Court of Fives
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Every victory procession parades along the wide boulevard called the Avenue of Triumphs. Mother and Amaya and I wait at the side of the avenue in the family carriage, which has a roof for shade against the blistering sun and bead curtains to conceal us from improper gazes. I am strung too tight by the thought of running the Fives to care about the procession, but when Amaya parts the strings to peek through I scoot up beside her, realizing that I am excited after all. I don’t want to miss a single thing.
“Look! Here they come!” Amaya is bouncing on the seat hard enough to make the carriage rock. “Make sure you remember everything so we can tell Maraya all about it!”
“Bett, too!”
Amaya sniffs. “As if she cares.”
Mother sits calmly but she is also holding the beads to one side so she can see.
First the horse guards sashay past. Everyone cheers and whistles as the horses prance and the proud cavalrymen show off their splendid uniforms of flowing gold silk and red leather boots trimmed with golden tassels. Next ride the royal heralds flying purple banners marked with the white sea-phoenix, the badge of the royal house. Blasts from their curved trumpets announce the approach of the royal carriage.
Cheers fade into a sullen quiet.
The royal carriage is open for all to see, and today both the king’s and the queen’s seats are empty. That is not unusual; the royal carriage leads the way in every victory, festival, and funeral procession whether anyone sits in it or not. Perhaps it is for the best. The crowd’s harsh murmurs remind me how unpopular the king and queen have become.
Abruptly shouts of praise and triumphal whistling begin again as people see Prince Nikonos. The king and queen’s younger brother sits in a smaller carriage that follows right behind the royal carriage. He wears formal robes of purple and gold. His hair is cut short in the fashion of soldiers because he is a soldier too. He stares straight ahead as people press their right hands to their hearts and offer the bow of gratitude.
Mother and Amaya and I do the same even though no one can see us. When we straighten, the royal stewards’ carriage is passing. They fling coins into the crowd.
“Mother, please!” says Amaya. “Can I jump out and grab one? They say a royal coin brings good fortune.”
“No, Amaya, it would displease your father,” says Mother in a kind but firm tone. “This is not the day to draw attention in such a way.”
By now even Mother is shifting restlessly as musicians march past, drumming and singing and trumpeting to announce the arrival of the soldiers being honored in the procession. The victory carriages are garlanded with flowers and ribbons. The first two hold lords, who always take primacy regardless of what they accomplished in the field, and the third holds the generals who actually commanded the army. Lesser officers will follow in the lesser carriages.
“Mother! Mother! Do you see him?” Amaya jerks forward, almost sticking her whole head through the beads until I drag her back.
My mouth drops open in utter amazement. Father is seated alone in the third carriage, dressed in his best polished leather armor and holding the brass-studded whip that marks his captain’s rank. He looks so dignified and solemn that if it weren’t for the whip no one would ever guess he isn’t really a general.
Never in my life and dreams have I ever imagined such remarkable distinction would be shown to a humble baker’s son.
Mother looks radiant as she wipes tears of joy from her cheeks, but she says nothing. All around us I hear people talking about the stunning victory at Maldine.
Am I really going to risk running the trial after I have seen this? I grip my fingers together like I can squeeze all the heart out of me and leave only dry sand. The dutiful part of me knows I should just let it go, be obedient, don’t take the risk. But it could take me another year to scrape together enough coin to pay the entry fee. Anything could happen. What if I never have this chance again? Just once I want to run a real trial and pretend to be a different girl with a different life.
The lesser officers pass, followed by ranks of victorious soldiers and then wagons heaped with captured weapons. As high-ranking prisoners in chains shuffle past, the ground begins to tremble with thuds. A deathly hush spreads across the gathered crowd.
A cohort of spider scouts brings up the rear of the procession. The spiders are giant eight-legged mechanisms, each one given life by magic and directed by a soldier strapped into the carapace of the metal beast. They are mostly used in the desert, where they can move quickly and for longer distances than foot soldiers or cavalry. On the avenue they clank along with an ominous thunder that causes the packed crowds to cower.