From where he stood, high on the hill beneath Klinberg's walls, Maddock was staring in slack jawed wonder. The sun was slowly rising, and though the arena-field was still in shadow, the colourful tents of the knights that surrounded its western edge were struck by its clear morning light, and their brightness was almost dazzling. That band of colour was just a backdrop to the columns of knights gathered before them, clad in their armour, bearing row upon row of raised lance blades, like a field of high plains grass.

Though their appearance was terrifying, Maddock knew the madriel to be creatures of flesh and bone. He had cleared enough of their dung to know just how earthly they were, but watching them from the hillside, their snorting growls filling the air of early morning with an unearthly echo, encased as they were in their armour of dark metal, they looked like something much more than half wild animals ridden by men.

"Impressive, isn't it?" said Karek from where he stood beside him.

Maddock simply nodded dumbly. His body ached. His eyes were still shadowed with dark bruises, and one ear still felt swollen, but at that moment his pains were forgotten.

After he had been released from the Infirmary, Master Sprak had granted him his day's leave, declaring that an injured Field-hand was of no use to him at the Enclosures anyway. Maddock had gladly returned to the farm, but soon found the mood that lay about the place unsettling, and he had been only too happy to escape the talk of the tavern tables that morning. Some, his father included, talked about the war as though its coming was inevitable, and even the words of those who still had their faith in Sir Zembulla sounded like hollow hope. The poor performance of the Pride-commander's squire in the riding-contests had cast a cloud, though for every man and woman who was darkened by it, there was another who would point to the fact that the performance of Sir Galder's squire had been equally bad.

"Impressive," said Larrad, standing at Maddock's other shoulder, though his voice seemed to lack real conviction.

The youngest of his brothers had been livid with indignation when he had first seen Maddock's battered face, and had listened to him tell them about the fight after the riding-contests. He had been eager to find Tasker and give him a beating in return, but Yohef had managed to calm him.

'The boy has done wrong, but it sounds like the punishment that Master Sprak thought up for him will wound him more than your fists ever could.'

'Besides,' Karek had said. 'Our brother must learn to fight his own battles. He is not a child.'

Maddock had looked at his older brother gratefully, through eyes still swollen half closed.

'Which is why you need to carry on with your sword practice. I'll teach you how to beat the boy in a fair fight. Or maybe even an unfair one.'

Karek had grinned and gone to give Maddock a slap on his shoulder, but then seemed to think better of it, and had ruffled his hair instead, which hadn't been much better because his head still throbbed painfully.

It seemed like his two brothers had not left his side since then. Despite Karek's words about fighting his own battles, he and Larrad had insisted on accompanying him to the challenges that morning, and though Maddock was glad of their company, he still wished they would not be so protective. Still, it was not bad, standing with them on the grassy slope overlooking the arena-field. They had brought bags of fried borak skin and kernik seed cake from the farm, and even though the cakes had more rough flour than kernik seeds, he was happy to forget the events of the previous days for a while, and enjoy his brothers' company.

They watched as the six ladies of the Order, who had been standing motionless on the dais, moved from their positions before the empty chairs and went to stand at the head of the dais' steps.

Sir Unsaethel was the first Pride-commander to take his seat. Maddock watched him as he rode his steed from his position at the head of his Chapter, and up the short slope to the dais. He stopped beneath the steps, where a lady stood, grey haired, but with a straight back, looking proudly down as he approached.

"The Lady Clemita," whispered Larrad. "The Order's best huntress', I heard. Can still outshoot much younger ladies of the Order."

Sir Unsaethel dismounted, and Maddock heard the whispers passing through the crowd around him as people watched his movements for signs of injury or weakness. He walked with firm confidence to stand before his wife, and the whispers increased as he lifted his helm to show his head still wrapped in a bandage that covered one of his eye.

Maddock had heard all the countless stories passing backwards and forwards around the fortress grounds concerning the injuries the Commander of Chapter Katchewan had sustained the previous day. Some, particularly the more bloodily gruesome ones he had heard from the other Field-hands, were more than likely exaggerated, but in most the general facts agreed.

Sir Unsaethel had been facing his final challenger for command of his Chapter, and the fight had been close. The two knights had charged each other three times, and each man's lance had still been intact. On their fourth pass, both lances had broken as the knights clashed together, but Sir Unsaethel's helm had been struck, and the rumour was that a brittle shard of his opponent's lance had entered through the visor and pierced his eye.

Whatever injury he had received, it had not slowed Sir Unsaethel, who had turned himself in a sudden fury, his steed rearing and locking horns with those of his enemy's. His opponent had dropped his broken lance and gone to draw his sword. Sir Unsaethel had not paused to change weapons, and instead had struck vengefully with the broken shaft of his own lance, landing blow after blow, which his enemy fought furiously to block before having to wheel away so he would have space to draw his own weapon.

That had been the end of him, for Sir Unsaethel had not let him withdraw and had followed after, striking with massive force and throwing him to the dust of the ring. The crowd had cheered at the victory, but had soon grown quiet as Sir Unsaethel himself had dropped from his saddle, to be helped from the arena by his squire, blood pouring from beneath his helm.

The whispering around Maddock subsided as Sir Unsaethel placed his helmet beneath one arm and knelt before his wife, his head bowed. The Lady Clemita leant forward, lifted the necklace of grass from around her husband's neck, and spoke to him. Maddock could not hear what was said because the distance between the hillside and the dais was great, and besides that, there was still a strange background ringing in one of his ears.

Once she had spoken, the Lady Clemita stepped back to stand to the left of Sir Unsaethel's chair, and the old knight climbed to his feet and took his seat. With no word of command, his great steed, Falsch, stepped onto the dais and prowled between the chairs, before turning and standing at his knight's other hand. A Madriel-master hurried up and set to work, with the help of squire Matzurra, loosening the armour around the beast's hind quarters, so it was able to sit. While this was being done, Council-master Hepskil stepped forward and stood before Sir Unsaethel's chair.

"Welcome back to the fortress of Klinberg, Sir Unsaethel of the family of Anestar," he said, and his voice, still strong despite the years, carried across the field and echoed from the bailey cliff. "You have proved your worth and your honour. The command of the Chapter of Katchewan is yours for the year to come; may you lead it well."

Sir Unsaethel, his hair and beard more grey than brown, gave no answer and merely nodded his head in acknowledgment.

"He knows it will be his last," Karek whispered in Maddock's ear. "You can see it."

The Madriel-master and squire had finished their duties and, his helmet removed, Falsch now sat watching the Field, from grey eyes set in old pale fur.

The next to ride up the slope to the dais was Sir Galder, and Maddock shielded his eyes from the bright glare of the sun to watch him approach the dais, where a lady stood.

"Who's that?"

Karek raised his hand above his eyes, so he could better see the Lady who stood waiting for the Pride-commander.

"I don't know."

"I've heard it's Sir Galder's niece; the Lady Lavesna," said Larrad. "Tasker's mother."

His lips twisted at the name of the hated squire, and Maddock strained to see better across the field. The lady was too far away to make out any detail, except that she stood very straight and still as Pride-commander Galder approached and knelt before her.

* * *

Tahlessa had also been trying to gain a better view of the Lady Lavesna, but she was not in a good position to judge her current temperament. She had been unable to gauge her mood before they had taken their places together with the other ladies. The wife of her husband's former friend had arrived late, and had spoken to no one before moving forward to stand in front of the chair of Commander Galder. Not that the Lady Lavesna would have condescended to exchanged words with her, even on that auspicious day. They had not spoken in three years, and the last words Lavesna had directed at her had been as bitter and hate filled as poison.

It was hard for her to remember that once they had hunted across the searing plains together, their young laughter alerting the karabok herd and scattering them, to the disgust of their Madriel-mistress. They had once shared their dreams and their hopes and their secrets, but now there was nothing between them but Lavesna's hatred and Tahlessa's pity, and she mourned the passing of the friendship they had lost along with so much else.

When Sir Unsaethel had taken his chair, Tahlessa had glanced past him to look at Lavesna and seen that she was staring out at the knights assembled in the field below. It seemed to her that the woman had her face tilted to the right to look across the field, towards the knights of the Chapter of Bannoc, where Kralaford sat astride Hakansa. Her former friend's eyes were not filled with hate, as Tahlessa would have expected them to be, and seemed to hold little of anything but blankness. Doctor Fos, Tahlessa assumed, had given her something to still the turmoil that usually suffused her blood.

When Sir Galder stepped up to the dais, Tahlessa looked again to see Lavesna's attention now solely on the knight standing before her, though her eyes were still blank and lifeless. She wondered if the medicine that Doctor Fos had given her would be able to render the poor woman into such a serene state and still allow her to carry out her duties of the day. It was a mistake to bring her down from the fortress, but the laws were quite clear and she was the eldest of Sir Galder's female kin.

She need not have worried, for as Sir Galder knelt before her, the Lady Lavesna, her back held straight, reached forward, and moving only her arms, removed the necklace of grass from around his neck. The two did not exchange a word before Sir Galder stood and took his chair.

The Lady Lavesna turned and stepped back to stand beside him. Tahlessa was glad she had decided not to pay a visit to the Infirmary that morning. No one had suggested she should, but her husband had hinted that the good doctor may have been able to do something to restore her mood. No. Better to be able to feel the unfamiliar weight sitting in her chest, than be turned into such a vacant creature as the one now standing beside Sir Galder's chair.

Sacsensia paced about and took his place on the other side of the Pride-commander, and Master Hepskil stepped forward to give his welcome.

As she half listened, Tahlessa looked out at the slowly brightening field, and sighed. She could gain no joy at the scene. All she wanted at that moment was to be away from all these people; from Sir Galder and Lavesna and everything else that seemed to add weight to the stone in her heart by their mere presence. Those thoughts stabbed a rod of anguish through her, which was strengthened by anger because she knew that she should be happy.

It was the first High-tourney where her husband had stood as Pride-commander, and she had once looked forward to this day with so much anticipation. But now she did not care. She hated herself for her indifference, though she remained poised, with none of her emotions on show to the vast crowd that ringed the arena-field. If she could not be happy on this day then she could, at least, maintain the pretence of happiness for the sake of her husband.

She straightened her back and lifted her head.

* * *

Dak gazed up at the six ladies standing up on the dais, and wondered at how calm and confident they all looked. She felt envious at their strength. She could see them quite clearly because she was at the front of the crowd, almost on the arena-field itself. It may have been people's high regard for the Guild, or it may have been the presence of so many towering Forge-guard that dissuaded most people from intruding on the lower part of the hill, but whatever the reason, it was nice to get an unimpeded view of the proceedings.

"Good work, Tomova," said yet another Engineer, slapping her father on the back with a blow that sounded like it could have felled a karabok.

"Thank you Kobrev," said her father, with the fixed grin of one who was becoming worn by constant praise.

"Your finest work, I think," said Kobrev, indicating Sir Galder and his steed, attired in their armour.

"So far, yes." replied her father, "So far, my best work."

Kobrev grinned, and with another ringing slap on her father's back, pushed his way back into the crowd.

"Sometimes it is tiring being so good," said her father when he had gone. "All this praise... Well!"

He shrugged.

"You deserve it, father. You have done wonderful work."

"Yes," said her father as he critically watched Sir Galder's squire and his Madriel-master adjust Sacsensia's armour. They soon finished, and the beast sat. Tomova smiled in satisfaction, before turning back to the field.

"It is good," he said, smiling.

Dak was happy to see her father in such good humour. His mood had been something in a state of turbulence for a few days, ever since she had returned home late from the riding-contests. As it happened, he had not fretted over her absence for the majority of the day, and he had spent the afternoon at his desk, hunched over his new designs. It had only been when he was forced to turn on the workshop glow-lights as dusk fell that he had realised the lateness of the hour. Dak, with Doctor Fos accompanying, had found him fretting at the workshop's open door, deliberating on whether to remain there or to set out on a search. He had been appeased by her return, and her explanation for its lateness, but his demeanour hardened when she mentioned Tahlia's presence. Dak, then, had been happy that the Doctor was there.

After her explanations, she had gone to her bed, leaving her father alone with Doctor Fos. She could hear their voices distantly as she'd pulled the bed covers over herself, but she could not hear what they were talking about and had made no attempt to try. Whatever it was had not improved her father's mood, and he had spent the next day watching the challenges for the command of the Chapters in metal hard silence.

Thankfully, that morning, he had awoken in a better mood.

"Look," he said, gesturing to Sir Zembulla, who had just stepped up to the dais to stand before his wife. The Lady Mandassa was as slender as her husband was broad, her black hair piled on her head and pinned with coloured panak spines. Her dress was a strikingly resplendent red. She placed a dark hand on the heavy metal plate across his wide chest, and they smiled at one another.

"There is some impressive work. Golvestine is good."

Dak frowned at Sir Zembulla's armour as he knelt before his wife. To her, it did not look as fine as the work of her father. The ornamentation on it seemed simple, straight and brutal. The dark armour had a red sheen on its flat surfaces, and the strong angular features of the helmet he held beneath his arm caught the sun and reflected it back in sharp lines.

Once the Lady Mandassa had removed the necklace of grass from her husband's neck, she bent and kissed his brow. Then he stood and stretched his great shoulders beneath his armour, and turned to take his seat.

"It looks heavy," said Dak.

"That is because Golvestine has designed it to look so. In truth it is no more heavy in comparison to any other, but he has made it with strong lines. It is good work."

Her father was interrupted by a huge cheer from the crowd on the hill behind them, as Sir Kralaford moved forward to the dais. He seemed unmoved by the adulation and stepped up to stand calmly before his wife, the Lady Tahlessa.

"Now there is a knight  in need of new armour," said her father as the cheering from the crowd subsided.

Dak watched as Tahlia's father knelt before his wife, and noted that the armour was something shabby compared to the fine new armour of the other Pride-commanders. It had many signs of repair, where dents had been fixed and polished out, and there were nicks at the edges of some of the plates, where the damage had been too deep to fully repair.

"I am not knowing why he does not replace it. I am sure that the Commander has wealth enough," said her father as he watched the Lady Tahlessa remove her husband's grass necklace.

"Unless he is having to spend all of it on new dresses for his daughter," said Dak. "Tahlia seems to destroy a remarkable amount of them."

Dak instantly regretted making mention of Tahlia, but her father seemed not to have noticed. He was listening to the Council-master addressing Sir Kralaford.

Next to climb to the dais was Sir Bevrik. As he did so, Dak looked at her father to hear his opinion of the knight's new armour, because she was sure that he would be having one.

Her father shook his head.

"I like Natashka well enough," he said. "She is a fine armourer, but I am afraid that she spent too much of her time working for the Lakes. This is not for Klinberg!"

He gestured at Sir Bevrik, who had removed his ornate helmet as he stepped up to stand before his wife.

Dak could see the knight's armour better now, its curling decoration and fine detail so much in contrast to the heavy lines of Sir Zembulla's armour.

"Who will take him seriously dressed in that way! Too much time on the decoration; that is my thought."

On the dais, Sir Bevrik's wife seemed pleased at the sight of her husband. Her cheeks flushed as she leant forward to remove his grass necklet, which shed many dead flower petals as she lifted it over his head.

"I hope such a style does not catch on here," Tomova went on. "Though if Sir Bevrik is adopting it, then there is good chance that the other knights of Asquith will be following."

It seemed to take Sir Bevrik's Madriel-master and his squire longer to loosen the straps and catches on Peksul's armour than was normal, and it was some time after Master Hepskil had finished his welcoming address that the beast could finally sit.

"They will have to be getting used to Engineer Natashka's work; she has designed new rotating rivets at the base of the crup-plates. Fiddly things if you are not used to them. Now, someone will be being kept busy placing that back in presentable order."

Dak struggled for her father's meaning, but then saw that he was talking about the Order's newest Pride-commander.

Sir Gunthred's armour was badly scarred and dented, and though he walked with an undisguised limp, the knight stepped onto the dais with a relaxed air, and the happiness in the smile that he gave his wife was undisguised. She returned the smile, and together they gave the impression of a couple newly appointed for marriage, rather than that of a husband and wife of nearly twenty years. They had good cause for their relaxed air. Both knew that all the ceremony surrounding them; the crowds, the bright banners, and the ranks of Klinberg's knights arrayed in the field below them, was of no consequence. Sir Gunthred's fighting was done for that year.

Sir Gunthred took his seat, and then all of Klinberg's Pride-commanders were present; returned to the fortress after their brief exile.

The Challenges for the position of Grand-commander could begin.

Dak could feel the excitement mounting around her.