BY THE TIME River Palacetied up to Ursal's long dock, the preparations for the tournament were well under way - so much so that few in the city or at court even commented on the return of Queen Jilseponie.

Pony - and though she had returned, she still thought of herself as Pony again - was glad of that. The preparations would likely keep most courtiers busy throughout the winter of 845-846, offering her some time to settle in without the constant tension.

King Danube embraced the tournament wholeheartedly, with a rousing cheer for Duke Kalas and the others who were making the arrangements. "No finer gift could a king receive from his court!" he proclaimed.

Pony just smiled, glad of the distraction and happy that her husband was happy. She moved about quietly and said little, letting others carry the conversation at the nightly dinners and weekly balls. Often she left the castle, as she had promised she would, going out among the peasants to try to help them with their illnesses and with the general misery of their lives - particularly during this, the coldest of seasons.

When she was not out, the Queen kept mostly to herself, sometimes in prayer, sometimes just sitting at a window and trying to figure out where in this confusing life she truly fit in. There was no self-pity in her, though. Not at all. Pony had more memories - grand memories - than most could ever hope for, and now she understood that the situation was hers to control. She could either let the gossipers and troublemakers bother her, or she could ignore them and go on with her plans, pursuing her goals, shaping this newest Chapter of her life.

In the castle, she was Queen Jilseponie, but out in the streets among the peasants, she was Pony. Just Pony, a friend of those in need.

With Danube, she was a little of both. She had to be there to support him during the times of tension that inevitably accompanied his position. And so she did, but quietly, from behind the scenes. She would not normally be in attendance any more when Duke Kalas or some other nobleman came for an audience complaining about this problem or that, but she would be there beside King Danube later on, lending her ear that he could relieve his tension with animated outbursts.

And after, when he wanted, with lovemaking.

Pony didn't recoil from him at all. She would remain a good wife to this man, because she did indeed care for him deeply, did even love him.

For his part, King Danube kept his promises. He did not question his queen when she went out of Castle Ursal, and he did his very best to ignore the few rumors that had inevitably started circulating once more, now that she had returned to the city.

By the end of the third month of 845, the King's birthday was fast approaching, and so was the end of winter. Several knights from Palmaris had come in before the winter, fearing that the roads would be closed until long after the joust, but the winter that year was a mild one, and a short one.

Marcalo De'Unnero watched the preparations - the great tents and the combat yard, the gathering of minstrels and chefs and warriors from all over the kingdom - with anticipation and a bit of trepidation. He had been staying away from the court proper of late, for the last thing he wanted was to be seen by Queen Jilseponie. Kalas had not recognized him, and in many ways he looked very different from the man the Duke had accompanied all the way to the Barbacan in pursuit of Elbryan and the heretics those many years before, but he had no doubt that if Jilseponie looked into his eyes but once, she would know the truth.

He was confident of that, because he understood that if Jilseponie's appearance had greatly changed - and it had not, he saw on those few occasions when he had watched her from afar - he would still surely recognize her. She was his mortal enemy, as he was hers, and their mutual hatred went far beyond physical appearance.

So De'Unnero, in the guise of Bruce of Oredale, had stayed near the celebration grounds, watching it all, helping where he could. And now, this fine spring day, it was nearly complete, so close, in fact, that the Allheart Brigade, Kingsmen, and Coastpoint Guards were all out drilling for their respective marches across the field, the traditional King's Review.

Aydrian's day was fast approaching.

De'Unnero could hardly draw breath when he considered the trial coming fast before his protege. He was asking this young warrior to do battle -and not just battle, but formal battle, which was an entirely different thing - against the most seasoned knights in the kingdom, and with only a modicum of training in such jousting techniques. He had sent Aydrian off to the southeast, to Yorkey County, for he would enter the tournament as a representative of some minor landowner firmly loyal to Abbot Olin's pocketbook. That seemed the best cover, for Yorkey County, once a bitterly divided multitude of tiny kingdoms, was dotted by small castles -one on every hill, it seemed - and produced more Allheart knights and more of the tournament entrants than the rest of the kingdom combined.

Besides, Yorkey County was the supposed home, he had whispered into Duke Kalas' ear, of the Queen's lover.

"Squire Aydrian of Brigadonna," De'Unnero whispered under his breath, the alias he had instructed the boy to assume. The former monk smiled wickedly at the thought. Yes, he was asking much of young Aydrian, but he had seen the boy at battle and understood Aydrian's prowess with the gemstones. He knew the crowd would not soon forget this tournament.

Aydrian, dressed in normal peasant clothing and standing beside Sadye and De'Unnero, who were similarly outfitted, shook his head with disgust as yet another arrow sailed wide of the mark, flying down the long field set up for the archery contest, traditionally the first competition of a tournament. These were not the King's elite knights competing here, not even soldiers but only simple peasants and huntsmen.

"I would never miss so easy a target," Aydrian said quietly to his companions, his frustration at not being allowed to enter this contest bubbling over. "I could take the target dead center, then split my own arrow with the next shot!"

"You would not get a second shot," De'Unnero corrected. "For Queen Jilseponie, if no others, would surely recognize the feathers topping that bow of yours."

"Then I could have bought a simpler bow," said Aydrian. "It would hardly have mattered. The outcome would be the same."

De'Unnero turned and smiled at the cocky young warrior. "You think yourself better than any of them?" he asked.

"Easily," came the response.

"Good," said the former monk. "Good. And when you are King, you can hold tournaments at your whim and prove yourself - and then you will be able to use that elven bow of yours, as well. But for now, you stand here and you watch."

Aydrian started to protest, but he held back, for he and De'Unnero had been over this time and again that morning. Aydrian and Sadye had arrived quietly in the city, unannounced, but letting a few people see their entry and see that they were carrying armor and all the accoutrements of a tournament competitor in their small wagon.

But De'Unnero had decided not to announce Squire Aydrian of Brigadonna publicly that day, the second of the great feast, the first of the tournament knightly games. He had explained to Aydrian that he wanted to hold back for dramatic effect and so that he could continue to plant rumors among the nobles. Aydrian had complained, for indeed, he truly wanted to leap into the competition right away, but De'Unnero had summarily dismissed him, reminding him that he, and not Aydrian, was in charge.

Not wanting to start that fight again, Aydrian did not now press the issue. He turned his gaze away from the boring archery tournament, with its incredibly average marksmen, where a hit seemed more luck than skill, and focused instead on the royal pavilion, a raised stage and tent, wherein sat the King and Queen and several nobles, including Duke Kalas in splendid silver plate armor, his great plumed helm beside him. The whole pavilion was flanked by armored Allheart knights, insulating their beloved King from the rabble.

Aydrian's gaze fast focused on the woman sitting beside Danube: on Jilseponie, his mother.

His mother!

A host of questions assaulted him, concerning his own identity and the intentions of those around him. Why hadn't Lady Dasslerond told him who his mother was? Why had she and the other elves insisted that Aydrian's mother had died in childbirth? There could be no doubt that Lady Dasslerond, as well informed as any creature in the world, knew the truth, knew Jilseponie was not only alive and well but was also ruling as queen of the most important kingdom in the world.

And why had De'Unnero told him? He was grateful to the man, to be sure, but Aydrian wondered how much of their friendship was based upon complementary characteristics, and how much was De'Unnero's opportunism in using Aydrian as a means to attain his old prominence again.

Aydrian chuckled at the thought and dismissed it, for in truth why did it matter? Was he not using De'Unnero in the very same manner?

He looked at his companion and smirked. A relationship of mutual benefit, he realized, and he was quite content with that. He didn't love De'Unnero, hardly even liked him, to be honest. But together they would rise to greater glory than either of them could rightly expect on his own.

He let his glance drift over to Sadye, admiringly, thinking - not for the first time - that someday he might bring their relationship to a level of intimacy. His eyes roamed up and down her petite but well-toned body, her slender, strong legs, her small but alluring breasts.

Smiling all the wider, Aydrian turned his thoughts and his gaze back to the royal pavilion, and his grin fast drooped into a frown. For now his questions again centered on the Queen - this woman De'Unnero claimed was his mother; this woman, reputedly a great hero of the Demon War and of the plague, who had, for some reason he could not begin to understand or forgive, abandoned him at birth.

Or perhaps he could understand it.

Perhaps we are very much alike,Aydrian thought. Perhaps the Queen is concerned with personal glory and had little time to devote to an infant.

Aydrian, for so many years obsessed with the notion of attaining power and immortality, could easily comprehend such a selfish, consuming need.

But Aydrian, concerned only with Aydrian, could not begin to forgive Jilseponie.

Not at all.

The archery champion, a huntsman from Wester-Honce of no great skill - in Aydrian's estimation - was soon named and was given as his reward a fine bow of yew, presented by Queen Jilseponie herself.

Aydrian again wished that he had been allowed to enter that contest, wished that he could stand before Jilseponie, asking her those questions with his eyes if not his lips. Patience, he told himself.

The rest of the morning was full of music and feasting, of jesters and bawdy plays, of the colors of the noblewomen's fine silken gowns and the drab grays and greens of the peasant women's dirty clothes. De'Unnero and Sadye kept close to Aydrian as they worked through the throngs, a rather pleasant, if uneventful morning.

The early afternoon was much the same, until the blare of trumpets announced that the competition field had been rearranged and that the tournament would begin anew. Caught up in the wave of bodies flocking to the small hills surrounding the field, Aydrian felt his heart leap even more in longing to participate.

For this was the start of the knightly games, the first melee, a scene of utter chaos and ferocity that young Aydrian was well-suited to dominate.

But De'Unnero would not let him. Not yet.

The competitors, almost every one wearing a full suit of plate armor, most of them Allheart knights, but with a few civilian noblemen joining in, rode their armored mounts onto the oval field from several locations, accompanied by the cheers and rousing cries of the throng of onlookers. Duke Kalas was not hard to spot, his great plumed helmet shining in the afternoon sun. The competitors formed into three ranks of seven or eight before the royal pavilion, with Duke Kalas centering the front line.

On Kalas' signal, they all removed their helms and offered a salute of respect - a clenched fist thumped against the chest, then extended, fingers open - to King Danube and Queen Jilseponie.

"King Danube," Kalas began, shouting so that many could hear - and the crowd went as silent as possible at that solemn moment. "On this occasion of your fiftieth birthday, it does us great honor to offer our respect to you. We ask your blessing on this combat and pray that none shall die this day - though if any should die, then he will do so knowing that he was honoring his King!"

King Danube responded with the same salute. The trumpets blared and the crowd roared.

"Notice that he said nothing of honoring Queen Jilseponie," Marcalo De'Unnero remarked slyly.

"A slight?" Sadye asked.

"It is expected that the Queen will always be honored at such events," explained the former monk, who had studied the etiquette and traditions of Honce-the-Bear extensively during his years at St.-Mere-Abelle.

Aydrian didn't quite understand what the two were talking about, for he, unlike the others, wasn't aware of the tremendous problems faced by this Queen who was supposedly his mother. He did note that both De'Unnero and Sadye were smiling at the notion that Jilseponie had just been slighted.

He turned his attention back to the field, to see that all of the competitors had taken up positions along the single-rail fence. The trumpets continued for some time, then were joined by a rank of thundering drums.

The trumpets ended, the drums rolled on, increasing in tempo until . . . silence.

King Danube stood again and surveyed the hushed crowd; then, with a smile he could not contain, he threw the pennant of Castle Ursal to the ground before the royal pavilion.

The competitors kicked their mounts into action, thundering to the middle of the field, falling into a sudden and brutal combat. They all carried heavy, padded clubs - not lethal weapons but ones that could inflict some damage!

It took Aydrian a few minutes to sort out the scramble as the horses came together in a dusty crash. The padded clubs thumped repeatedly off armor - one brave and poor competitor, wearing a patchwork of inferior armor, got smacked repeatedly until he finally slumped and dropped off his mount. Immediately, squire attendants ran out, to corral his rearing, nervous horse and to drag him off the field.

And then another, the only other competitor not wearing a full suit of armor, was ganged up on by a host of knights and beaten into the dirt.

"The noblemen do not appreciate inferiors trying to join their game," Sadye remarked sourly.

"In the past, the tournament was a way in which the Allhearts, and all the King's guards, tried to find newcomers worthy of joining their ranks," De'Unnero explained. "It would seem that the times have changed. King Danube's select group of friends does not wish to allow admittance by any who are not noble born."

"What will they do, then, when I batter the best of their warriors into the dirt?" Aydrian asked with all confidence.

De'Unnero only laughed.

"You should have let me go down there," Aydrian remarked, as a civilian and then an Allheart knight went spinning down heavily into the dirt.

"Tomorrow is another day," the former monk said, and his tone left no room for debate.

The patterns of the fight began playing out on the field below, and Aydrian noted more than a few curiosities. Off to one side of the main melee, a pair of Allheart knights had squared off, but it seemed to Aydrian as if their swings were not especially vicious, and he noticed one or the other ignoring a perfect advantage, an obvious defensive hole.

The young warrior caught on quickly. These two were friends, and were playing for time as more and more of the others were eliminated.

Aydrian also noted that, while Duke Kalas was fighting furiously, taking down one after another, most avoided him - though whether out of deference to the Allheart leader or out of respect for Kalas' fighting prowess, he could not be sure.

The crowd howled and roared, cheers rising as one competitor fell into the dirt after another. Soon it was down to four: Duke Kalas, a civilian nobleman, and the Allheart pair who had been fighting halfheartedly.

Kalas immediately charged after one of the Allheart knights, and Aydrian smiled, catching on. Kalas knew that if he remained alone on the field against the obvious friends, they would likely team up against him.

He was too anxious, though, and the knight leaped his horse aside and chased to join his companion, who was fighting the civilian.

The nobleman fought well, getting his shield up repeatedly to fend off heavy blows, and even managing one counterstroke that banged off the knight's shoulder, nearly unseating him.

But then his friend came in from the other side, and the nobleman took a vicious smash to the back of his head. He staggered and managed to turn his horse somewhat, but that left an opening for the first of his opponents.

The To-gai mount of the Allheart knight leaped ahead, and the knight crashed his club on the nobleman's shoulder, once, then again. The man wavered in his saddle, and the other knight smashed him across the head.

Down he went.

Even as he fell, Kalas was there, pressing one of the knights with a series of short, sharp blows.

Then it was two against one, but Duke Kalas didn't pull away. He drove in his spurs, yanking his mount to the side, and the well-trained pony reared and kicked Kalas' opponent.

Suddenly, the odds were evened.

Kalas took a glancing hit by the other knight for his efforts, but he shrugged it off and pulled the pony around. On came the fierce Duke, smashing away with abandon.

The crowd went wild, anticipating that a champion would soon be named.

Aydrian could hardly believe that the remaining knight was backing defensively in the face of Kalas' wild offensive. Certainly the Duke was raining heavy blows, but just as certainly, the man was leaving wide openings.

Backing meant only that fewer of the blows would land, and perhaps not as hard, but the knight was offering no response at all.

Down came Kalas' weighted club, banging against an upraised shield. Down again, and the knight barely managed to get his shield in the way.

The Duke's To-gai pony pressed in hard, and the knight's pony staggered. Reflexively, the knight grabbed the reins in both hands.

Kalas wasted no time, smashing his club across the knight's visor. He pressed on even harder with his pony; and the knight, falling back and holding on instinctively, fell off, bringing his pony down with him.

The pony immediately scrambled up from the ground, leaving the knight writhing.

Duke Kalas wasn't paying him any heed. He galloped to the royal pavilion, bent low, and scooped up the pennant, then rode the perimeter of the combat field, victory pennant held high.

The crowd went wild with enthusiasm, cheering for their beloved Duke - who had all along been regarded as the heavy favorite to win the competition.

Marcalo De'Unnero motioned for Sadye and Aydrian to follow him as he led them away from the tumult. "Duke Kalas will sit in wait for a challenger tomorrow," he explained.

"I could have defeated him," Aydrian stubbornly insisted.

"Prove it tomorrow," said De'Unnero.

"By not entering today's bout, Aydrian will have to go through all the rounds of combat," Sadye remarked, looking at the former monk curiously.

De'Unnero smiled at her, showing clearly that she had guessed the plan. "All competitors who did not fight today will begin in the morning," he explained to Aydrian. "Three winners of that group will join into the three groups divided among today's losers, with the three who fell last before Duke Kalas to head each group. When a champion among the newcomers and losers is found in each group, he will fight the respective group leader, with the winners moving on.

"That will leave four, counting Duke Kalas," De'Unnero went on. "And those four will fight until one is standing."

"Open melee?" Aydrian asked.

De'Unnero shook his head. "One-to-one combat. Lance, and then weapon, if necessary." He smiled and stared hard at Aydrian as he finished. "Real weapons tomorrow, not these padded clubs."

Aydrian returned the smile, glad to hear it.

"One last thing," De'Unnero said as they made their way out of the fairgrounds toward the villa that they had taken outside Ursal. "Duke Kalas, as today's victor, will ride tomorrow as the King's champion."

"And Aydrian?" asked Sadye, but her grin told the young warrior that she already knew.

"Aydrian will not have to announce until the final round," said De'Unnero. "Then he will ride for the Queen."

"The Talon's sure to win the first, eh?" said a grubby man with bristling brown and gray stubble for a beard and hair that he kept picking at, trying to tear out some lice.

"Should'a been here yesterday," his equally grubby companion replied, running a dirty sleeve across his nose, then spitting on the ground to the side, the wad landing right at De'Unnero's feet.

The former monk regarded it for a moment, then closed his eyes and suppressed any feral urges bubbling within him. He didn't look back at the two particularly dirty and unpleasant peasants but considered their words as he looked at the field, where all the late entrants were gathering. It was easy enough for him to discern who "the Talon" might be; for among the dozen newcomers, only one wore the armor befitting a nobleman - or a rich nobleman's champion, at least. The rest of the group were far less impressive, young men out to prove something to some lady who had caught their fancy, perhaps, or who were deluded enough to believe that their skill in riding and with the lance would somehow overcome the huge disadvantage brought by lack of armor.

De'Unnero smiled at the thought - he could well imagine inexperienced Aydrian riding out on the field in similar fashion, thinking his skill would overcome the disadvantage. That only reinforced to De'Unnero the good fortune Aydrian had found in connecting with him out there in the wilds of Wester-Honce. De'Unnero, too, was a master of fighting, and he knew without doubt that he could destroy Duke Kalas in combat.

Not on a horse, though, and certainly not in the formal combat of a joust. Aydrian's fighting style, like De'Unnero's, was one of foot speed and balance, but that did little good when your feet were set into stirrups!

And a lance was not a weapon to be dodged and parried.

Thus the armor. De'Unnero smiled in anticipation, for he knew that Sadye and the young warrior were not far off, and he could hardly wait for the grand entrance.

The armor! Not a man down there, not Kalas himself, was more splendidly outfitted; and the truth of Aydrian's gemstone-enhanced armor was even more impressive than the show.

The gasps began to resonate across the field and to the left, and De'Unnero smiled all the wider. He saw the peasants parting like grain before the wind, and through the masses came Aydrian, tall upon Symphony. He wore the shining golden-trimmed armor, the helmet obscuring his features. Symphony, too, had been armored, lightly, and atop it, the horse wore a black and red fringed blanket, that hid the telltale turquoise set in his powerful chest. If she saw that gemstone, then Jilseponie would know the identity of the horse.

She would suspect anyway, De'Unnero figured, for few horses were as magnificent as Symphony, even though the horse was old. He didn't fear that recognition, though, for De'Unnero knew that he would enjoy watching Queen Jilseponie's face crinkling with confusion and trepidation.

He glanced at the royal pavilion then, and noted that Jilseponie and Danube were already looking Aydrian's way, the King even coming out of his seat to regard the unexpected and unknown newcomer. Sitting beside Danube, Duke Kalas, too, rose to regard the unknown knight. Kalas, wearing his regular clothing, for he would not be fighting before midafternoon, tried to appear calm; but even from this distance, De'Unnero could see the curiosity on his face.

Onto the field rode Aydrian, sitting with perfect posture upon the imposing stallion. He kept Symphony at a slow walk, as De'Unnero had instructed, and took a roundabout route, letting the crowd see him clearly, on his way to the line before the royal pavilion, where he had to announce his intent.

Finally, he arrived, moving Symphony into place right beside the one called the Talon.

"Well done," De'Unnero whispered under his breath, for while the other imposing knight looked over at Aydrian, the young warrior didn't even do him the honor of looking back.

It took a long while for the crowd noise to quiet, and King Danube let it go at its own flow, sitting back, studying Aydrian.

De'Unnero was more interested in Queen Jilseponie's expressions, for the myriad that crossed her face could be interpreted in a multitude of ways, he knew, and when he glanced at Duke Kalas, and saw the fiery nobleman looking at Jilseponie as often as he was at the newcomer, he could easily guess what sinister notions might be crossing Kalas' wary mind.

Finally it was quiet, and the King stood, staring at Aydrian. This was when Aydrian was supposed to remove his helmet, De'Unnero knew, and he had instructed the young warrior to do no such thing.

"My King," Aydrian said, and he drew out his sword in salute.

De'Unnero saw Jilseponie's eyes widen, briefly. Tempest had been disguised, its hilt wrapped with blue leather, but by its very design, the elven sword was narrower and more brilliantly silver in hue than the dull thick swords of the human craftsmen. Like Symphony, the presentation of Tempest would be a tease for the Queen, yet another clue that could only heighten her suspicions.

"Do you wish to take part in our games?" King Danube asked after a while, when it became apparent that Aydrian had no intention of removing his helmet.

That was the formal greeting, and De'Unnero breathed easier that the matter of remaining concealed had not been challenged.

"I do, my King," Aydrian said calmly.

"And what is your name and title?" the King formally asked.

"I am Tai'maqwilloq," Aydrian replied boldly, "of Honce-the-Bear."

De'Unnero started, surprised and angered that Aydrian had taken a name other than the one they had planned. After the initial shock, the former monk nearly laughed aloud, for it was obvious to him that Queen Jilseponie almost leaped out of her seat. She recognized the elven name, no doubt, and the simple fact of that told her that this was no ordinary nobleman! Furthermore, Jilseponie would understand the translation of the name, Nighthawk, so akin to her beloved Nightbird!

The significance seemed to be lost upon King Danube, though. He chuckled. "A strange name," he remarked. "Or is it a title? And Honce-the Bear is a large location, young Tai'maqwilloq. Could you be more specific?"

"It is my name, and hence my title, my King," said Aydrian. "And I claim no specific place within your realm as my home. On the road I heard of this tournament, and so I have come. To prove myself worthy."

"Worthy to the King?" asked Duke Kalas, breaking etiquette by speaking.

Danube turned a sour glance his way.

"Worthy to myself," Aydrian answered, and Danube turned quickly back to face him. "For until that is proven, I am not worthy to anyone else."

"Perfect," De'Unnero whispered admiringly.

King Danube chuckled, breaking the tension. "Well, young knight, you have ridden to the right place for such a test," he said, and he motioned to one of the squires, who ran out to hand Aydrian his padded club. Then Danube swept his hands to the side, to the trumpeters, who began their song announcing the beginning of the day's competition.

It started with a brawl like the one the day before, an open melee, where only the last three astride would advance to the formal joust.

De'Unnero watched the tumult with approval, for Aydrian was playing nothing safe here. As soon as the drumroll ended, signaling the beginning of the fight, the young warrior charged headlong into the middle of the fray. He came through the small group that blocked his way like a giant scattering skinny-limbed goblins, Symphony slamming one horse and rider to the ground and Aydrian taking out the one on the other side with a mighty smash across the chest. The fallen competitor lay flat on the rump of his galloping horse for a few strides, then bounced off to slam hard into the ground.

For the third opponent, directly before him, Aydrian used his elven techniques. As the horses came abreast, the man tried to chop down at Aydrian, but the young warrior, using his padded club like a sword, gave a subtle parry that made his opponent's weapon slide harmlessly to the side. Aydrian then hit his opponent squarely in the face, smashing his nose and blackening both his eyes beneath the brim of his armored hat.

The man went back - how could he not? - and the motion made him tug the reins, slowing his horse.

Aydrian hit him again, with a swipe to the back of the head as the horses passed, then he pulled Symphony into a tight turn and came up beside the dazed, possibly unconscious, competitor, who was still sitting astride the mount, though it seemed more out of simple inertia than stubbornness.

Aydrian could have reached out and gently pushed the man from his saddle, but the fire was in him now, the primal fury. He swatted the man with a brutal blow that sent him flying from his seat.

The crowd went wild with appreciation. De'Unnero's grin nearly took in his ears.

Aydrian pulled up Symphony and looked around. Only a few competitors remained, including the Talon, who seemed intent on staying as far away from Aydrian as possible. That was a common practice among the nobles, based on simple logic - why fight each other when there are peasants, easy victims, to be found?

Aydrian wasn't thinking that way, though, and Symphony thundered across the field to bring him to the Talon.

The man seemed genuinely surprised to see this other obviously rich knight coming after him, as was evidenced by his lack of preparation. He managed to fight his horse around into position, but he had to work hard to get his club up in line to block Aydrian's swing.

It didn't matter, for the swing was but a feint, anyway. Aydrian let go of his club as soon as it contacted the other man's weapon, and instead grabbed the Talon's wrist as the horses passed and held on with frightening strength, driving his spurs hard into Symphony's flanks.

The horse charged by, then turned sharply behind the Talon's mount, and Aydrian held on firmly.

The Talon twisted awkwardly, then flew free of his saddle, spinning and falling with his arms and legs flailing wildly, facedown to the ground.

The crowd went wild.

Aydrian had no weapon now, but it hardly mattered. The five others remaining wanted nothing to do with him, and so the young warrior paraded around the perimeter of the field, drawing huge cheers wherever he passed, while the others fought their clumsy way down to two.

The three remaining walked their mounts to stand before the King, who pronounced them worthy of the joust.

And all the while, Queen Jilseponie stared at Aydrian with a look of sheerest confusion, and Duke Kalas stared at him with a look of sheerest contempt.

De'Unnero's smile had not diminished at all.

It was beginning perfectly.

"He will have to win three jousts to face his group's leader, an Allheart knight," Sadye said to De'Unnero as they wandered through the crowd at the midday festivities. Sadye had sent Aydrian away from the tournament grounds immediately following his victory, as planned, where other agents had collected him and hustled him far from adoring peasants and prying noblemen.

Their protege had made quite an impression that morning, particularly on Kalas and the other knights. What pleased De'Unnero most of all was the reaction he was now hearing from the common folk. The name of Tai'maqwilloq was being spoken in every corner and always in excited tones. Before Aydrian's appearance, the jousts, while entertaining, had seemed to the eyes of the peasants and many of the competitors to be more of a show than a true competition. For Duke Kalas had never been beaten, though he had battled nearly every competitor there more than one time previously. It had seemed a foregone conclusion that Duke Kalas would be named the King's champion, which was why there had been so much excitement when the Talon had arrived. He was a nobleman from the Mantis Arm and by all accounts a formidable jouster, one who had never before battled against Kalas.

The common folk had hoped this man would rise to make an honest challenge.

And then Tai'maqwilloq had arrived, in armor as splendid as any of them had ever seen, with a magnificent horse and a wondrous sword, dispatching the Talon with such seeming ease, dispatching three others with brilliance and sheer power.

Suddenly the tournament seemed worth watching for more reasons than the spectacle of battle.

De'Unnero listened to it all, and he added his own feelings on the matter wherever he could to heighten the excitement.

"Five wins will get him to Kalas," De'Unnero replied.

"Four, if the lottery of the three group winners and Duke Kalas pairs them," Sadye said.

"It will not happen," De'Unnero explained. "The excitement, after Aydrian moves on to the final rounds, will be to see him paired against Kalas. They will not hold that joust until the very end."

Sadye grinned as he offered his assessment, for it became clear then that Aydrian's choreographed appearance that morning had been for a good reason indeed. "Five jousts will tire him and his mount," she said. "Duke Kalas has been given a strong advantage."

De'Unnero seemed unconcerned. "Our young friend wants to be king," he reminded her. "This challenge seems minimal beside that."

Early that afternoon, Aydrian took his place in the lists for his first official joust. A rack of wooden lances, their tips blunt, stood at either end, with an attending squire standing ready to supply another lance to whatever rider happened to be at his end.

These early rounds were often the most brutal in the joust, for many of the competitors simply didn't have the proper armor. So it was for the unfortunate peasant who lined up first against Aydrian. The man had on a hauberk, with layers of leather padding beneath. All competitors were offered a great shield of high quality, and this alone would afford the peasant any defense against Aydrian.

Aydrian took up his lance, feeling its weight and balance. Rationally, he knew that this fool would present no challenge to him, but he couldn't deny the way his stomach was twisting. He had never fought like this before, and had only rarely battled at all from horseback!

It occurred to him that Brynn Dharielle would be virtually unbeatable at this type of combat.

A trumpet blare signaled the beginning; Aydrian tightened his legs on Symphony's flanks and spurred the horse on a thunderous charge down the course.

On came his opponent, the man ducking behind his large shield, his lance unsteady in his hand.

Aydrian purposely angled himself so that his lance would hit the other man's shield and the man's lance would similarly slam his. He wanted to feel that unknown and obviously mighty impact, right now, early on, in preparation for the more formidable opponents he knew he would soon enough face.

The impact was indeed stunning. Both lances shattered, as jousting lances were designed to do, and it was only after Symphony had taken several more running strides that Aydrian realized that he had won, that the tremendous crash had sent his opponent spinning backward over his horse's rump.

By the time he had pulled up at the far end of the course, the people were cheering, "Tai'maqwilloq! Tai'maqwilloq!" with abandon.

Aydrian looked back at his fallen opponent, the man flat on the ground, squires running to him.

So that was the truth of it, he realized. The initial passes of the joust, the three runs where replacement lances would be allowed, was a contest more of sheer strength and solidity in the saddle than any measure of battle maneuverability, though aim would become more important, he figured, when he started riding against the more-seasoned and better-armored opponents. Take that brutal hit and hold your seat, and victory would be there to claim.

The young warrior smiled, not only because of the rousing cheers for him but also because in that one pass he had learned much about the joust. In that one hit, he had learned that it would take much more than that to push him from his horse.

He had his second run about an hour later; and again, a single pass had the crowd cheering for Tai'maqwilloq and had his opponent lying in the dirt. His third opponent, an armored nobleman, took him two passes to unseat, the first to dull the man's shield arm with a stunning blow, the second to put his lance above the man's shield, catching him just below the shoulder. His second lance didn't break, to Aydrian's delight and to his opponent's agony, for he lifted the man right out of his saddle, and he seemed to hang in midair for a long time before crashing down to the dirt.

Stubbornly, the nobleman climbed to his feet and drew out his huge sword, and the crowd cheered for Tai'maqwilloq to finish the job.

Aydrian looked to the squire handing him the third lance. "Ye get one more," the toothless squire remarked with a huge grin.

"So does he," Aydrian reminded.

"Aye, but he's got no horse now, does he?"

Aydrian laughed and took the lance. "Need I stay on my side of the rail?" he asked.

The squire looked at him incredulously, and Aydrian certainly understood the man's puzzlement. How could one as strong as Aydrian not even know the rules of the joust?

"The field's open to ye," the squire responded. "Just run that one down and move along. Take care, though, for he's on the ground now, and that makes yer horse an open target."

Aydrian turned back to the field and the waiting nobleman. The man stood shakily, one shoulder drooping. The young warrior thought that he should dismount and fight him on foot, but he quickly changed his mind, not wanting to show all his skills to his future opponents just yet.

"He will never get near my horse," Aydrian replied to the squire and he drove his heels into Symphony, the great stallion leaping away.

The nobleman tried to dodge, but Aydrian was too quick for that. A shift of angle brought the lance squarely into the man's chest and launched him through the air and onto his back.

Aydrian turned at the end of the run, watching as the stubborn man tried to rise again. The stubborn fool almost managed it, but then simply fell over sideways into the dust, where he lay coughing blood.

The attendants dragged him from the field; the crowd roared for Tai'maqwilloq.

Aydrian moved to the side of the field then, to his personal squires, a disguised Sadye among them.

"Your next opponent will be an Allheart knight," she explained, "the leader of your group."

Aydrian smiled.

The Allheart knight went down and stayed down on the first pass, as Aydrian angled his shield perfectly at the very last second to send the knight's lance skipping high and wide and retracted his own lance, allowing his opponent to overbalance, then thrusting his lance hard, above the lurching man's dipping shield. It was the greatest impact Aydrian had felt that day, as his lance smashed into the knight's armored breast, and it nearly unseated Aydrian as well.

In truth, the young warrior thought he might fall, and might lose the pass, for when he glanced back, he saw the Allheart still astride his running horse.

But the fight was surely over, for the man was nearly unconscious. His well-trained horse kept running, but the man slid off the side, crashed against the rail, and fell under it to the ground.

The crowd roared to new heights, and there was a change in timbre to that cheering, Aydrian recognized and understood. Before, they were cheering for the impossible, for an unknown warrior. Now they were cheering for a man who had just clobbered an Allheart knight, a man who seemed destined to challenge Duke Targon Bree Kalas.

They held the lottery for the final four competitors soon after; and, as De'Unnero had predicted, Aydrian would be pitted not against Duke Kalas but against another Allheart knight, the largest of the competitors by far and a man who had won his group with ease.

By draw, Duke Kalas and his opponent went onto the field first.

Aydrian took Symphony to the side of the field, to Sadye and his attendants.

"Watch the Duke's style," Sadye remarked.

Aydrian laughed and walked away, hardly caring. When he was out of sight, he flexed his right wrist repeatedly, for the violence of that last hit had wounded the joint more than he had realized. Aydrian reached his thoughts to the hematite set into his armor and emerged back onto the field with hardly an ache soon after Kalas' easy victory.

"Two passes," Sadye remarked as an attendant helped Aydrian back into the saddle. "Though the first should have unseated the Duke's opponent. He was good.

"And glad I am to hear that," Aydrian replied. "It would be a pity to go through such a day of triumph without a single challenge!"

His confidence brought a chuckle to Sadye. True to his own prediction, Aydrian trotted out to the field and defeated his second Allheart of the day, unseating him in the first pass and running him down with ease.

That left only two.

"Present yourself to the King," the squire near one of the lance racks explained to Aydrian. When he turned, he saw that Duke Kalas had come back onto the field, trotting his powerful To-gai pony toward the King's pavilion.

Aydrian joined him there, but as he had done with the Talon, he did not look at Kalas at all, just at the King and Queen.

Danube rose then and launched into a great speech about the glories of the day, of the hard-won victories and bitter defeats. He congratulated all who had competed but then pronounced that these two among the rest had proven themselves the strongest.

King Danube looked down at Duke Kalas first. "For whom do you ride, champion Duke Kalas?" he asked.

"I am Allheart!" Kalas pronounced in a loud and resonant voice. "I ride for King Danube! My King, my country, my life!"

The crowd roared.

"And for whom do you ride, champion Tai'maqwilloq?" Danube asked, and the crowd went wild at the mention of his name.

When they quieted, Danube unexpectedly continued. "You said that you came to prove yourself worthy. I expect that you have done just that!"

The crowd erupted again, this time into a combination of cheering and laughter.

Aydrian waited for it to subside. "When I find one a worthy challenge, I will name myself as worthy," Aydrian remarked, and the crowd howled at such a brash statement. "That has not happened yet."

Aydrian felt Kalas' eyes boring into him and heard the Duke issue a low growl.

"I ride not for you, King Danube!" Aydrian announced suddenly in a tremendous voice. Danube's eyes popped open wide, the crowd gasped, and Duke Kalas growled again. Not only was such a declaration amazing on this, the King's birthday celebration but Aydrian's referral to "King Danube" instead of to "my King" was no small matter of improper etiquette.

"I ride for Queen Jilseponie alone!" Aydrian pronounced, and again came the gasps and the growl from Kalas; and several of the nobles seated in the royal pavilion crinkled their faces in disgust.

But King Danube did not seem so upset. Indeed, he howled a great bellow of laughter. "But a fine night I'll find with my wife if my champion fells hers!" he roared, and the crowd exploded into laughter again. "And a worse night of gloating, I fear, should her young upstart defeat my Duke!"

And then they were all laughing, except Duke Kalas, his lips thin with rage; except Queen Jilseponie, who sat there in blank amazement; except the other nobles, whose eyes shot daggers Aydrian's way; and except Marcalo De'Unnero, who stood in the crowd nodding admiringly at the way his young friend had played out the drama, pushing hard but not too far.

A subtle nod as he was placing his great plumed helm atop his head was all that Duke Kalas needed to do to get his point across to the squire attending his weapon rack and to the one across the way, who would be handing a lance to Tai'maqwilloq.

To this point, Kalas had battled fairly - except for the inescapable reality in the general melee that afforded him the honor of rank and reputation - and had he been fighting anyone else in this final match, he would have gladly continued doing so, confident that he would emerge victorious.

He remained confident now, even before he had thought to give the telling nod, but, in light of Bruce of Oredale's previous words and the declaration of the young upstart warrior, Duke Kalas also understood the dire implications here should Tai'maqwilloq somehow defeat him.

For the sake of his friend the King, he could take no chances.

That's what he told himself, anyway, the self-justification he needed to take the lance from his attendant. It was heavier than any of the others on the rack, and with the exception of its somewhat dulled point, was, in fact, an actual weapon of war and not a lance for jousting. Kalas settled it easily beside his magnificent shield, emblazoned with his family crest: the pine tree of St. Abelle with a dragon rampant on either side, their flaming breaths joining above the tree.

The mere sight of the Duke attired so magnificently, a seemingly unbeatable foe, the epitome of knighthood, often stole the strength from his opponents, and Kalas' chest swelled when he heard the appreciative cheers of the peasants.

In the royal pavilion, sitting very straight backed and outwardly composed, Jilseponie watched the young champion, this greatly skilled warrior, deeply intrigued and with more than a little trepidation. His name was elven, clearly, as was that sword he had presented. And she could see in his graceful movements that he was a ranger.

He had to be. There could be no other explanation. But why, then, was he here, entered in a tournament that had nothing to do with the Touel'alfar? A knightly joust that had nothing at all to do with the calling of a ranger? Would Elbryan have entered a tournament?

No. Even had he heard of such a challenge, her husband would have had no reason to attend, and, indeed, his responsibilities to the reclusive folk who had trained him would have kept him far away.

To her thinking, Tai'maqwilloq's presence here simply made no sense -unless it was somehow connected to her. He had proclaimed himself her champion, yet another clue that he was tied to Dasslerond's people. But why? What message was the lady of Caer'alfar trying to send to her?

One other thing gnawed at the Queen's curiosity: the horse. She couldn't see much of the stallion's features, for its chest and head were covered by decorative cloth and armor, but that stride! So long and powerful, the hind legs tucking way in under its belly, then exploding back with tremendous power. Pony knew that stride, had seen it in only one horse in all her life, one great horse who had taken Elbryan and Pony to the end of the world and back.

If Tai'maqwilloq's horse was not Symphony, then it was as akin to Symphony as any horse could be! Pony considered the span of years. Even if Symphony had been a young colt when first Elbryan had found him, which she did not believe, then the horse would now be old, very old, in his twenties at least and likely into his thirties. Could a horse that old, and with so many difficult trails and trials behind him, still run like the steed of Tai'maqwilloq, with legs fluid and strong?

Perhaps it was Symphony's offspring.

Pony reached into her pocket and put her hand around a soul stone. As she had done several times before during the joust, she reached out through the gemstone, seeking that magical connection she had known with Symphony.

But if this was Symphony, if there was indeed a magical turquoise embedded in this horse's muscular chest - a gem planted by Avelyn as a gift to Elbryan as a means through which he, and then Pony, could communicate with the intelligent horse - then she could not sense it.

The combatants had their weapons in hand then and were moving into position at opposite ends of the course, and the trumpeters put their horns to their lips.

Pony chewed her lower lip nervously.

Brimming with confidence, Aydrian lowered his lance and drove in his heels, and Symphony leaped away. On the other side of the rail, Duke Kalas kicked his To-gai pony into a similar gallop.

Aydrian could see the pinto's muscles working and knew that he would not hold too great an advantage, horse to pony, in this match. Superbly trained, intelligent, and pound for pound stronger than a draft horse, the To-gai ponies had earned their reputation as being among the finest mounts in the world. They were not small creatures - indeed many were not even true ponies, being taller than the fourteen-and-a-half hand defining height - and even the smallest of the Allheart mounts weighed a solid seven hundred pounds.

The riders neared and Aydrian focused on his opponent. Kalas was going straight for his shield, which seemed to be the custom for first pass, and so Aydrian did likewise, more than willing to trade crushing, punishing blows with the older Duke.

Besides, Aydrian didn't want to end the fight too quickly - he knew that he was obligated to please the crowd.

Aydrian's tip connected first, and he grinned beneath his helm - or started to, until his weakened lance shattered into several pieces before making any truly solid connection.

On the other hand, Kalas' hit proved stunning, as strong an impact as young Aydrian had yet known, driving his shield arm back into his side with tremendous force.

And the Duke's lance did not break!

Kalas drove on, the sturdy lance wrenching Aydrian's arm up awkwardly -the young warrior heard his shoulder pop out of its joint. Then the lance slipped off the end of the twisting shield and smashed hard against the top of Aydrian's breast.

The horses thundered by and Aydrian felt as if the world was spinning. He growled away the pain and the shock and stubbornly held his seat.

Or tried to, for in that moment of semiconsciousness, the young warrior's magical hold on Symphony was no more, and Jilseponie's call got through.

Symphony threw a great buck, and Aydrian went flying away, head over heels.

He landed facedown, his wounded arm beneath him. He heard the crowd cheering, cheering, and for a moment, felt giddy at the rousing sound.

But then he realized that they weren't cheering for him.

Aydrian lifted his head and planted his right hand in the torn turf, then drove himself up onto his elbow. He looked around and had to wait a long moment before the dizziness began to subside.

Then he rose to his knees and then to his feet, and the crowd went wild again.

Aydrian spun, to see Kalas with another lance in hand. Stubbornly, the young man tore his broken and battered shield free of his left arm, then drew out his sword, presenting it in challenge to the mounted Duke.

"As you wish," Duke Kalas mumbled, seeming more than pleased. He kicked his heels into the To-gai pony, lowering his lance as he charged.

Aydrian waited, waited, measuring the speed, turning his legs for the dodge he needed to make.

The lance rushed in at him. He started right, further aside, and Kalas, obviously anticipating what seemed like the only move, angled the lance appropriately.

But Aydrian pivoted back immediately, quickly stepping before the charging pony. He got bumped and would have gone down and been trampled, except that he kept his wits enough to toss Tempest aside as he rolled before the pony, then grabbed the beast's right rein, balling his fist and pushing off the muscled neck as he came around, somehow avoiding the thumping hooves. In the same movement, and with muscles honed by his many years under the harsh instruction of the Touel'alfar, Aydrian turned alongside the passing horse and leaped.

He caught hold of the saddle first, then snapped his arm up around Duke Kalas. In an instant he was up behind the Duke on the pony, his right arm under Kalas' armpit.

Aydrian tugged back with frightening strength, and the Duke went with him, yanking the bit so forcefully that the To-gai pony reared and neighed in protest.

Over and free of the horse went Aydrian, clutching the Duke, who landed under him on the muddy field.

As he caught his breath, Aydrian scrambled away on all fours - or all threes, since he kept his throbbing left arm tight against his chest - to retrieve Tempest.

He rose and turned, to see Kalas standing.

"Foul! Foul, I say!" the Duke yelled, lifting his helm and pointing Aydrian's way. "He struck my mount!"

But the crowd would hear none of it, and neither, apparently, would King Danube, for the claim was truly without merit.

Kalas growled and replaced his helm, motioning for his attendant, who brought him a fine sword, thicker than Tempest, but seeming well balanced from the way Kalas twirled it.

"You will wish that they had granted the foul and ended your suffering," Kalas promised as he came in ferociously, his sword cutting whistling swaths through the air.

Aydrian ducked as the blade swished by, then stabbed ahead suddenly, Tempest scoring the Duke's shield, then jumped back again as Kalas slashed across with a powerful backhand.

On came the Duke, roaring with every stride and every cut, nothing less than magnificent, and the crowd howled in appreciation.

But Aydrian knew the truth, if stubborn Kalas did not. The elven sword dance, bi'nelle dasada, had been designed specifically to combat this slashing and whirling fighting style, and though Kalas was better than most - better than any, perhaps, in this particular style - Aydrian found holes in his defenses repeatedly, and quickly stepped forward with a sudden thrust, Tempest chipping away at the Duke's shield.

Ahead came Aydrian, another solid hit, and this time Tempest's mighty blade drove through the shield, just below its top. Kalas backed and ducked, and Tempest pierced through.

With a roar, the Duke slashed once, twice, thrice, striding forward each time, and narrowly - so narrowly! - missing Aydrian's head with each cut. The crowd gasped, once, twice, thrice, in accord with the deadly cuts.

They thought the Duke had the young knight dead. And Kalas, his expression one of complete elation, apparently believed the insurmountable advantage his.

Aydrian let that blade get close enough so that he could hear it breaking the air beside his head, let the Duke press forward, let the crowd lose their collective breath.

He sent his thoughts into the serpentine and the ruby, enacting a shield and setting his blade aflame, then stepped back, bending his knees so that he went down beneath the fourth cut, then came up strong, his fiery sword ringing against the side of Kalas' heavier blade.

A fiery sword! The people of Ursal had never seen such a thing!

Now Aydrian played the Duke's game to dazzling perfection, spinning his blade to perfectly complement the movements of the other sword, parrying here, swishing beneath or above there. He worked his feet fast, not back and forth, but in a dancing, roundabout manner that had both Aydrian and the Duke spinning. The young warrior got one advantage and darted behind Kalas' flank, smashing the length of Tempest's blade across Kalas' armored back, a ringing hit but one that did little damage to anything more than the Duke's inflated pride.

Around came Kalas with a mighty swing, and the two went into their dance again, blades spinning high and low, Tempest trailing flames. Then Aydrian, who wanted the show to be nothing short of spectacular, sent his energy in short bursts through the graphite in Tempest's blade so that sparks flew with the flames whenever the blades came ringing together.

Kalas cut down and across, and Tempest picked it off. The Duke replied with a downward semicircle, slashing at Aydrian's belly; but Aydrian's blade countered with a similar movement, in perfect timing to pick it off again. The Duke shield-rushed - and Aydrian, his left arm still sore, was vulnerable to that, except that he danced back and back again and smashed Tempest against that shield with enough force to draw a groan from the raging Duke.

Kalas spun out of it and slashed again, and then again, but Tempest was there - was always there - deflecting each blow harmlessly aside in a sliding and sparking parry or catching the Duke's sword and holding it immobile.

Kalas surprised Aydrian then, starting another wide-swinging slash, then stopping abruptly and stabbing straight ahead, a move more akin to the elven fighting style. Tempest errantly started across Aydrian's body, but he retracted it in time to prevent receiving a serious stab, getting merely a glancing hit, though the sudden, jarring retreat he was forced into brought another wave of pain from his shoulder.

"Your mistake," Kalas said to him, pressing on.

"Yours," Aydrian corrected, for he knew that the time had come, and he wanted to make the ending dramatic.

Kalas' sword worked a series of whipping sideways figure eights in the air as he charged, a dazzling display for the unskilled onlookers.

Nothing but pure opportunity for Aydrian. Kalas' sword rolled out to Aydrian's right, and so the young warrior stepped that way.

Back flashed Kalas' sword, to center and ahead in a devious thrust, but Aydrian had seen it coming and had kept his run to the right. He dove into a roll, came up, and dashed behind the Duke.

Around spun Kalas with a mighty roar, shield sweeping out wide, sword trailing in a mighty cut.

Aydrian rushed ahead and stabbed him through the chest, suddenly, easily. Fiery Tempest pierced the Duke's fine armor, and Aydrian heightened the drama and the effect by releasing the energy of the graphite fully.

Kalas was flying backward, his sword sailing wide to one side, shield flapping on the other. His helm blew off from the lightning jolt, and the straps on his greaves exploded so that he left his boots behind. He landed more than five strides away, on his back, arms out wide to the side.

The crowd . . . was perfectly silent. Aydrian looked at the royal pavilion, to see both King and Queen, and every other noble, leap to their feet, hands over mouths.

An attendant rushed out to the fallen Duke and lifted his head. Now the crowd was murmuring; Aydrian heard crying and screaming.

"He is dead, my King!" the attendant cried, and the wailing heightened.

Aydrian searched the throng and finally spotted De'Unnero, who was looking down at him and nodding approvingly. Never had Ursal seen such a spectacle as the fall of Duke Kalas!

Still looking at De'Unnero, Aydrian put his hand over his breast, and the former monk understood, and nodded his head toward the fallen knight.

"Make way!" Aydrian commanded, shoving the squire aside and to the ground. Several Allheart knights were at the Duke's side by then, but Aydrian pushed through, kneeling before the fallen man.

"What devil magic did ye use?" one of the knights yelled at him.

Aydrian ignored him, concentrating instead on Duke Kalas. He bent over the man, very close, let the hematite, the soul stone, set in his armor cover the wound in Kalas' chest, and put his face very near the Duke's.

"Live," he commanded, and he sent his healing energies out through the stone. "Live!"

The spirit of Duke Kalas walked down a long and shadowy road, gray fog drifting up about him. He knew that he was dead or dying, understood that the power that had struck him was beyond anything he could have ever anticipated.

And now he was going, going, falling into the dark abyss of death.

A glowing hand appeared before him, hovering in midair, the warmth of its light burning away the gray fog.

The hand of death, Duke Kalas believed, and he knew that he could not deny the call, knew that he was gone from life.

He took the hand with his own, and then he understood.

Tai'maqwilloq!

He felt life in that hand, not death, felt energy coursing back into him, into his spirit and into his broken body.

Who was this young man who had come to win the tournament?

Who was this young man who had defeated him with power beyond his comprehension?

Who was this man, this giver of life, reaching out to him now to pull him back from the walk of the dead?

A moment later, Duke Kalas began to cough and sputter, very much alive.

The crowd went into an approving frenzy.

Aydrian rose, to find that a squire had retrieved his mount and brought it near. With a final look into Kalas' eyes, a final sharing of the truth of the strength that was Aydrian, he mounted and walked the horse to face the royal pavilion.

"I know not what to say, Tai'maqwilloq!" King Danube proclaimed when the throng at last quieted and the young champion had presented himself before the pavilion - though he had still not removed his fabulous helm. "The pennant of victory is yours!" With cheers ringing from every angle, King Danube tossed his flag, the same one Kalas had retrieved to claim victory in the general melee, to Aydrian.

Who stiffened in his seat and let the prize fall to the dirt.

"I rode not for King Danube," the young warrior declared loudly and resolutely. "I would take as my prize the pennant of Queen Jilseponie."

He could see that he had her totally flustered, totally unprepared to answer his request. She stared at him for what seemed like hours, shaking her head in disbelief and confusion. Then she reached back and claimed the queen's pennant, which hung from the back post of her seat, and tossed it out to him.

Aydrian gave a half bow. Raising the pennant high, he kicked Symphony -and he knew that Jilseponie knew that it was indeed Symphony - into a victory lap of the field, then thundered away down one of the ramps, through the throng, and away.

Leaving behind a fuming Danube, a completely perplexed Duke Kalas, and an equally amazed Queen Jilseponie.

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