Page 23 of Stardust Child

“I like that. And targeting those weak places. That’s a clever way women can fight, isn’t it? If we aren’t so strong.”

“Strength isn’t everything,” Remin agreed, as the knights on horse lined up at the end of the field. “You’ll see it among the lancers, too.”

“Oh?” Her head swiveled as cheers swelled again, and the knights trotted forward on their horses, metal juggernauts compared to the fluid, natural beauty of the Benkki Desan demonstration. Remin spotted the subtle hand of Juste in the contrast.

“Watch Edemir,” he said, sitting back in his chair, well satisfied. “There’s more to a joust than reach and strength.”

* * *

Over the months since her arrival in Tresingale, Ophele had all but forgotten how deadly Remin and his knights really were.

Other than their omnipresent swords, there wasn’t much evidence that they were knights at all, day to day. They went about the town in much the same clothing as the common soldiers, did the same work, and other than Remin, she rarely saw them in armor and never saw the least hint of their violent potential. To her, they were the Knights of the Brede in only the most chivalrous, heroic sense: unfailingly gentle, protective, and gallant. Except for Sir Miche, who liked to tease.

But in his armor, even Sir Miche looked like a stranger. Armored and helmeted, the knights rode a circuit of the field, tipping their lances to Remin as they passed the dais. He acknowledged them gravely, and Ophele, watching him from the corner of her eye, nodded her head just as he did, trying to play her part for the watching crowd.

At the far end, the knights massed and wheeled their horses in a sudden surge of motion, and Ophele caught her breath as they leveled their lances and charged, a momentary glimpse of who they really wereand what they could really do. Six knights on armored horses made a thunder like nothing she had ever heard before, and she watched with her fan frozen in front of her face. Stars, just imagine them on a battlefield, with real lances.

“I feel sorry for Valleth,” she said without thinking, and then glanced up at Remin apologetically.

“I thought the same too, sometimes,” he replied, without taking his eyes from them. “But they’ll be careful today. This is more a demonstration than a contest.”

Indeed, as the knights came around again, Ophele could tell who was who now: Sir Auber sitting very straight in the saddle, Sir Edemir with the sign of the boar on his breastplate, and Sir Miche, somehow cheeky even in a helmet. She didn’t know the others as well. Sir Darrigault, Sir Bertin, and Sir Osinot were Remin’s knights too, but they were not Knights of the Brede. They had not been there for the charge of the Gresein.

As it turned out, that was no measure of skill.

“They get points for breaking a lance on each other, and for unhorsing each other,” Remin explained as Sir Bertin and Sir Darri took their places at opposite ends of the field, their horses dancing restlessly, scenting the excitement. Sir Bertin was the taller of the two knights, while Sir Darrigault was very short and sturdy, and both lifted their heavy lances as if they weighed nothing.

It seemed to take forever for them to get going, with squires and pages darting about, little Valentin scampering fearlessly around the huge horses. A half-dozen times the knights lifted their lances as if they were about to charge and then lowered them again. But then all at once they were standing at either end of the tilt barrier, visors down and lances ready, and at Sir Bram’s signal, the horses leapt forward.

Even two armored horses were heavy enough to shake the ground. Ophele didn’t know enough to understand everything she was seeing, but as they raced toward each other, she saw Sir Darrigault roll his arm back and his lance thrust forward and there was a tremendous smashing sound, a shattering of splinters, so quickly over she hardly knew what had happened.

“…done, Bertin!” Remin applauded beside her, and Ophele looked at him and then back at the knights, wondering if she had blinked. Sir Bertin threw his shattered lance aside to be dragged away by a shouting Denin, and the crowd roared their approval.

“He hit him?” she said blankly.

“In the shoulder, neat as you please,” Remin said approvingly. “You have to watch carefully; the horses are moving fast.”

“They are.” Her heart was pounding with excitement. At the ends of the tilt barrier, the horses slowed, blowing, and Sir Darrigault lifted an arm to show he was all right, bowing to acknowledge Sir Bertin’s point.

“Bertin’s an eel,” Remin said beside her, clearly enjoying himself. “He’s so skinny, it’s like trying to aim at a fence post.”

“A fence post on horseback,” Ophele laughed. “It must be hard to aim, mustn’t it? With both horses moving?”

“It is. Watch, when they’re squaring up, they stand up in the stirrups to give themselves a platform.”

Honestly, in their armor, it was hard for her to tell either way, but she clapped her hands as Sir Darrigault’s lance glanced over Sir Bertin’s skinny shoulders, just enough to count as a hit. All of it was so loud, louder than any noise she had ever heard before: the horses, the crowd, the smashing impact of the lances. Again, the knights turned, picked up fresh lances, and Sir Bram, with a little showmanship, held them in place for an agonizing heartbeat, then dropped his arm.

The horses surged forward. Ophele didn’t dare to blink as they thundered toward each other, hundreds of pounds of muscle and hooves and steel, and this time she saw how Sir Bertin’s lean body swayed and lifted slightly off the saddle, evading one lance and smashing his own home.

“Oh, he won!” she exclaimed, applauding wildly. Beside her, Remin was pounding the arm of his chair, the noise almost lost in the clamor of the crowd.

“Did you see it that time?” he asked, bending his head and raising his voice to be heard.

“Yes, yes!” she shouted back. “It really doesn’t hurt them? When the lance hits?”

“No, it hurts.” He lowered his voice to normal volume as the cheering faded. Sir Bertin and Sir Darrigault quit the field, and Sir Miche and Sir Auber were taking their places at either end of the barrier. “Darri will be feeling that for a few days.”

“I hope not too much,” she said, looking with a little anxiety at Sir Miche. Of course, she didn’t want anyone to be hurt, but she did want him to win; he was her friend, after all. This time, it seemed all too soon before Sir Bram was lifting his arm to signal readiness, and she held her breath as the horses charged.

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