Draped over a mannequin in the center of the room was a breastplate and helmet, the armor that would protect Lord Rothchild from Sir Udo's ferocious lance. On its front, inlaid in gold and silver, was a stylized picture of a lion, mouth open in mid-roar, paw raised and ready to strike. The eyes of the lion were rubies, which shone like the setting sun. Its claws were of inlaid ivory and lapis lazuli.
A high-crested helmet sat atop the breastplate. It was plated in gold and bore an intricate flower pattern. Around the sturdy visor, where there should have been blossoms, the artisan who fashioned the helmet had instead set a variety of precious and semiprecious stones. The crest was adorned with huge red feathers that were not from any bird I'd ever seen, and the helmet's metal surface was unmarred by even the tiniest scratch. I wondered if it had ever been worn.
Most kings would be satisfied if this armor were their entire treasure trove. The workmanship was exquisite, with a level of detail that only magic could produce. I didn't know how Lord Rothchild had acquired the breastplate, but I was pretty sure it wasn't made locally.
For almost two hours I polished the armor. When I was done, my arms ached and my back hurt but the armor shone like the moon on a clear night. Looking at it, I could see my reflection clearer than in a still mountain lake.
The next day, it seemed as though every man, woman, and child in Jornstad had turned out to witness the festivities. I was as anxious to see Lord Rothchild square off against the popular Sir Udo as anybody in the crowd, but I was a little nervous. I made my way past the concessionaires, staggering under the weight of Lord Rothchild's armor, which I'd brought in a canvas sack.
It was a little too warm for a Snow Festival, but everyone seemed to enjoy the chance to set aside their work and socialize. Children tugged on their parents' clothing, coaxing them to buy a sugar stick or rag doll. Kjeldorans, young and old, perused the wares of the local artisans, admiring the workmanship of a designer cloak or haggling over the price of a commemorative "Lord Rothchild: Fifth Anniversary" plate.
A band was playing "Live Free, Kjeldor"-a happier version of the traditional march. Lovers danced to the strains of flutes and elven lyres, music caressed the clouds, and a smile was on every face.
I walked to the stable area, from where Lord Rothchild would enter the jousting arena, and positioned myself in the doorway. There I could watch the people go by as I awaited the lord's presence.
I listened to the music and searched the passing faces to see if I could find Evara. She'd sure be impressed if she came by and saw me working for Lord Rothchild. In the huge sea of faces I was unlikely to find her, but I decided to lean against the wall and look bored, as if I hadn't a care in the world, in case she could see me.
Time passed, and still Lord Rothchild did not arrive. People began to assemble in anticipation of the joust.
A harlequin dressed in red and white taunted passersby in a playful fashion. He imitated their mannerisms through a dancing puppet. The creature almost seemed to have a life of its own, its strings the only giveaway.
My thoughts turned again to Lord Rothchild. He still had not appeared. He's a responsible leader and the most powerful man in the province, I kept telling myself. Of course he'll show. If he can run a kingdom, he can certainly show up for a major event like this one-especially one as important as this, where he's the main attraction.
It wasn't working. I was as apprehensive as ever.
I stared at the arena's great sundial and watched the shadow crawl across its face. Each moment felt like an eternity, and the crowd began to grow restless. Devareaux entered the stables and looked around. I fidgeted nervously and tried to avoid eye contact. Saying nothing, he shot me a stare that could kill a charging war beast, glaring at me until I thought he could see what I was thinking. His eyes slowly wandered to the empty armor sitting on the floor. Abruptly, he turned and left.
Even now Devareaux was probably headed to the palace dungeon, to find the most wretched, dank cell in existence, a place where night and day would have no meaning, and rats would nibble on my frail, undernourished body. A place that would be my home until my dying day.
I ran from the stables into the deserted streets. Dashing from place to place, I checked all of the usual hideouts for any sign of Lord Rothchild. There was no sign of him in the bathhouse, nor on the gaming field. He was not to be found in the distillery or the wine cellar. He wasn't in the armory, and I doubted that he'd be anywhere near the library.
My desperation grew, and I was all too aware that time was passing. I returned to the arena, foolishly hoping that he might have shown up during my absence. Of course he had not. No one had seen him, and his armor lay untouched.
I saw no way out. I grabbed the armor and donned it as quickly as my hands would move, fastening the buckles and strings as best I could. I placed the great helmet on my head, lowering the visor. As far as the crowd knew, / was Lord Rothchild, and I would have to do my best to live up to his legend.
I called a stable hand to help me, and with much assistance was able to mount the lord's white steed. I hastened through the gates and into the arena before my good sense could stop me. Riding into the light from the darkened stables, I was momentarily blinded, but I could hear the crowd erupt in a roar of admiration. For a moment, I basked in the glory and love of the townsfolk.
When my vision returned I beheld Sir Udo, waiting in the center of the arena. He was built like a war engine, solid as an obelisk. His armor was bright red with black trim, and it dazzled the eyes. Lights danced around him like shooting stars. Whether it was a trick of the light, my tired eyes, or magic I did not know.
He sat astride a coal-black horse. The stout beast's ebony hooves pawed at the dirt, and it impatiently dipped its head. The creature seemed barely able to restrain itself, so anxious it was for the crash of steel and the smell of dust and blood.
A stable hand passed me the banner of Kjeldor, and hefting it up, I rode around the arena three times, as was the custom. Ladies threw flowers onto the field, and children waved. I waved back, concentrating on not falling off the horse. I could not see very well, since the helmet did not fit properly and had become twisted a little to the left. Only one eye was lined up with the view slit.
The crowd's adoration was enjoyable, but the deception unnerved me, and I was anxious to be done with it. I guided the horse to the far end of a long, wooden fence and turned to face my opponent.
Sir Udo waited with a cool reserve, confident in his ability. I swallowed hard and dug my heels hard into my mount. In a flash I was off, the king's mighty steed rippling beneath me, gathering speed as it galloped toward the knight. My balance was precarious, having been jarred by the horse's quick start, and I held on with both hands, my lance tucked limply under my arm. The distance closed in a hurry, in fact far faster than I'd anticipated, and I wasn't able to lift my weapon very far before Udo's furious lance struck me square in the chest. The world receded as I flew back like a puppet on a string.
Everything seemed to suddenly get very quiet except for the screaming pain in my chest. I would have screamed, too, except I couldn't breathe. It was as though a wooly mammoth were standing on my lungs while a fire burned inside. When breath at last came, I was only able to pant in quick, shallow gulps. Each introduced me to a new world of pain.
I looked around to see knights and squires rushing to my aid. Gathering my wits, I staggered to my feet and waved them-off, lest they remove my helmet and reveal my deception to all assembled there. I wobbled toward the edge of the arena, desperately trying to look unwounded. I think some of the knights helped me along as Devareaux came forth to meet me, flanked by the royal guard. He dismissed the knights who'd been helping me, and I lost my tenuous grip on consciousness.