Chapter Four

Muirgen’s chair in the stadium had two blankets draped over it, preparing for the cold of night. As the sun went down, torches were shoved into the ground of the arena, lighting it though the seats were cast in darkness.  One of her servants, dressed in her woolen dress, the cloak pulled tight around her, hood up to hide her face, sat in the chair, thoroughly enjoying the food prepared for her.

“This is a bad idea,” Uthyr growled and Muirgen shot him an irritated look, face half masked by the darkness.

“As you said before,” she said, shoving her helmet on, her braid rolled uncomfortably at the base of her neck.

“Your mother…” the Dragon started.

Muirgen turned on him, “My mother is dead, Uthyr. As you remind me daily, I must strive to be myself and not her. This is me taking your advice.”

He scratched his chin, “Well I didn’t mean this. You could get hurt.”

She scoffed, “Not likely. You trained me.”

“And I’m an old man who was worried about hurting you.”

“I have seven scars that prove otherwise,” she pointed out.

He nodded, his brows drawn together in displeasure, “Be careful.”

She nodded, “Remember the sign. Don’t come for me unless I give it, not even if the link says otherwise.”  He nodded in agreement, then moved away into the night to join the servant masquerading as Queen.  She readjusted the belt at her hips that held her scabbard and sword, then moved to join the rest of the champions waiting just outside the arena. She mingled, trying to listen in on any conversations.

“I’ve heard she’s a troll,” one of the knights said, but another punched him in the shoulder.

“You’re an idiot, Franz. Haven’t you seen the portrait?”

“Yeah well, slip a painter enough coins and he’ll paint anyone as a beauty,” Franz snickered.

“What does the Dragon actually do?” another contestant asked.

“Does it matter?”

“I guess not.”

“Her mother was a witch, you know,” she heard passing a group of knights, “When the Northmen came she would send out the Dragon and his men, turning them all to dragons to defeat the invaders.”

“That’s why Queen Muirgen hasn’t been able to drive off the Northmen. Because she doesn’t have her mother’s powers.”

“Poppycock. Dragons?”

“Well why do you think they are called Dragons? Going on secret missions and such?”

“Because that is what they’ve always been called.”

Muirgen rolled her eyes. Idiots, the lot of them. One of the Announcer’s servants dipped through the crowd, holding out a bag for each contestant to draw from. Muirgen pulled number 14 from the bag.

The trumpets announced it was time to enter the arena.  The crowd’s cheers were deafening, the shouts coming at them from all sides. “Ladies and Gentlemen, good evening!” the announcer cried and the crowd rallied their spirits, despite the cold, to respond with as much gusto. “Tonight our remaining champions will face each other on the field of battle. One-on-one combat!” The crowd cheered in delight; always a favorite. “The Dragon has told me that only a total of twenty may move on beyond this field tonight. Your favorites will try to please him with their brave, skilled moves all while attempting to catch the Queen’s eye.”  Muirgen rolled her eyes yet again, grateful for her helmet. “Contestants one and two come forward!”

The two contestants stepped forward onto the field, sizing each other up as the rest of the contestants moved further back to watch.  As the tournament went on, one of the Announcer’s servants took fastidious notes in order to restructure the pools later for the next segment of the tournament.

“Thirteen and fourteen!” the Announcer called and Muirgen stepped forward onto the field, a mountain of a man joining her.  She could feel the Dragon’s anxiety through the link, and she sent back her own determination—she could do this. Immediately he cut off the flow, an order for her to focus on her opponent, not his feelings. “Begin,” the announcer called and Muirgen circled the knight, examining how he walked, how he held his sword. The idiot held it like a club, which meant one blow and she was done. There was no way she could parry a blow from him.  She darted forward, one hand on her chest, the world swirling as it slowed, the fire burning her eyes as they adjusted better to the dark. She darted toward her opponent, then to the side, throwing a leg out to trip him.  He went down, shaking the earth in the process, and she laid the tip of her sword at the joint between his chest and helmet. He growled in irritation as she was named victor. Muirgen could feel the Dragon’s disapproval, hot and cold at the same time, but she sheathed her sword and headed back into the waiting contestants.

When each pair had dueled, the servants drew up a new order.  Muirgen watched them as they took each contestant’s crest and arranged them on the half-wall separating the arena from the seats. “Now Ladies and Gentlemen, we come to it! Those who lost the previous battle have now been disqualified, and the remaining 57 contestants have been placed in a new order. Our contestants will continue to battle for the top twenty positions, only those will move on to the next event.” As each fight ended, the servant moved around the crests of each champion to indicate where they were in the tournament. When it was time for Muirgen to fight again, she evaluated the board. She needed to make it to spot 21 and no higher.

The servant rearranged the board once moer, more disappointed soldiers leaving the arena. There were 28 crests still hanging. 8 had to go, and one of them would be her. The Announcer raised his hands for the crowd to be silent as the Dragon came down the steps to hand him a roll of parchment, his own tally of ranking. The Announcer passed the parchment to his servant who rearranged the crests on the wall to reflect the order with which the Dragon suggested they proceed. “Single elimination, Ladies and Gentlemen!” the Announcer called, making his way around the arena. Muirgen searched the board, her fake crest at the bottom of the list. She glared at the Dragon, though he could not see it. Spot 27. He knew she was better than that. She watched his mouth tip upwards in mirth. He was enjoying this too much. The announcer spoke again, pulling her back to the present. “Those who win their first tournament will move on regardless and participate in the remainder of the event. Those who lose will be re-ordered, and will fight again until we have 6 winners to join the 14.”

Muirgen watched them fight with interest. Most of them were well trained, disciplined fighters.  A few had just gotten a lucky blow on their last opponent.  She watched Richard Beven effortlessly pound his way through the contestant he faced, the other quickly becoming exhausted. She was both impressed and irritated by his talent with a sword. The ladies watching, however, were completely starry-eyed. The winners had moved off to the side of the arena to watch the remaining contestants face each other. She recognized a few of the crests as they fought for a space in the top twenty, focusing her attention on the warriors who waited on the sidelines just as much as the ones who were fighting. The Announcer called an end to the rounds, the losers leaving the stadium and the winners returning to fight each other again. There were eight contestants left, and Muirgen readied herself to fight once more. She would have to lose this time. A broad-shouldered opponent stood across from her, his armor dented at the waist.  She frowned at the armor; no doubt it was giving him considerable pain. She was impressed he had made it this far with such armor. The dent looked fresh, the edges not yet scraped by the clanging of weapons, so whoever had injured him likely had done it within the past few matches. She stole a glance at the board of crests. The Macklin clan. She returned her attention to the contestant in front of her, dodging as he rushed at her. The Macklins lived on the coast.  There had been a recent North raid near their settlement. He staggered toward her, then threw his body sideways, knocking her in the shoulder.  She fell hard on her side, the armor digging into her hip.  She raised a hand in defeat as he brought his blade to her chest, her heart beating rapidly from the shock. He walked away quickly, tugging on the straps of his chest piece to get the painful piece off of him.  Muirgen stood up, the weight of her armor attempting to persuade her that staying on the ground was the better choice.

The Announcer led those who had won off the field, and then turned his attention to the four, exhausted contestants remaining who had lost the last battle. Muirgen stared at the three others, knowing she would have to lose this round as well. Only two could move forward. She was paired up with a rather quiet contestant. He had stood off from the others—though whether it was arrogance or quiet contemplation that kept him apart, she could not tell. She readied her blade, as did the other contestant. He came at her quickly, his blade crashing into hers with a force she hadn’t prepared for. He was strong, stronger than he looked.  She parried, the competitive part of her not wishing to just give up and allow him to win. His foot slipped between her legs as he sliced toward her with his sword, catching the back of her heel with the tip of his boot. She went crashing down onto her back, slightly dazed as she stared up at him. Where had that come from? He raised his helmet visor, grinning at her. “I stole that move from you, I admit,” he said, holding out a hand to help her up.

She grasped his gauntlet and allowed him to pull her up. “A wise warrior is always learning and adapting,” she said, deepening her voice.

He nodded, letting go of her hand, “You fought well. I am sorry to be the cause of your disqualification.”

She shrugged, “It’s an honor to lose to someone who can employ my own tricks.”

He smiled, holding out his hand once more as they left the field, “Artair of Caer Gal.”

“Brendan Muir,” she offered, shaking his hand and tipping her head toward him before turning on her heel and leaving the stadium. She was joined in the shadows by the Dragon. “You’ll be missed,” she commented and he handed her a green woolen dress.

“So will you if you don’t hurry,” he said.  She yanked off her helmet, her hair now more resembling a nest than a braid. He helped her untie her armor, laying each piece in a burlap sack. She threw on the dress, hardly bothering to really do the laces up before she threw on her cloak. They hurried back, waiting just outside the stadium as her servant made her way out of the seats and toward them. Muirgen quickly rebraided her hair, the sides still a little mussed, but more presentable. The Dragon led her back into the stadium, shoving the burlap sack into the arms of one of his men to deposit. As she passed her servant, the girl passed her the ribbons and disappeared into the night. Muirgen threw her hood back as she entered the arena, the twenty victors lined up, helmets removed, eyes forward staring at their adoring crowd. The Announcer was going on about the honor of her ribbon and how it would allow the champions to move into the next test of skills.  Carefully, she stepped through the arena, lifting her skirt as much as she dared.

“Allen Morwyn!” The crowd cheered as Muirgen tied the ribbon around the hulking warrior’s wrist.

“Fen Drudyn!” Muirgen glanced at the contestant’s face. Drudyn. If it were the same family name, she knew his sister, Eva. She was a sweet girl, kind and steadfast in her devotion to her faith.

“Evan Macklin.” She examined the warrior’s face, slightly pinched in pain.

“I’ll send the physician to look at you tonight,” she said quietly as she tied the ribbon around his wrist. His eyes widened in shock, and he bowed his head in thanks.

“Garret Anders.” He looked too much like his father, his eyes proud and mouth quirked in a smirk as she tied the ribbon around his wrist. Never. Even if she had to rig the contest, he would never be Dragon.

“Rowan Gareth.

Tristan Weylin.

Brian Kay.

“Irvyn Geraint.” He smiled down at her, three teeth missing on the right side of his mouth. A fighter, no doubt about it. He had remained a clear winner throughout the tournament, but whether he could pass the remaining tests was less certain.

“Arlan Lamorak.

Richard Beven.” She stared at the younger of the Beven boys. He was kinder looking, more sensible. He smiled down at her, inclining his head with thanks. More humble than his father and brother both. But where would his loyalty lie if he won. To her? Or to them?

“Annan Gaheris.” A spindly man with a mustache much too bushy for his thin face, held out his arm for his ribbon.

“Patrick Kent.

Edward Dorran.

Garret Kelven.

Artair Ector.” Muirgen snuck a peak at the soldier, his face composed, quiet once more. He hadn’t bothered to clean the grime from his face, as most of the others had, and for some reason it made her like him even more. He wasn’t concerned about how he looked, and his conversation on the field proved him to be an honorable, fair fighter.

“Edward Gavan.” Muirgen frowned at the lummox of a man that was Edward Gavan. Huge, but dull. That was what Uthyr had said, and looking at him now she could see little to no intelligence in his eyes as he looked down on her.

“Samuel Dewain.

Pat Karney.

Ruben Duer.” Muirgen tied the last ribbon around the soldier’s wrist and stepped back as the crowd whistled, clapped, and howled their approval.  The Dragon offered her his arm and whisked her away as the crowd began dispersing.

“You look exhausted,” Uthyr commented, steering her back towards the castle and the feast they were hosting in honor of the twenty who had made past the first test.

“I did just fight 6 of the country’s best soldiers,” she quipped.

“Yes,” he said, disapproval heavy on his voice, “And were a little less human at some points than your opponents.”

She shrugged, “Will anyone say anything? I doubt anyone but you noticed. Besides, I lost. Who cares about anyone who didn’t win?”

Uthyr’s mouth pinched together. It hadn’t taken much for her mother to be branded a witch either, but he let it pass without further comment. “So?” the Dragon asked, “Was it worth it?”

She shrugged, “Most of the twenty are expert warriors, though each has their own strengths and weaknesses. Several might make it through the next test. But I am doubtful any will make a good replacement.”

David Beven was stalking toward them, his shoulders tight, and the Dragon sighed in irritation. “Go ahead to the hall. I’ll be there soon.” He intercepted David, pulling him aside to, hopefully, calm his anger.

Muirgen walked into the castle and into the hall where a trio of musicians had set up, the tables dressed and readied for the feast. She sat at her table, and closed her eyes. It had been a while since she had really fought and not just casually sparred, each muscle in her right arm felt like it had been ripped out, set upon by wolves, and put back under her skin.

“Good evening.”

Her eyes flew open, settling upon the bard from the night before. He was seated in Uthyr’s chair, his naked feet resting on the table. “You…” she managed, glancing around, but no one else had made it into the hall.

“Yes. Me,” he agreed, removing his feet from the table and leaning toward her. “I needed to talk to you, Muirgen.”

“Who are you?” she whispered, wishing she had kept her sword on her. The Bard was dressed in fine clothes, but they were quite odd looking. His fine eyebrows were arched, pleading, his eyes kind, but old. Far too old.

“Not important,” he said waving a hand, “What you need to know is this: those in the North are not alone. There are others. Others willing to help. Find them.”

She narrowed her eyes, “How do you know such things?” His demeanor was anything but threatening, but still, he knew things he shouldn’t. And there was something about him, something off that she couldn’t place her finger on.

“I cannot say,” he answered, his lips twisting in effort, as though he wanted to say, but was prevented somehow. “You must find them.”

She narrowed her eyes, “They only know pain and destruction.”  She raised her hand to her breast, “I made a vow. To protect my people, to keep the pieces safe. I have read the history. I’m not stupid enough to think that they could be trusted.”

He shook his head, “Do not let yourself be blinded by prejudice. Your ancestors made a bargain, long ago, and you must honor that bargain.”

She recoiled, the hair on her arms raising as if her body knew the truth of what he said, “What bargain?”

He cocked his head, “I cannot say. But, I can tell you this:

Within the Queen a treasure lie,

One part of two, fated to hide.

To keep them safe a bargain made,

In blood and ink the price was paid.”

“Who are you?” she hissed.

He sighed, irritation flicking over his features, “Your kind never listen. Heed my words, for they are moving.” Then he was gone, simply vanishing before her. The Dragon entered the room, and was at her side in moments.

“I couldn’t get in,” he whispered, taking her chin in his hand and examining her chalky face.

“I’m fine,” she said, pulling away from him as the servants opened the doors for the guests of honor, the court, and their families.

“What happened?”

“The Bard,” she whispered, “He’s not a bard.” The Dragon began to rise, but she pulled him back down. “Attempting to capture him will do no good. He vanished right in front of me.”

The Dragon frowned, “That can’t be.”

She shrugged, “He thinks he is helping, though his words make no sense.” She frowned, a bargain. Mentally she tried to leaf through all the books she had inherited. Not one said anything about a bargain. It just didn’t make sense.

Uthyr frowned, “I don’t like it.”

She smiled, “Well I don’t either, but I’m not entirely sure how to catch someone who can vanish.” She sighed, “He’s trying to tell me something, something that might help.”

He nodded, slinging his belt and weapons over the back of the chair as food was served, “I’m getting too old for this.”

She frowned at him, half ready to yell at him for bowing out, for abandoning her, and half sad that she agreed with him. She clenched the emotions tight to her breast so he wouldn’t feel them. Rolling a bread roll and a leg of mutton into a fabric napkin, she rose, “I have a headache, please make my excuses.” Uthyr raised an eyebrow at her, but nodded raising a finger for two guards to accompany her before turning to the food before him with relish. Muirgen made her way back to her room, locking it firmly after her before laying her contraband on a table, taking the roll with her as she walked toward the tapestry nearly as large as the wall itself. She toed a divet in the floor, pressing firmly down as the secret door behind the tapestry popped open. She finished the roll in two bites, reaching into the hidden compartment to pull out several books. The records of her ancestors.

She settled down at a desk, using the napkin to avoid getting her fingers oily as she devoured the leg of mutton. She pulled open one of the books she had grabbed, leafing through it gingerly. She had been through the books time and time again, searching for answers and clues of what she should do next. How to balance being monarch with her…other duties. But per usual, none of the books lent anything useful.

A/N:
I apologize that this one is up a bit late. Thank you for reading everyone! This is one of my favorite photos from the series so far--hope you enjoyed it as much as I do!