The champions rode in on heavy horse, adorned with armor and brightly colored banners. From their saddles, they held aloft flowing standards of matching colour which snapped in the crisp air. Each man wore a different shade, and each bore a crest of their ancestors. Some displayed wild boar, others mighty castles, and others still wore they crest of the dragon.
Lord Tymrill was among this group. The princess supposed, and rightly so, that they belonged to the King's company which had imprisoned the dragon so long ago. Each of these men wore the deepest crimson and black, and across their breastplates roiled the ancient seal she had seen carved into the door guarding the ancient dragon hold. Though her readings had answered many questions, it had raised even more. How could these same men have fought with the King so long ago, as the pages in the book seemed worn by countless years? How was there a passage leading down to the dragon hold, when Syr Va'ahl had been so adamant the dragon could use its weakness to escape its prison?
The princess sat with the Queen and watched the gallant pageantry unfolding on the Tournament grounds below. Flowing patterns of moving shapes formed and reformed as the champions and company performed astounding shows of horsemanship. Close quarter drills and furious displays abounded as the company at last came to a crisp halt in a long line stretching the length of the grandstands, Lord Tymrill in the direct center, just below them. Without command, each champion snapped up his visor and issued a sharp salute to the Queen, who in turn gave each a small bow of her head in tribute.
As the formation broke up, each man and company headed off to their respective events, until only Lord Tymrill remained, motionless before them. At last he spoke in a loud and commanding voice.
"Hail, worthy Queen Belladonna. You honour us with your invitation, and we shall honour the Mistress of the Moon with display of glory!" To this the crowd roared and cheered.
The Queen stood from her tufted throne, and a hush fell over the crowd.
"And to you, mighty Kinsman from the North! Welcome once again to our kingdom. It has been far too long. If you compete not in these games, then join me here and enjoy their glorious spectacle. To all those who shall compete, may the Mistress of the Moon show mercy upon you and keep you from all harm. Let the Games begin!" To this, the crowd roared as one voice, the sheer magnitude of sound an audible force.
The great chieftain below dismounted, and a lowly page took his horse's reigns, leading it from the field. The crowd gathered below the Queen's viewing box parted before him, and he strode confidently up the stairs, bowing low before the Queen and her guest, the princess. When he saw her, a broad smile creased his weathered face, and he bowed lower still.
Pleasantries and courtesies were exchanged, and the Queen bade Tymrill be seated upon the other comfortable chair. Lord Tymrill eyed it as if it were a snake.
"Surely I should not sit upon the seat of the King, my lady." He said, shocked by her notion. He looked all about as if he might actually see the King rise up and admonish him.
"Do not trouble yourself, my Lord." Responded the Queen, flashing her brightest and most devastating smile. "All in this realm know the King has fallen ill. And all know you are his closest kinsman. Not a soul in this kingdom would feel it a dishonour for you to sit at my side." She let the sentence hang there in the air, as if perhaps the realm desired him to be named consort or perhaps even ruler in the King's stead.
Lord Tymrill looked concerned, looking back across the field at the grandstand of commoners and subjects. At last, he shook his head and slowly sat upon the throne. There they watched the proceedings unfold. Lord Tymrill upon the throne of the King, with the princess next to him on his right, and the Queen next to the princess in a throne of her own, even grander and beautiful than the King's.
- - -
Below them, the games raged on. First came the bowmen, longbows polished until the wood shone with deep amber light. The thok of their arrows striking the mark was punctuated by cheers and howls from the gathered masses,
Next came the sword. Armored men battled and banged at each other for what seemed hours, A champion would rise, only to be challenged by an even more formidable opponent. The ring of sword against sword and the clatter of metal against metal sounded out over the field. In the distance, men on horseback put their mounts through practice runs, preparing for the mounted joust.
At long last, a victor emerged from the meleé that was the sword competition. His once bright armour was dented and scuffed, but his ruddy face smiled a wide smile, and he extended a hand to each he had laid low. Sportsmen all, they laughed and congratulated him on his victory. The princess caught his glance, and he bowed low. In spite of herself, she blushed and grew hot, knowing that it would not be long until his prowess would be displayed to her as well.
At the last, came the mounted joust. As they horsemen took the field, another tremendous cheer went up from the crowd. This was their favourite event, and each had their favorite. Money and coin exchanged hands as bets were laid and the joust began.
The first was adorned in deep red leather armor, laid over with a coat of bright mail. His horse was festooned with red and green, and he thundered down the run toward his opponent. Grasps and groans from the crowd as lances connected, one pass, two passes, and a third, unseating his opponent with a terrible crunch.
Cheers and whoops sounded as the defeated lost his horse to the victor and was helped up by squires. The victor dismounted and clapped him on the back, softening the blow of losing such a prized possession. They shared wide smiles and good humored jabs as they left the field. Cheers and hoots as money exchanged hands, losers calling rematch, victors testing the clarity of gold with gnarled teeth.
