approach sending a chill through the air.

As he approached, Astor noticed how the Damaryan’s shield was too far to the left, exposing too much of those firm shapes of his shoulders. It left him vulnerable. Such little protection.

Beautiful. So beautiful.

“No!” Astor cried out. I won’t be distracted. He couldn’t be. He was the future Leopard of the Novarian army.

With more force than he should have intended, Astor’s lance clashed with Illias’s, causing the Damaryan to lose his balance. His white mare staggered to the side as Illias avoided more direct contact. By doing so he lost his focus, and the heavy shield clattered to the ground.

Around them, the crowd smelled victory and they yelled their words of support, which was a combination of love for the gods and love for the Prianos family.

Taking in the compliments like a waft of air, Astor followed the roped-off enclosure until he reached his far end once more. Whirling Kallisto around, he saw how the Damaryan slid over his horse’s back to gracefully pick up his shield, before straightening his back and riding off to his side of the far end.

It took skill to pull off a trick like that, Astor thought. Which meant that Illias was a lot better with horses than he led on. Then why didn’t he fight?

They had one final round. He would probably win like this, since the other boy hadn’t even tried to throw his lance into his board. But it was uneventful. Not quite the way he’d hoped to start the official festivities, or gaining his title of champion.

Cosmo would still get his prize though.

Focus.

Determination.

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