The wind swept upon the green expanse of Briganta Field beneath a boiling mass of clouds. The hosts stood silent and still in their files, facing each other, their banners gently rippling in the uneasy air.

  Madrot rode forth first, astride a tall grey charger, his iron cudgel hanging at his side, its dagger-end unsheathed, glinting like a serpent’s fang. He halted midway between the hosts.

  Ceryd rode forth to meet him, stopping at a spear’s length. The two regarded one another across the narrow gulf— bound as uncle and nephew by blood, yet made enemies by fate.

  Then Madrot raised his voice. “Greetings, nephew. Shall we embrace?” He opened his arms as though welcoming kin to a hearth.

  Ceryd huffed at the crass mockery. He dismounted, handing his reins to his squire, and strode forward with measured tread. His sword gleamed with the brightness of youth, and his shield bore Cleon’s crest. Though he smiled, it was thin and cold.

  “An embrace, uncle?” Ceryd answered. “Let our metal be the arms that clasp.”

  They saluted, stepped back, and the Marshal of Fy called the rite:

  “By the old law, with blood the price, let justice fall to strength. Let none interfere.”

  And the duel began.

  Ceryd moved with the fluid crawl of a prowling cat, revealing his Aeonite training. He struck first, shield forward, blade arcing toward Madrot’s helm.

  Madrot reeled beneath the blow, stumbling a pace. A hopeful murmur rippled through Gruen’s ranks.

  Cerenid dared a breath.

  Gedain’s lip curled.

  Across from them, Una and Mendo stared unblinking.

  Ceryd pressed the attack, raining steel upon his foe. Madrot’s shield boomed with each strike, ringing like a muffled bell. Step by step the Blodwin heir yielded ground.

  They squared off again. Madrot circled, gaining space. He moved more like a hound, in bursts, crouching, repositioning, hunting for the precise moment to lunge.

  Ceryd leapt, outflanking Madrot, but his strike glanced his mail. Madrot repositioned. Ceryd feigned a backhand strike, then spun, cutting at Madrot’s shins. Madrot lurched away, evading the crippling blow, but lost his balance. He frantically rolled as Ceryd speared, just evading ruin.

  Then, with a sigh, Madrot’s stance relaxed. His tense guard lowered. His breathing steadied. Ceryd’s dance swirled around him like stormwater round a rooted stone.

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  Ceryd struck downward.

  Madrot twisted away.

  Ceryd’s blade bit only air.

  Then again Ceryd glanced, then missed. And yet again.

  Ceryd missed a fourth time but Madrot’s cudgel flashed. It struck Ceryd’s shield with such force that the young rex staggered. Again the cudgel came, hammer first, then dagger-end, each blow precise, economical.

  Ceryd staggered and gasped beneath the weight of it, eyes widening in surprise at the speed and force of the man he once bested in the yard. The hosts watched in stunned quiet.

  Ceryd tried to disengage, to regroup and catch his breath, but Madrot pressed him. Ceryd counter-attacked, yet each fluid movement he made was evaded by a quick shift, a short step, and a counter thrust.

  A feint left…

  A hook of the shield…

  A sudden upward strike and Ceryd’s sword flew from his grasp, spinning end over end, landing in the grass.

  Ceryd turned briefly to locate it.

  A desperate cry went up from Gruen’s line.

  Madrot charged, slamming his shield into Ceryd’s breast, driving him backward. Ceryd stumbled, reaching for footing. Madrot bore down again, crashing atop him. The dagger-pike flashed like lightning.

  “Yield, brother!” Cerenid screamed.

  But there was no time for parry or plea. Madrot drove his iron blade into Ceryd’s throat. The rex coughed once, then blood poured from his neck and mouth. His eyes rolled back as Madrot withdrew the blade.

  Cerenid shouted, voice cracking, “Brother!”

  The duel had ended.

  Reik Mendo urged his steed forward, Una steadying the reins. The withered old man expressed no triumph. He gazed down at Ceryd’s splattered face. His indecipherable voice croaked across a mournful hush.

  Una translated. “My father says, ‘I am sorry, grandson, that thou wert made to bear the sins of thy father.’”

  A gasp rose among the gathered warriors, Gruen and Dregrove alike.

  Cerenid stared in disbelief, the words cutting deeper than any blade.

  Madrot lowered his weapon, chest heaving, eyes fixed upon Ceryd’s fallen form. His expression no longer sinister but filled with remorse.

  Cerenid rushed to kneel beside his dead brother, lifting his head into his lap. Blood spilled from Ceryd’s mouth and throat, warming Cerenid’s hands as he wept.

  “Please don’t leave me, brother,” he whispered.

  But Ceryd’s lifeless eyes no longer saw him.

  “By the old law, he who slays the rex shall be made rex!” shouted the Marshal of Fy.

  “That has not been the law for five centuries,” bellowed Olian.

  Madrot turned upon them, his voice low but carrying.

  “I sought justice, not a crown. Let the brother bear it.” He mounted his steed with deliberate calm, then rode slowly back into the ranks of Dregrove.

  Behind them, the hosts shifted, hands to hilts, old feuds and new wounds trembling on the edge of eruption.

  Only Una’s voice broke the gathering storm:

  “Stand down! Stand down all of you!” she cried. “The trial is ended. House Dregrove holds allegiance to Cerenid Rex.”