Yes, a jester figure. A fool on horseback, providing entertainment to the crowds during breaks in the show. But if one looked at this figure and saw only the mountebank, then one missed the whole point.

The Black Knight might be a fool, but this fool served the gods. The Black Knight was a holy idiot, destiny’s joking hand, the mischievous herald of divine fate.

The people of Barsine Banner hated Dedreugh. And now the Black Knight was calling him out. Nothing would come of this. Surely, this was the baron’s attempt to defuse the morning atrocities. This couldn’t be the Eight’s judgment. It was a prank and a lark and nothing more.

But what if?

What if?

The baron gave the crowds a sour look and nodded to where his man Dedreugh sat. The guard captain drained his drink and stood. He called his horse over and vaulted into the saddle, directing the stallion around the ring.

“Who dares think they can take me?” he screamed out. “Do you think I fear the unknown? That I will quake at the dark? I am the dark! I am the unknown all men fear! I will tear this impostor limb from limb.” He pulled out his sword and waved it in the air. He continued in this vein for several more circles around the yard, each time elaborating on the many ways he’d grind into dust the poor fool stupid enough to challenge him.

Dedreugh’s bluster didn’t seem unusual. For reasons defying Brother Qown’s understanding, every knight at the tournament indulged in this cock’s parade of insults. Maybe they did it to intimidate their opponents, give the crowds a chance to place their bets, or impress their loyal fans. Some traditions start without anyone knowing why.

The Black Knight waited in the ring. She didn’t make a sound.

When the time came to ride to the contest table, Arasgon strolled over with head and tail held high.

Neither side moved to pick a statue.

Of course. The one with the least idorrá picked first in these contests, and neither side would make that admission.

“It’s my lord’s banner,” Dedreugh growled. “You pick first.”

Janel didn’t respond at first. Then she tilted her head—as close as she could come to a nod wearing that helmet—and reached out a black-gauntleted hand. She swept up a statue of an upright man with an eagle’s head and wings: Khored the Destroyer. Brother Qown wasn’t sure what the contest indicated, but given the god chosen, it seemed safe to assume it would be violent.

The count held the statue over her head for the crowd to see. Everyone roared their approval.

Instead of picking a variation, Dedreugh immediately attacked.