The stand of the House of the Keep is quite full. It looks like many of the far travelers, some of whom have been gone for decades, have come in for the Tournament. It makes me wonder what called us all home. For me, my time away ended with the death of my mentor. Has there been a tipping point? Is this all related?

As I worry over these things, I see my father and mother are sitting together, looking closer than I remember them being before my travels. I have never envied them one another because they have loved me well enough. I do envy them this relationship, to have your best friend in the world be your best lover too - to have these flames between you that last… seemingly forever, for them. But I am so happy for them, and full of hope that such a thing is possible at all in the worlds.

The archery event is drawing appreciative roars from the stands. Little Niamh, whom I remember as a little girl, is a bronzed, broad-shouldered young woman now, talking earnestly with one of her uncles about various points of style and approach among the competitors. She has a more than passing interest in the bow, now, it seems. If Blythe makes me feel younger and older both at the same time, this only makes me feel older.

Two of my elder cousins (and favorites), Dubdhain and Gerard, are sitting on the front corner of the stand, talking together but not paying attention to the action on the field. Gerard is half-armored, as though preparing for the joust. I smile at them all, but I head straight for my parents. Of all the sights in the worlds, it is amazing how nothing is so beautiful as the faces of those we love. I spare a brief glance toward the northern gate, where our House has one of its postings.

It takes on a new significance now that I suspect the ways are unguarded. The ease of travel I found on my return makes more sense. I wonder how much of the overgrown city could make the gates, before we had to shut them, and how many of us might have to stand in front of them, to give a valuable few minutes more. Our House would have to hold that line. That is why we're at the gates.
And what of the walls? How compromised are we, since the Word has been our wall?
I do my best to push dark thoughts from my eyes and I come upon my mother and my father.

"Belesama!" my father calls to me happily as he sees me climbing the stand. My mother smiles, too. "You did not tell me you were entering the lists when we saw you, so much too briefly, last night. We are very much looking forward to watching your work." Almha, my mother. Her name is 'mother' to me, the simple Av-vi I could pronounce as a child, just as Bradaigh was 'father' in Ba-di for me. I never knew they should have titles other than their names until I knew more of the bigger world, and people asked me, 'where is your mother?' and 'you dance as well as your father.'

Almha gives him a bit of a look, but then says, "We were just discussing the lists and the possible order of contests. I don't know if Master Ceallagh has completed the draws for the sword event. Have you heard anything?"

I squish myself between them, just for the moment, since I do intend to socialize beyond family shortly. I put my arms around behind them and squeeze my mother in a half hug. "Oh, I think I've got an exciting slate. Riochal of the Word is my third round, and we sparred a bit ago. If I play it right, I do believe I can take him. Though I may impose upon you for some practice tomorrow if you're available, father."

I say it all so lightly, hoping to avoid a protective reaction from them. "And I may have an ally if I make it as far as the Mêlée. Dagnir Dorian Megil of The Maid. Have you heard aught of him? We're to practice tonight."

Almha does indeed look like she has something to say about this potential bout with Riochal, but Bradaigh puts a hand on her knee. "I would be pleased to work with you, Daughter. I have not had the chance yet to see what you have learned on your journey."

Perhaps diverting her anxiety to what is nearer before her, my mother changes the subject, "We are concerned to see how the Word's master comports himself in today's joust. It will... set a tone I think for what is to come."

My tone lowers, I hope enough for only their ears. "They are killers, but I am more worried their intent is to chose their replacements. In which case they shall cull the weak and place demands on the strong. Worse, I'm not certain they'd be wrong to do it."

"You don't seriously suggest they would be here purposely to take Alfari life? Their... Oaths?" Almha looks shocked to her foundation. "What makes you say such a thing?"

I feel guilty. Who am I to carry this news around? "Not... purposefully," I claim, getting even quieter. "But I do hear evidence that oaths are breaking, and here they are. It speaks for itself, doesn't it? But I can't see that they'd walk away to let the sheep be slaughtered, when they've guarded us all this time. So there must be some plan, yes?"

Almha looks pale. "Gerard and Eamonn are both entered in the Joust, Bradaigh. If they come to cross that monster... They are not even Knights sworn yet."

I squeeze them both a little harder. "Now, stop. Listen to me. Anyone who signed onto that field would be a fool not to think - at any time - they might be badly enough injured not to leave it. Just because we're faced for the first time with the best knights in the Kingdom changes little. They're Alfari as much as we are, and they have a right to the field as much as we do. And they're targets too. Anyone who can beat them has made their name. Besides, he's hardly a monster. He has love in his heart, and no one had even welcomed him home."

I stiffen at that last, because it drags across my throat. "We all owe them our very lives already. It should not have taken so long for them to get a welcome. The head monster is of the Keep, remember. They're ours."

"Whether they were taken from their home, or left it, hardly changes that they belong here no longer," Almha whispers back. She seems more fearful than angry, and yet, it bothers me.

Stilling her with a hand to her shoulder, Bradaigh says, "Almha, please. I hear your logic and understand your heart, 'Sama, but these men... we do not know their purpose here, and men we love enter this contest thinking to be on the same footing as before. I have heard what people have been saying, thinking the Word's contests will be difficult. But if you have knowledge that it would be more than that... worse than that, well... we should have our cousins withdraw, or bring your evidence to the Master of the Lists and have the Word struck off."

I sigh. "I don't have any real evidence. I have a bunch of rumors and their presence here," I lie, and hate it, but it isn't fair. "Look, I went to find Riochal because, well, it was a bit worrisome to me, to find him on my list. I didn't intend to meet him on the field with no intelligence on him. So I poked at him and he canceled his lunch to go spar with me. And I learned a thing or two from that, and perhaps now I can beat him. And then I met Sir Bronn - he is their healer, and he loaned me his shirt because I had ruined mine." I pull my arms back around to my lap to tug on the voluminous blue shirt.

"I just keep thinking, and how do we all sit here with the Veil unguarded? Whose duty is it to gather and send out a new force? How will a new force be chosen? Or will politics get in the way until there are attacks from the outside? These questions weigh on my mind and I try to explain them to myself - and so I am conjecturing and when I say 'cull the weak' it is a bad choice of words. And when I say they are killers, well, they are, but Riochal could have killed me today and he didn't. Instead, he laughed at my antics. So if I seem offended that we're going to label them monsters and treat them as if they are not Alfari, it's because I have been fairly treated." I take a deep breath, and watch them.

The archery event ends, with the judges going away to deliberate on points of style as well as scores. The Staff event is announced, and among the names of the combatants is Dagnir's. I watch Dagnir take the field with great interest and point him out to my parents.

My father smiles a little at my tale, though his brow is still troubled. "I suppose we should count ourselves lucky that your experiment went as it did. Thank you, 'Sama, for clarifying your earlier words. I would apologize for my reaction, but understand that we were already worried," he makes a gesture that seems to include the city as a whole, "and given what you said it was easy to misunderstand you."

"I understand also your sympathy for these men, the King's Word, but we do not any of us know why they took such awful vows. It would not seem to be an act between friends, but of necessity. And why were they chosen? Were they the greatest warriors, the King's closest advisors at that time? Or did His Majesty perceive them as suited to this duty in some way? Now, whether suited or no, they have lived a thousand years steeped in murder. While that murder was among humans, it is of a nature and a... volume that even the most selfish youth among us would quail at it."
I don't quail. Why don't I? It makes me a little sick that I don't, but instead own that a part of what they carry they carry for me. A look of great sadness enters my eyes, as I know going away has changed my perspective on how things play in Alfar so much. I wonder that I can relate at all. "But could the wisest among us understand the necessity of it, or if there was none, then that the real monster..."

I stop. I stop myself dead. I can't just sit here and speak treason. If I could have one question of the King I'd ask him if there could not have been some other way. I sigh. "We're warriors, not worriers," I claim, hoping to escape this topic. I speak of Dagnir. "Well, now, it is a relief to see that man can indeed fight. I've stayed gone too long to have an army of allegiances as everyone else must, so I took it out of desperation, but I see I got lucky."
"It seems he can..." my father muses. My mother has gone silent on me, and I cannot tell what she is thinking, but I worry I will be brought to task later for not telling her all I knew. My father watches the next bouts a while, apparently thinking on my words, because when he speaks again he returns to them.

"Understanding of such things is hard to come by. These days it is perhaps impossible. So much has been lost." Bradaigh frowns a moment, then touches my arm. It is like he reads my mind. "But look around you, Daughter. Much has been made as well, and much is beautiful, and there is love and skill and passion at work here. If our King and his Word made these bargains to buy this out of destruction, surely that is by some lights worthwhile."

I reach over and take my father's hand. With a little squeeze, I ask, "Well, then, I agree on the beauty, but would you cost its worth the same if you had to send your daughter to do it?"

"How can we answer that question? Without what they did, it is possible you would not exist. The paths of the Seers open into the future, not the past. What was done cannot be undone. But you are right, perhaps, that what we do now need not compound the pains of the past. If after this Tournament the Word remain, I will share your words with our Elders, and see if our lost men of the Keep might be offered home and refuge."

This earns my father a brilliant smile and a hug. "I am so glad. I am not naive, but I do think we are indebted." I turn to hug my mother too. I know if she hates that plan, she'll talk him out of it, but she's perhaps the most pragmatic of all of us. And most like to know I've lied.

"I should go have a word with Gerard and Eamonn and tell them what I know." I turn to place a kiss on my father's cheek and remove the obstacle of my person from between my parents. They let me go, and I make my way around the tables and groups of people to the bottom of the stand. Eamonn and Gerard are still there, though Eamonn is clearly finishing his drink. Given the timing, if they are riding in the joust they will have to leave almost immediately.

Eamonn, the younger of the two men, has a grim look on his face under his long brown hair. Gerard, a huge man who nonetheless seems not at all constrained by his bulk, waits on Eamonn to finish.

I quicken my movements to come up between them. "Cousins, I met Eoghan of the Word today, among others. Shall I tell you what I make of them, or would it be a distraction?" I ask, sincerely worried I'm doing a disservice.

Gerard says, as though my comment continues a conversation they had already been having, "Eamonn, there is no dishonor in removing yourself from the List. It is done all the time, by men who know one year or another will not be their year."

Eamonn looks at me. "Tell us, then, what you think, to shut up this argument once and for all."

"I think I sparred with one of them this afternoon, and they are only men, but extraordinary ones. I was able to injure him severely, but on a battlefield I was dead and he would have had time to call his healer. I also think it's easier to hold a deathblow with swords or hand to hand than it is with a lance, where it can be just bad luck," I explain. "But I do think Sir Eoghan will win this Joust, does something extraordinary not happen. So what is your goal, Eamonn?"

Eamonn gives me an almost hidden smile and looks to Gerard with defiance. "To make a good showing."

Gerard rolls his eyes and looks at me pointedly, as if to say, "You see what you are doing?"

"And how often can you take Gerard, then?" I ask. "And what would be good? If you know your mind Eamonn, and you're willing to die or live with the consequences, then I don't see how anyone can argue with you, so long as you are realistic. We all make our choices."

I give Gerard a shrug. I know no one could talk me down. If Eamonn can be talked down, then he is not ready.

Eamonn looks down at the ground at that, and then back at each of us in turn. "One time in five," he answers honestly, with a sigh. "I suppose a good showing to me would have been to ride well, and if my luck with the draw of the lists was good, to take a few passes." He looks again from me to Gerard, disappointed, but clearly needing more reassurance. "My first draw, though, was Donn of the Sword, and he is a King's Knight of the Joust sworn already. I suppose there is no shame in seeing my skill too untried to face such a field."

"No, there is not," Gerard says kindly.

But Eamonn looks back at me. I meet his eyes. "Ah, Eamonn, I would not discourage you. It's not in my heart. But my parents are right when they tell me the nature of the Tournament is different than it was when we signed our names. What might have been good practice for a later time might be more dangerous now, it is true. I certainly didn't expect Staff to go so rough, and it's not got horses and sharp lances. I think there is no shame if what you do with it is prepare for all the future Tourneys to be like this one, and be ready for those."

And then I look at Gerard, and wonder if he's prepared. I don't ask though. I just give him a curious look. Gerard returns my look, but seems to have not made up his mind. To Eamonn he says, "Come, let's go quickly to the Master of Lists before it is too late to change the rolls."

He puts his arm around the smaller man's back and starts to lead him away. Before they've gone, however, he looks back. "Belesama, tell us, where will you be this evening? You should join us for a drink if you can, at the Inn of the Maid where we go to join friends."

"I told the good man who just won Staff we will practice, but I will come by if I can, likely with friends if I do," I call back, and wave them off.

Everyone is so tense. I am tempted to go sit with Blythe, but I want to give Gerard my support if he rides today, so I climb back up into the Keep's stands to find some friends to sit with.

I cheer like everyone else when the riders come out, and feel horrid for Eoghan when he is met with silence. I try to look across and get a glance at Blythe, because she may very well be more hurt by it than he is.

And then we must cheer again for Gerard. Gerard doesn't look ill at all following Eoghan, but I'm not surprised it's a man of the Keep who can stand up to his example. Watching them, one after the other, I would not be surprised to find they share a line of descent.

Eamonn is not the only one who withdrew. Well, then, I hope he takes some comfort in that. I wonder for a moment what it is about me that I cannot even consider such a thing. I suspect it is that I have trained for life and death fighting. It is protective, and while I might be able to merely injure someone instead of kill them, the assumption of the style is that when your life is in danger the only way to stop the danger is to remove it entirely. When Riochal speaks to me about having lost his art, I wonder that I have any left myself. It is pretty, smooth, really an almost delicate style, but it is deadly.

My eyes rake the edges of the field for Bronn, but the crowds are enormous and I doubt I could find him were he here. I should probably be about shopping me another shirt so I can return his, but I can't give up watching the joust, which people will likely be speaking of all the rest of the day. Surely he has more than one shirt and can wait on me.

The image of Bronn cowering in his tents for fear of emerging shirtless and being ravished causes me to bite my lip and hide my smile. The idea of any of them cowering from much of anything is comical.

And so they joust. I banter with those of the Keep I have not seen in so many years, and meet those who are so young as I did not know them then, and even the youngest, born and grown since I have left, and returned. I am glad for Blythe's housemate when he takes his round.

And then the tense silence falls over Eoghan's joust. His animal is beautiful, in an awesome sort of way. I can feel the presence of my parents up behind me, and know they are not the only ones who have decisions hinging on the outcome of this round. I wonder how many people can really be fair, when so many loved ones in these houses here today are at risk.

And then it happens, as quickly as that, a death that could not be prevented. Though he tried, I watched Eoghan try. I silently will healing to work, but having seen the spray of blood, don't think they could pull him back. I look again for Bronn, and miss Eoghan's riding off the field.

I wonder if they would even let Bronn touch him, were he to come. They wrap Grulias of the Green and carry him off the field after the bell starts tolling. I'm glad it's not Eamonn, and watch the despair of the Green with sad eyes.

I wonder how long it will be before those who care for me ask me to withdraw. Or perhaps they won't. Perhaps they can already hear how I've changed.

I stay to watch the rest. Gerard could be called yet.

The Master of Lists comes to the field perhaps fifteen minutes later. "The remainder of this day's joust will begin after a recess of one hour," he announces perfunctorily. It has always been such when there has been grave injury or death on the field, rare though it is, but I had forgotten. The Tournament goes on. I wonder what people make of the near-death in Staff, and the death here.

I can't sit still for that long. I am tempted to check on Blythe, but she is with her family. I take the time to do what I should do, and get myself a new shirt so I may return this one to Bronn.

I have no real care for fashion. I look for something sensible that fits and that will give me enough movement for sparring. I will get something decent from the House's encampment pavilion, where there is much spare equipment for the entrants along with small forges and other necessary things for repairing armor and weapons. I introduce myself to the servants and assistants there, and they are very helpful.

The mood among them is a little low and puzzled. I realize that humans cannot hear the toll, so they only know of the death by physical word spreading among them. How odd it is, that it is something only we can hear. Is it magical, then?

"Did you see it, my Lady?" the dresser asks me as he is looking through the trunks for something suitable. "The... death on the field?"

"I did," I tell them. I try to draw the picture in grim detail. "They had a size and height variance between them, and the Knight, Grulias of the Green was the smaller of man and of horse. If I had to guess at jousting, which I know little of, he was overextending his reach to try to correctly position his lance for a hit. When they came together, Eoghan of the King's Word still had the reach advantage, so his lance fell along the Knight like so." I move my hand across my chest and to my shoulder.

"Then his armor caught the lance, and his tilt for reach caused the direction of his fall, I think, with momentum toward the fence between the runs. It happened so fast the Word couldn't turn his horse in time to avoid injuring the Knight, though he did try. It was too serious a wound for the healers to save him, unlike what that new Knight of the Maid was able to do at the end of Staff. That was a gift, but not all injuries will take healing," I claim.

The man's eyes grow big at my words, clearly picturing what I say, but at the end, he nods. "It does sound an accident from your telling, my Lady. The rumors have had it otherwise, some of them." He hands me a choice of two shirts, one of which seems better suited for the practice I intend, and though informal, doesn't look half-bad for a visit to the Lily.

"Ah, excellent," I take the one, with a smile. "Rumors, sir... need a villain, and where there is not one, one must be created. The Word is full of big figures, and I daresay they make excellent heroes and villains both."

I look around the pavilion and grin. "Could I beg your help in a corner here, holding up my cloak so I may change into this? I need to return this other garment to its owner."

The dresser looks a little surprised at my modesty, used to the Alfari stripping and dressing in front of him... given his lowly position and the small regard they give him, but he readily agrees with a slightly shaken, "Of course, my Lady." I smile, having considered just changing, but since I have spent the last many years in the company of men who treated me in turns as if I was not a woman at all or otherwise some fragile much-honored being, I have perhaps grown over-sensitive. It will give them something to talk about beyond death, anyway.

I change quickly and fold up Bronn's shirt. I thank the man, and tip well, and put my cloak back on. Then I head out to find a booth that is selling some treat that may travel well. I circle the field until I find the flowers I'm looking for out beyond the stands. I heard some humans call them Canterbury Bells when I was young, but I've learned since most here just call them purple bells. I break off a stem of them, and lay it atop my bundle.

I look for a young one, a brave looking young one, who I might pay off to carry these to the pavilions of the Word and deliver them to Sir Bronn's hands for me. Doubtless my message will be taken wrong by some, and who knows what rumors will start from this maneuver, but it is the least I can do. Finding one to take the bundle to Bronn, I tip and ask him to please tell him I said for him not to take it the wrong way, but to enjoy his treat.

Once I have that accomplished, I return to the stands of the Keep to try to get myself settled before the Joust begins again.

After the hour has passed, Ceallagh returns to the field with his assistants. "Third joust, King's Knight Gerard of the Keep passes King's Knight of the Sword Muirach of the Sword." This brings all of us in the stands of the Keep to full attention.

The two big men enter, Gerard's bay heading north, and Muirach's black heading south. From the long distance, Muirach nods, and both riders, helms off, sit their horses facing the stand of the Green for a full minute. Not a twitch of a horse's ear, nor barely breath, mars their salute. It's touching. They buckle on their helms, turn into their starting positions and take up their lances.

When the horn for the first pass sounds, both horses get a good start, Muirach's charger slightly faster in the amble. Gerard looks to be a solid mountain, though, and at the crash of lances Muirach doubles over, and a few strides past makes a staggering dismount. He pulls off his helm as a healer runs forward, but Muirach waves the man off, stands stiffly, and points to Gerard.

"King's Knight Gerard of the Keep," is called out. I bite my lip to contain my happiness, but am surrounded by many worried faces. I do wonder if Muirach gave it away. It is time to find out who is hungry and who is not. Is there more honor is bowing out to begin when faced with the word, or bowing out after a good hit later, when faced with a death? I say Eamonn made his decision not knowing if he was giving up his chance for no reason, and that would be the harder call to make.

In the fourth round, it is King's Knight of the Joust and Hunt Mulhain of the Beginning to pass King's Knight of the Horse Caitriona of the Bracken. They actually make it to the third pass, which I think adds some normalcy back to the proceedings. The round is called for Mulhain.

The fifth is Knight of the Joust Mathuin of the Ash and King's Knight of the Sword Conor of the Bracken. Mathuin gets Conor unhorsed, and that is what matters, though it wasn't straight on. This sixth gives us King's Knight of the Joust Donn of the Sword against Guinifrey of the Green. I feel the crowd would like to see the Green win for sentiment, but after three clean passes the judges call it for Donn, which shows their fairness, and Guinifrey seems to know it in good nature.

The tension has either lessoned around me a bit, or I'm ignoring it better. It is difficult to tell. I look up to my parents to give them a chance to call me back if they have more words to share, before I go off to see whom I can find. I'm tired of sitting.

My father gives me a small, tense wave, and tilts his head south, in the direction of the wall and the Keep's southern holdings. My mother looks ill, and his attention goes back to her almost immediately. My eyes sit on my mother a moment, full of worry. Is this my fault? Has she seen something? Is she just ill and I didn't know it? Is it just because Gerard moves on? I nod slowly back to my father, and call up, "In the morning." I look back to my mother and back to him again. They can both bet I'll have questions later.

I turn my worried eyes on the rest of the field. I don't see any of my new friends anywhere. I sigh, figuring I must be the last out. I will head to the House of the Lily, then, glad of my new shirt.