before the moment when the point of Prince Perian’s lance would impact upon his shield, Tyrion leaned slightly to one side and the lance skimmed past. Tyrion made no such mistake. His lance impacted squarely upon Prince Perian’s shield and sent him tumbling out of the saddle and sprawling into the hoof-churned mud.
The crowd roared. Tyrion was through into the next round.
Tyrion faced Prince Arhalien. It was the worst possible draw. Arhalien was much better on horseback than he was and much better with a lance. Still, there was nothing he could do about that, other than his best.
He did not feel full of confidence as he rode up to the lists. Realistically, his chances of winning were very small, although he knew that there was always a chance that luck or a mistake by his opponent would turn things his way.
Things were not over yet. He would do his best. It was all he had ever done. It was all he would ever do.
The crowd were silent as the two warriors rode into position. They sensed that this was an important fight, that these two contestants were the most likely candidates to become the next champion.
Tyrion had already proved his mastery with the sword. Prince Arhalien had proved his mastery with a lance. If Tyrion won this contest then he would establish that he was the victor in combat, the best warrior among all of the contestants.
If Prince Arhalien won then the two of them would be equally matched and it would come down to the choice of the Everqueen and her advisers as to who would become champion. Tyrion suspected that in that case he would not be the victor.
He needed to win here if he was going to win the tournament outright, and all of his previous ambivalence returned. He was not even sure that he wanted to win even now. He told himself that that was just an excuse that he was making to himself as a cover for potential defeat.
He took up his position at his end of the lists. He raised his lance into the classic position and, knowing all eyes were upon him, he made his steed rear and prance. Some of the crowd applauded, some of them waved, some of them cheered.
Prince Arhalien stood quietly at the far end of the tournament ground, waiting for the horns to sound with a quiet dignity that Tyrion envied. It was an unusual feeling for him.
At that moment in time, he realised that he had come to a crossroads in his life. Suddenly it was just there. The outcome of this contest was going to be very important for his future. All of his competitive instincts were engaged. He was going to win this.
The horns sounded. The horses thundered forward. The two warriors crashed together like comets colliding. For a brief, ecstatic moment Tyrion thought that he had his opponent, but at the last second Prince Arhalien raised a shield and deflected the tip of Tyrion’s lance.
Tyrion found himself flying through the air, twisting to avoid a bad landing. The wind went out of him as he hit the ground. The crowd roared and stamped and cheered and he realised that they were not roaring and stamping and cheering for him. They were chanting Prince Arhalien’s name.
Tyrion lay on the ground and looked at the sky. So this was what defeat felt like, he thought. Clouds drifted across his field of vision. He felt strangely relaxed and depressed and not a little angry with himself. Nonetheless, he forced himself to get to his feet and walk over to where Prince Arhalien waited and salute him with good grace. Prince Arhalien responded in kind and Tyrion resisted the urge to curse him.
Spectators ran onto the field to congratulate Prince Arhalien. They paid no attention to Tyrion as he limped away, pained and weary. For the rest of the long afternoon, he watched from the stands.
He had lost.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
By the light of the full moon, Dorian watched the long columns of troops filter through the forest. The woods were dark and spectral, the trees huge and ancient. The druchii went without lights, relying on moonlight to illuminate their way. They moved mostly silently save for the occasional hissing of a Cold One. The great reptiles had been muzzled to stop them from bellowing.
Up ahead the assassins would be killing the sentries guarding the tournament grounds. Dorian looked over at Cassandra. Whatever doubts she might have had last