At last, The Which watched the combatants climb aboard their birduns. The When rose from his seat and approached a massive ceremonial torch that stood unlit at the front of the loge. The spectators erupted in frenzied fervor. Both birduns and their riders circled high above the upturned heads, the waving arms and pumping fists, and came to a hover before the nobles. As if choreographed, the warmen raised a fist to their hearts and spoke in unison.

“Honor to Mano.”

The When, The Which and Olaf offered perfunctory nods, and the warmen circled back to their starting positions. The When waited while squires handed swords and shields to the soldiers. No sooner were they armed than The When produced an igniter like a wand from the sleeve of his robe and held it aloft. The crowd grew respectfully quiet.

“As magi seer of Back Tier,” his deep voice boomed, “I hereby proclaim One to Victory and One to Flame.”

He touched the igniter to the torch, and an orb of orange flame blossomed from the massive receptacle. The warmen charged, their steeds galloping with surprising speed as they converged in the center of the arena. The crowd rose to its feet in anticipation of the collision. The powerful clash of their swords resounded throughout the arena, but the blow unseated neither.

The Which was not really watching. Instead, she cast sidelong glances at Chancellor Olaf. Although he was faced toward the fight, she could tell that he, too, was not paying attention. The Which wished to engage him, but The When had reclaimed his seat between them, and his proximity made privacy impossible. The When was famously taciturn, but The Which was wary to give him reason to talk.

Still, the eyes of The Which were repeatedly pulled to the composed and patrician face of the chancellor. She felt certain that Olaf, and perhaps Olaf alone, was holding the throne together in his capable embrace. She’d witnessed firsthand the trembling hands of Xander, his rheumy eyes filled with doubt and fear.

Not every person was equipped to handle even a glimpse of Fate. Failure need only be suggested for Xander to crumble. He had never worked for anything in his life, and now, The Which surmised, Xander was nothing more than a petulant child in fear of having his favorite toy taken from him.

An especially boisterous roar from the crowd broke her from her reverie.

Kohl and Ty had stopped jousting and had moved to close-quarter combat, raining a storm of blows upon one another, steel sparking repeatedly on steel. The ferociousness of the exchange had the spectators screaming for blood.

The warmen were so well matched that each thrust was met by deflection from sword or protection from shield. As if seizing simultaneously upon the same strategy, Kohl and Ty urged their birduns to the air.

As ungainly as the birduns appeared, they maneuvered nimbly like windswept cinders. The swords of Kohl and Ty slashed in long, whistling arcs that failed to find purchase, due largely to the acrobatics of their mounts. The birduns dipped and dodged, keeping their masters a hair’s breadth away from the lethal blades. So caught up in the fray were the beasts that they gnashed and champed at each other whenever they passed, froth flying from their bared teeth, their yodeling trills filling the air above the hubbub of the crowd.