Chapter 32: Tourney
The sun over Val Royeaux was a pale, watchful eye, bleaching the sky to a dusty blue. In the grand courtyard of the old chateau, autumn leaves skittered across worn cobblestones, catching in the seams of ancient mortar. The air smelled of crushed greenery, horse sweat, and the distant, rich scent of roasting meats from the feast being prepared below. From the stone arches overhead, the faintest traces of old candle wax lingered, ghosts of forgotten celebrations.
Kerr Cousland adjusted the strap of his buckler, the leather worn smooth and familiar against his forearm. The metal, strapped tight to his wrist, felt like an extension of his own bone. Around him, the tourney field was a riot of coloured silks and polished steel, the chatter of nobles a buzzing hive. He shut it out. The world narrowed to the weight of his sword, the feel of the earth through his boots, and the distant, assessing gaze of his brother Fergus from the stands.
Fergus stood by the Cousland pennant, one hand resting on young Oren’s shoulder. Oriana stood beside them, elegant and composed, but her eyes tracked Kerr with a sisterly concern. Fergus gave Kerr a slight, almost imperceptible nod. It wasn’t a gesture of luck. It was an acknowledgement of shared blood, of expectation. Get on with it, it said.
The joust had been a farce.
Kerr’s armor was thick silverite plate, etched with the subtle patterns of Highever’s finest smiths. His helm was adorned with laurel leaves, a blue sash fitted across his breastplate and tied around his waist—Elspeth’s colour, a private nod he knew only he understood. His lance was a full foot longer and half again as heavy as the standard issue, a trunk of polished ash reinforced with steel bands. No other rider could hope to wield it; the mere sight of it across his saddle had made his first two opponents flinch.
They had shattered their lances against his shield, the impacts like distant thunder to him, and were hurled from their saddles with force that crumpled their lighter plate. The third rider, a brash young chevalier from the Duchy of Lydes, had eyed Kerr’s mount, a monstrous destrier named Brutor that stood eighteen hands and weighed a ton and a half. The chevalier’s plan was written in the tilt of his lance—a low, vicious strike meant to hamstring the beast.
Kerr saw the shift in the chevalier’s posture, a slight dip of the lance tip. A cold clarity settled over him. As they charged, the world dissolved into the rhythm of Brutor’s gallop and the narrowing space between them. Kerr didn’t adjust his shield. He raised his own lance a fraction, aiming not for the shield, but for the helm.
The crack was different. Not the splintering of ash on steel, but the dull, awful sound of metal on metal. The chevalier’s lance grazed Brutor’s flank, a shallow scratch. Kerr’s lance took the man square in the visor. The chevalier didn’t so much fall as cease to be upright, his body going limp mid-charge before being dragged by his stirrups for twenty yards. He did not rise. Concussed, the healers later said. Possibly for a week.
There were no more challenges in the joust.
The singles combat proved no different.
Kerr used a longsword and his buckler. The combinations were brutal in their simplicity. Men came at him, muscles coiled with the intent to beat down the giant. They swung greatswords, axes, maces. He caught the blows on his buckler, the impacts traveling up his braced arm and dissipating into the mass of his frame. The deflection was slight, just enough to open a line.
He was alarmingly quick for his size. A spin, low and fast, his sword cracking against an opponent’s knee-cap, the man stumbling. A reverse swing to the ankle. A forward surge, the buckler slamming like a mailed fist into an armored temple, the ring of metal on metal followed by a grunt of pain. A sweep of his leg took the man’s feet from under him. Then Kerr was on him, a knee pinning the chest plate, his sword point resting against the gorget at the throat.
“Yield,” he’d say, his voice muffled by his helm but clear in its finality.
They always did.
He won the champion’s laurels without a single wound taken. The applause from the stands was polite, laced with awe and a trace of fear. As he removed his helm, sweat pasting dark hair to his forehead, he sought Fergus’s face. His brother was grinning, a fierce, proud thing. Oren was jumping up and down, tugging on Oriana’s sleeve. Kerr gave them a tired, half-smile. The victory felt hollow, a chore completed.
His lodgings in the chateau were pleasant enough. A spacious set of rooms with a view of the fading gardens. It was where he could pass the time with Fergus, Oriana, and Oren, where the performance ended.
“You looked bored out there,” Fergus said that evening, pouring them both wine. Oren was pretending to sword-fight with a fireplace poker, and Oriana was gently correcting his footing.
“I was,” Kerr admitted, taking the goblet. “It’s not a fight. It’s a dance where they don’t know the steps.”
Fergus chuckled. “A dance where you break their toes if they misstep. I saw the Lydes boy. He’ll be drinking through a straw for a month.”
“He went for Brutor.”
“I saw.” Fergus’s eyes, so similar to their mother’s, hardened. “You showed restraint. Father would have approved. More than I would have.” He clinked his goblet against Kerr’s. “You made our house a fortune in wagers today, little brother. Every lord who bet against the ‘over-muscled farm boy’ is significantly poorer.”
Kerr managed a smile. It was their old dynamic: Fergus the diplomat, translating Kerr’s brute efficacy into political currency. It should have felt like a team. It just felt like a distraction.
The nights were the worst.
The silence in his room was a physical presence. He was unbearably horny, a constant, aching tension that made his skin feel too tight. He had not gone a single day without fucking Elspeth since he was seventeen. His body had a rhythm, an expectation, and the absence was a dissonant, grating note. He tossed in the large bed, the linens rough and unfamiliar. He imagined the scent of lavender and old parchment, the feel of worn velvet under his fingertips, the warm, yielding softness of her. The memory was so vivid it was a form of pain.
Lords, seeking favour or merely curious, sent girls to his tent in the evening. They were beautiful, skilled, their intentions clear in their smiles and the cut of their gowns. He would invite them in, talk. They would laugh at his stories of Highever, drink his wine, their eyes flicking with increasing confusion to the untouched space between them on the couch. He was charming, attentive even, but he never crossed the distance. He never offered a suggestive touch, never guided them towards the bed.
After the third night, a daughter of a Bann from the western marches stayed longer than the others. She was bold, with intelligent eyes.
“You don’t want me,” she stated, not as an insult, but a question.
“I do,” Kerr said honestly, leaning back in his chair. “You’re stunning. And you’re clever. I’ve enjoyed talking.”
“But?”
“But I have someone. Back home.”
The girl studied him, then a slow smile spread across her face. “Ah. So the tales are true. The giant of Highever is tamed.”
“Not tamed,” Kerr corrected softly, his thoughts a thousand miles north. “Just… spoken for.”
She left, and the respect in her glance was worth more than any fleeting release. The stories spread, shifting his reputation from feared brute to something more complex: a man of freakish strength and freakish restraint.
On the final night before the journey home, Fergus found him on his balcony, staring at the distant mountains that separated Orlais from Ferelden.
“You’re climbing the walls,” Fergus observed, joining him at the railing.
“I miss my bed,” Kerr said, the understatement vast enough to make Fergus snort.
“I’m sure you do.” Fergus clapped a hand on his massive shoulder. “We ride at dawn. Two weeks, and you’ll be back in it.”
Kerr nodded, saying nothing. The physical need was a wildfire in his blood, but it was entwined with something deeper—a missing piece of his equilibrium. Elspeth wasn’t just a release; she was his harbour. Without her, the energy that made him dominant on the tourney field had nowhere to go. It turned inward, a restless, simmering force.
He looked north again, imagining the road. Each league would be an agony of delay. He hadn’t slept properly in days. His dreams were full of shattered lances and a scent of lavender just out of reach.
“Two weeks,” Kerr repeated, the words tasting of dust and distance. He flexed his hand, the one that had held the sword, the one that knew the shape of her hip. It felt empty. The champion’s laurels lay discarded on a table inside, already forgotten. All that mattered was the path home.
All that mattered was the path home.
Sleep was a thin, restless blanket that night. Kerr lay in the dark, the tourney-day adrenaline long since sour in his veins, replaced by the familiar, gnawing absence. The bed was too soft, the room too quiet, the space beside him an empty continent. He punched the pillow, rolled onto his stomach, and tried to will his body into stillness. It was no use. His mind kept replaying the feel of Elspeth’s laugh against his neck, the specific way her breath hitched when he first pushed into her, a memory so sharp it was physical.
A scream tore the night in two.
It was a raw, female sound of pure terror, slicing through the thick palace silence from the garden below. He was moving before thought, muscle memory overtaking everything. He shoved his feet into his trousers, not bothering with boots or a tunic, and was out the door and down the marble staircase in a heartbeat. The cold night air hit his bare chest as he burst into the moonlit courtyard. The scream came again, choked now, from a shadowy alcove near the old rose arbors.
He found them in a pool of lamplight spilled from a nearby window.
A woman was crumpled against the stone wall, hands clutching her face. Blood seeped through her fingers. One eye was already swelling shut, a dark, brutal blossom. A savage gash split her cheek from temple to jawline. She was beautiful, or had been, full-figured with lush lips now trembling in shock. A man, her husband by the plain silver band on his finger, was on his knees before a figure in silk and velvet.
The Duke of Val Royeaux held a sword at the kneeling man’s throat. The Duke’s face was flushed with wine and cruel amusement. “You deny me the use of your wife, merchant?” he slurred. “A poor repayment for my patronage.”
The merchant was shaking, his eyes wide with terror. The Duke raised his blade for a final, casual strike.
Kerr caught the Duke’s arm from behind.
His hand closed around the man’s wrist like an iron shackle, stopping the downward cut dead. The Duke grunted in surprise, then spun around with a noble’s affronted fury, a thin dagger suddenly glittering in his other hand. He drove it straight for Kerr’s ribs.
The movement was pure instinct, a blur of conditioned response. Kerr’s left hand, open, shot out and clamped over the Duke’s knife hand, crushing it. His right fist, a massive hammer of bone and muscle, crossed up and over in a short, devastating arc. It connected with the Duke’s jaw with a wet, cracking sound.
The man’s head snapped sideways. Teeth, white and bloody, arced into the darkness. The Duke dropped like a sack of stones, his fine clothes pooling around him. He made a wet, gurgling sound, one hand fluttering to his ruined mouth.
“Kerr.” Fergus’s voice was calm, steadying. He was there suddenly, having moved just as fast, with four Cousland guards flanking him. Their swords were not yet drawn, but their hands were on their hilts. The Duke’s own three men, slower to react, finally unsheathed their blades with metallic hisses.
Fergus didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even look at the Duke’s men. His gaze was fixed on them, his tone chillingly neutral, conversational. “If any of you unsheathe your weapons,” he said, “you will all die here and now. Not a question. A fact.”
The guards hesitated, their eyes flicking from Fergus’s cold certainty to Kerr’s bare-chested, towering fury, to their unconscious lord spitting blood and teeth onto the cobbles.
The Duke stirred, pushing himself up on an elbow. His jaw hung at a wrong angle. He tried to speak, but it came out a mangled, wet lisp. “He… he athaulted me! Kill him! By right, kill the theraphound!”
Kerr stepped over him, putting himself between the Duke and the injured woman. Her husband scrambled to her side. “By what right?” Kerr’s voice was low, a growl that vibrated in the still air. “The right to beat a woman? To murder her husband for saying no?”
“She ith a commoner!” the Duke spat, blood bubbling on his lips. “Her beauty… ith a commodity. By ancient law, if I choothe… she ith mine to conthume.” He tried to stand, failed, and glared up at Kerr with pure, unadulterated hatred. “You have broken the jaw of a Duke. You will die thrilly for thith.”
Oriana appeared then, a cloak in her hands. She moved past the men without a glance, her focus entirely on the sobbing woman. She knelt, speaking in low, gentle tones, and draped the cloak over the woman’s shoulders. “Come,” Oriana said, helping her to her feet. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Our healer is very gentle.”
“You cannot take her!” the Duke screeched, the sound mangled and pathetic.
“Watch us,” Fergus said, his hand now resting lightly on his own sword pommel. The Cousland guards closed ranks slightly, a silent, immovable wall.
A new voice cut through the tension, sharp with imperial authority. “What is the meaning of this disgrace?”
The Emperor of Val Royeaux stood at the edge of the lamplight, his robes impeccable, his expression one of profound annoyance. His gaze swept the scene: the weeping woman being led away by Oriana, the terrified merchant, the Couslands standing armed and united, and his nephew, the Duke, whimpering in a puddle of his own blood and pride.
The Duke tried to speak, launching into a garbled, frantic explanation. “Uncle! Thethe Fereldan barbarianth–”
“Enough.” The Emperor’s word was a whip-crack. He looked at Fergus, then at Kerr, taking in the bare knuckles, the steadfast posture. “Explain. Briefly.”
Fergus gave a curt, respectful bow of his head. “Your Majesty. We intervened to prevent the murder of an unarmed man and the further assault of his wife. The Duke’s injuries were sustained when he attempted to knife my brother after being prevented from committing murder.”
The Emperor’s lips thinned. He looked at his nephew with utter contempt. He strode forward, reached down, and to the shock of everyone, took the Duke by his ear. He hauled the whimpering man to his feet as if he were a misbehaving child.
“You will return to your quarters,” the Emperor said, his voice low and venomous. “You will not leave them until I decide what to do with you. All of you,” he cast his glare around the courtyard, “will cease this immediately. Return to your tents. Now.”
He began dragging the Duke away, the man stumbling and mewling, his broken jaw leaking blood onto his silk doublet. The imperial guards silently followed, leaving the Couslands and the stunned merchant alone in the sudden quiet.
The merchant stared at Kerr, tears of relief and shock in his eyes. “I… thank you, my lord. I have no way to…”
Kerr just shook his head, the hot anger draining away, leaving him cold and tired. “Get to your wife,” he said, his voice rough.
Fergus watched the Emperor disappear into the palace, then let out a long, slow breath. He looked at Kerr, at the blood smeared across his brother’s knuckles. A faint, grim smile touched his lips. “Well,” he murmured, clapping a hand on Kerr’s shoulder. “This will certainly be an interesting couple of days.”
“This will certainly be an interesting couple of days,” Fergus said, his voice dry as dust.
He steered Kerr by the elbow, guiding him away from the bloody cobblestones and the gathering shadows. They followed the path Oriana had taken, through a service gate and into a quieter section of the chateau’s grounds. The healer’s tent was a haven of calm linen and the scent of crushed elfroot and distilled spirits, glowing softly from within like a lantern.
Inside, the air was warm and close. Oriana was finishing her work, her hands moving with a gentle, precise efficiency over the merchant woman’s face. The woman, whose name was Annette, sat on a low stool, her husband Gerard kneeling beside her, his face buried in the fabric of her skirt. His shoulders shook with silent sobs.
Kerr watched, his own knuckles stinging now. The savage gash that had marred Annette’s cheek was sealed, a faint, pink line the only evidence. The swelling around her eye had receded to a mild discoloration. Oriana’s skills were a quiet magic, the kind that happened in still rooms away from tourney fanfare.
“There,” Oriana whispered, dabbing a final, soothing salve on the healed skin. “It will be tender, but the scarring will be minimal. A good foundation powder will hide it completely, should you wish.”
Annette touched her own cheek with trembling fingers, her breath catching at the smoothness. “I… thank you, my lady. I have no way to repay such kindness.”
“Seeing it fixed is payment enough,” Oriana said softly, wiping her hands on a cloth.
Gerard looked up, his eyes red-rimmed. “They will kill me for this. He is a Duke.”
Fergus, who had been leaning against the tent pole with his arms crossed, straightened. “No, they won’t.” His voice was calm, authoritative, the tone he used when explaining treaties or troop deployments. “But you are correct that he will demand satisfaction. The old droit du seigneur laws are technically still on the books here, though rarely enforced by anyone but the most depraved.”
“He wanted her for a night,” Kerr said, the words feeling like stones in his mouth.
“He did,” Fergus confirmed. “And you denied him, physically. By their antiquated code, that is a dual insult: to his droit, and to his person. He will demand Gerard be imprisoned and publicly whipped. And he will reassert his claim on Annette. He’ll want her brought to his chambers, tonight, to salvage his pride.”
A fresh wave of terror washed over Annette’s face. Gerard made a strangled sound, clutching her hand.
“He can’t,” Kerr said, his voice low.
“He will try,” Fergus said, holding up a hand. “Listen to me, both of you. Listen very carefully.” He moved to crouch before Annette, putting his face level with hers. His gaze was steady, devoid of pity, full of calculation. “You will be brought before a court of inquiry. Here, on the tourney grounds, within the hour. The charges will be read: assault upon a lord, theft of property—that being his ‘right’ to you.”
Annette swallowed, her eyes locked on his.
“You will say nothing,” Fergus instructed, his words measured and clear. “Nothing at all, except four words. When the judge asks for your plea, you will say: ‘I demand trial by combat.’ Do you understand? ‘I demand trial by combat.’”
Gerard shook his head. “But… she cannot fight a Duke’s champion. She’s… she’s a seamstress.”
“By right,” Fergus continued, his eyes never leaving Annette’s, “the accused in such a trial can choose a champion to fight in their stead. Someone else can take their place in the duel.”
A stillness settled over the tent. The only sound was the soft hiss of the brazier. Kerr, who had been staring at the floor, felt their eyes turn to him. He looked up, meeting Annette’s desperate, hopeful gaze, then Gerard’s bewildered one. He saw Fergus watching him, a question in his brother’s eyes.
“It will be me,” Kerr said, the statement simple and absolute.
The silence held for three full heartbeats. Then Annette burst into quiet, shuddering tears of relief. Gerard began thanking them, the words tumbling out in a frantic, grateful stream.
Fergus stood, a grim satisfaction in his eyes. He clasped Kerr’s shoulder, his grip firm. “I knew you’d say that. The Duke will be livid. He’ll have to put forward a champion. It won’t be him; his jaw is pudding.”
“Good,” Kerr said. The restless energy that had plagued him for days, the coiled tension with no outlet, finally had a direction. It hardened into a cold, sharp point.
“You understand what this means?” Fergus asked quietly, pulling him slightly aside. “It’s not a tourney bout. It’s to the death. No yielding. No points. You kill his champion, the charges against them are void. If you lose…”
“I won’t lose,” Kerr said. He wasn’t boasting. It was a fact, like the sunrise. He had been bored in the lists, fighting men constrained by rules and decorum. This would be different. This would be real.
Oriana approached, laying a hand on his arm. “Be careful,” she murmured. “Anger makes men reckless. Even Dukes. He may field someone… unconventional.”
Kerr covered her hand with his own, giving it a gentle squeeze. He looked past her, to where Annette was clinging to her husband, the faint line on her cheek a testament to a cruelty he now had the means to answer. The ghost of lavender seemed to fade, replaced by the crisp scent of impending rain and cold steel.
“Let’s go,” he said, turning towards the tent flap. “I’d like to get this done before dinner.”