The next morning Corin went forth to fight in the esquire tournament. There were over fifty young fighters there, more in fact than for the main tournament. The fighting started early and went long, a cold, muddy slog during a cloudy day with intermittent, spitting drizzle. Vendors of hot food and drink did a brisk business, particularly the chestnut vendors.

Corin was pleased with how he did. In the latter stages of the tournament, the bouts were usually won by the men who were older, on the verge of knighthood, but he managed to squeeze into the top four before being eliminated and only received one bad head shot and a broken pinky finger on his sword hand. The King had come down with Corin's father to watch the final eight bouts, so he knew that he'd been seen. The fact that he'd knocked one of Deslarne's esquires out of the running in the process hadn't hurt matters either. The Orlesian did not come down to watch the esquires' fight-he was up in the manor flirting with the young ladies in relative warmth and comfort.

Corin retired back to the Highever encampment sore, soaked, cold and aching but very satisfied. Fergus had watched from the very beginning and his mother had come down when Fergus had told her that he was in the semifinals. Both of them congratulated him on his showing, and left him to the well-deserved hot bath that awaited him. A potion soon put his finger and headache and bruises to rights, but he was so tired from the tournament that he ate some dinner in the camp and went to bed soon afterwards.

"Your youngest has a good arm on him, Bryce," Cailan had said with approval after the two men had watched Corin lose his final fight. "And Maker, but he's getting some size on him! Almost as tall as Fergus now, isn't he? I actually thought he was Fergus there for a moment, what with the closed helm and all, until I remembered that this was the esquire tournament."

"Yes. He's going to outstrip me for certain," Bryce Cousland said with a rueful smile. "Eleanor has some tall people in her family and so do I. Apparently Corin gets it from both sides."

"He's fast for a big man too. I noticed that right away. And courteous as well. When his opponent slipped in the last fight, he backed right off and let him get up. A lot wouldn't have, particularly in the finals. How old is he now?"

"Seventeen, Sire."

Cailan stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Got any plans for him yet? I'm assuming you want him to make an alliance marriage since he's second son. Lady Habren's going to be available in a year or two and she's got a huge portion."

"If you'll pardon my saying so, Sire, there's a reason Bryland is putting up such a large dowry for Habren. Young as she is, I've already heard rumors."

"But still, Bryce, it's South Reach. He'd be bann. That's pretty good."

"The blood's too close. They're cousins, remember? On Eleanor's side."

"Oh, that's right. Damn. So much for my idea of getting Habren married off and pregnant as soon as possible. And away from court. Bryland has petitioned Anora to take her as lady-in-waiting in a year and Anora doesn't want any part of it. She's trying to work out a way to diplomatically refuse."

"Much as I wish I could serve the Crown in this vital matter, Sire…"

"I know, I know!" The young king laughed. "What about Alfstanna then?"

"Alfstanna is a possibility. Though were I you, Sire, I'd leave that up to Alfstanna!"

"Maker, yes! That woman scares me. She might like your lad, though. I've noticed she's got an eye for a well-turned-"

"Sire."

"Sorry. Anyway, where were we? When does he turn eighteen?"

"This fall."

"Bring him to court then, and I'll knight him. See if we can find something for him to do, show him around a bit. Talk him up. I'd heard that he has a mabari?"

"Yes, he bonded to Pooka when he was twelve."

Cailan smacked his head. "That's right! I remember Howe complaining that Thomas hadn't bonded with anything in that litter and that your boy had. That's good. A mabari bond is always a selling point with us Fereldans." He looked over to where Corin, helm off, was watching the final combat round intently. "He looks clever, Bryce. Is he one of those clever sorts?"

Cousland smiled. "Very. Corin actually likes to read, and he's a killer chess player. Beats me half the time."

"Excellent! Maybe he can play chess with Anora. Maker knows she's tired of trying to teach me anything about the game. Anora might even like him. She doesn't like many, but the ones she does are usually the clever sorts, and it wouldn't hurt to have her putting in a good word for him as well." Cailan winked. "With the ladies, as it were."

"I'm sure he'd appreciate that, Sire."

Applause rose from around the ring. "Ah, there we go. A winner at last. Let's go congratulate the fellow, Bryce, then get in out of this blasted cold and muck."

Deslarnes managed to keep out of any obvious trouble that evening. He had brought his mistress with him to the tournament, a dark-haired young beauty with a petulant, pouting smile named Sophie Lorilard, and she might have sufficed to keep him busy. Or perhaps De Mornay had gotten wind of his antics and reined him in. Fergus had kept an intermittent eye on him all evening, as had Bryce, but nothing untoward occurred.

The next morning the weather had thankfully improved for the main tournament. The night had been very windy, but that wind had served to blow the clouds away, and then had considerately departed. The day was not what one would call warm, but it was still and sunny, and most acceptable to the winter-weary Fereldens. The tournament stands were filled with spectators dressed in their brightest and best and the occasional breeze lifted the bright pennons that flew above them.

Fergus was disappointed to find that he didn't draw Deslarnes in the low brackets. The Orlesian would have to make it to the quarterfinals before he had a chance to face him again, and as it turned out, he did not. Deslarnes was eliminated in the third round by a Redcliffe knight, stomping off the field with his armor muddied and his temper foul. Fergus smiled to see it, then went back to getting ready for his next opponent. His whole family was in the stands with the King, cheering him on, he was fighting well and he thought that if he got the least bit lucky, it might turn out to be a Highever day.

After shedding his filthy armor and cleaning up and dressing again, Egile sulked his way back up into the nobles' box, Sophie on his arm. He would have much preferred to retire to his barely adequate but warm guest bedroom and amuse himself with his very inventive mistress for the rest of the day. But said mistress actually wanted to watch the rest of the fight and he would never hear the end of it from De Mornay or his father if he shirked what they felt was his diplomatic duty.

What a cess-pit this country is, he fumed to himself. It's not like I wanted to be here! Nothing but mud, mud, mud and smelly dogs everywhere! Cousland actually had his over there beneath his feet right now and he was hardly the only one. I could be at Lydes or Val Royeaux, at a proper tournament with proper amenities, instead of this muddy hole filled with surly, jumped up dog lords who probably take their bitches to bed at night because their women are so ugly! The only attractive woman in the whole place had been that knife-eared slut that Cousland had warned him off and Egile hadn't seen her since. It was as if these barbarians felt that she deserved to be protected from him! Insufferable! And Cousland was the most insufferable of the lot, managing to come in fourth out of fifty in his tournament while Egile had been turfed out from his early due to bad battle luck.

To make matters worse, now Sophie was watching the older brother as he drove his current opponent into the dirt; with the tip of her tongue sticking out of her mouth in that way she had when she was thinking dirty thoughts. Egile pinched her arm, hard. "Stop staring at him! I know what you're thinking!" Sophie wrenched her arm away and shot him a glare. Egile slumped back in his seat, thoroughly disgusted, ignoring De Mornay's look of reproof.

He could just overhear Cousland, chatting pleasantly with that pallid lump of a bann's son.

"Sure. I brought him here so you could. And he needs to get some exercise-I didn't have time to ride him yesterday because I was fighting. We'll go do it after the tournament. Maybe up the hill there, where the footing hasn't been churned to goo? I'll put Beau's stuff on so you can see what riding in the saddle feels like and you can wear the tilt helm and the chest piece. We'll take a lance and set a ring up and you can give it a go."

Heh? Cousland has a horse? A tilting horse? Egile had certainly seen no other mounts suitable for a joust here in this backwards corner of horse-sparse Ferelden. Dairren's enthusiastic response went unheard, for suddenly, a glorious plan occurred to Egile, an absolutely wonderful, glorious plan that not only would insure Cousland's utter humiliation (and possibly even severe injury or death), but would also be a slap in the face to all these impertinent, backwater louts! He would show them, oh yes he would!

"I am sorry, ma petite," he said to Sophie, kissing her on her temple. "It is simply that you make me so jealous sometimes. Would you excuse me for a bit?" As she began to pout, he leaned close to her ear and whispered. "I promise, you will like this. I am going to show all these bitch-born Fereldans exactly how much I care for you." Mollified, she gave him a smile. He looked over at De Mornay and said aloud, "Excuse me, Antoine, I made the mistake of buying something from one of those vendors, I was so hungry after the fight. And now I fear it's disagreeing with me. Would you make my excuses to the others, should they ask?" De Mornay inclined his head, though there was a skeptical glint in his dark eyes.

Egile left the stands and it was all he could do to keep from chuckling to himself as he went.

In the end, it did turn out to be a Highever day. Fergus won the final bout, to the cheering approval of the crowd, for he was a popular man in this area of Ferelden. He had just accepted the beautifully engraved dagger that was the tournament prize from Cailan, and the bolt of silk that was his lady's prize from Lady Landra, when murmurs arose from the crowd behind him and he saw the King cock an eyebrow.

"Whatever in the world….?" Cailan murmured.

Fergus turned to see Egile Deslarnes riding onto the list field in an ornately chased set of full jousting plate, on one of the most beautiful horses he'd ever seen, a chestnut stallion with a long flowing mane and tail the hue of gold coins. He made the horse side pass down the narrow space between the lists and the stands, then made it curvet and prance back in an obvious display of horsemanship, until he was seated directly facing the King.

"Your Majesty, mesdames, messires! Bann Loren and Lady Landra! I wish to thank you for the wonderful time I have had here at your tournament! Such hospitality! And the quality of the combat! Superbe! He inclined his head graciously in Fergus's direction. "Lord Cousland, my congratulations on your well-deserved victory!" He gestured to a servant in his livery, who was coming forward with a casket in his hands.

"In fact, I have had such a very good time that I wondered what I could do to add to the pleasure of this event! And it came to me that you war-like Fereldens might enjoy one more contest of martial skill. Lady Landra, would you be kind enough to open the casket and take out what is within?"

Landra opened the small chest, her brow furrowed in curiosity. Then she gasped, reached in and withdrew a necklace of sapphires set in silverite.

"Would you be so kind as to show it to the crowd?" Deslarnes asked. Landra held the necklace up between her two hands and turned both ways so that it might be displayed to all. The sun flashed bluely off the sapphires and there were exclamations of awe and appreciation.

"Merde!" Sophie spat under her breath. "He was supposed to give that necklace to me!"

"I propose a small contest," the young Orlesian announced in a voice that purely dripped goodwill and camaraderie. "This necklace to any Ferelden who can make it through a pas with me." He smiled ingratiatingly. "I apologize if this information is already known; I do not mean to offend with an explanation. A pas is three passes down the list with the lance. I know that the foot troops of Ferelden are legendary, but that you do not have a history of mounted cavalry. In light of that, all I ask is that my opponent remain mounted on his horse for the three passes. He needn't strike me at all. If he'd like to simply carry a shield and no lance, that is also acceptable."

A silence fell. Deslarnes spent a couple of minutes looking around at the crowd, particularly at the knights, a pleasantly hopeful expression on his face. As the silence lengthened, Bryce Cousland saw his son stir restlessly in his seat.

"Don't you dare, Corin!" he muttered, turning his head to look the boy in the eye.

Eventually, Cailan smiled regretfully at the young Orlesian.

"An interesting idea, Lord Deslarnes! I'm sorry we've not got anything that might make a contest for you. I don't know that any of our hunters would abide your pas and I'm afraid that that delightful stallion that your Empress gave me as a wedding present isn't here. He's currently outside of Denerim, doing his best to sire many more lovely horses."

Deslarnes bowed in his saddle. "I believe young Lord Cousland has a jousting horse here, Your Majesty. Perhaps he could be persuaded to lend it to the cause."

"That does it!" Corin muttered. "Sorry, Father, but this has been about me and that business with Iona all along." He got to his feet and said aloud with the firm authority of a much older man, "I'll ride against you, Deslarnes. I need an hour to get my horse ready. Where are we going to do this?"

The Orlesian gestured about him. "Why not right here? My men have a temporary rail they can put up. Not as good as a true list, but it should serve. And everyone will have a good view."

"Very well, then. In an hour's time."

"In an hour's time. A hand, everyone, for young Lord Cousland!" The crowd applauded. Deslarnes made his stallion bow to the King as he bowed, to the oohs and ahs of the crowd, particularly the ladies, then spurred it off to where his baggage train stood.

"If you will excuse me, Your Majesty," De Mornay said, with a bow. At the king's answering bow, he inclined his head in proper order to the Teyrn and Teyrna, the Bann and his lady, and left the stands.

"Corin, you just directly disobeyed me!" Bryce Cousland's face was stern. His younger son gave him a regretful look.

"I am sorry, Father, but he had to be answered, and I am the only one who can do it."

"Nonsense. Any number of people could have borrowed one of Loren's hunters and a lance."

"I didn't exactly see them lining up to volunteer, Bryce," the bann noted. "But I am sorry for the trouble we seem to have brought upon your house. It was unintentional, I assure you."

"What if he's some sort of Orlesian jousting champion?" Fergus inquired, his eyebrow cocked. Corin shrugged.

"Then I'd be meeting him next spring. It's pretty much the same thing."

"Next spring you'd have proper armor and a better horse," Bryce pointed out.

"Father, my armor is perfectly good. It's not pretty like Deslarne's but I've been riding full contact against Ser Gervais for months now. He wouldn't let me joust in unsafe armor. As for Beau-truthfully, I'd rather be riding him first time out. He still knows more about this than I do. He'll take care of me."

"Just how dangerous is this, Corin?" his mother asked. Her son shrugged.

"How dangerous is it going to be when you send me out with Fergus to deal with smugglers and bandits when I'm eighteen? How dangerous are foot tournaments? You let me fight in them all the time, and people do die in foot tournaments. You all are afraid of this because it's a sort of fighting you're not used to and you don't understand it. Honestly, I think this is more about Deslarnes humiliating me than hurting me. And I'm all right with that. We've already won, the challenge was answered. If Deslarnes needs to knock me into the mud to make himself feel better, then I can handle that."

"The true sign of nobility is the willingness to be humiliated for your country," Cailan said with a smile. "And I salute you for it, young Cousland."

Corin bowed. "Thank you, Sire. If you will all excuse me, I've got a horse to prepare." He departed.

"What exactly did your son do, Bryce, that Deslarnes is so eager to embarrass him?" the young King asked after Corin had gone. "They weren't in the same tournament division."

Bann Loren answered. "Deslarnes was attempting to force my wife's elven lady-in-waiting, Sire. Young Cousland stopped him."

"Really!" Cailan grinned. "That's rather horribly romantic. Like something out of a story, this is all shaping up to be. Have I mentioned how much I'm coming to like this son of yours, Bryce?"