A Dance

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BRONWYN

Bronwyn whirled and stepped her way through the reel, grateful that her thick chestnut hair had been securely arranged in an up-do. The succession tournament would begin in only three months. Parties and balls would prove as much of a gauntlet as the melees might be, if her guess was correct. The song ended and she curtsied to her partner and took a step to her left, as was custom. She curtsied again. Her new partner, Lord Hyram Pickell, was an insufferable man, though some thought him handsome. He was too fond of velvets, furs and laces for her taste. Long golden hair framed patrician features and intelligent blue eyes, all fine enough. But his bored expression and nasal, whining, foppish tone made her want to escape to the necessary. How could one be bored while dancing?

In fact, he acts much like Tabor behaves when he is playing the fool, Bronwyn realized suddenly. Her brother was maddening in that state. She studied the simpering baron more closely. Could he be dissembling as well? She decided to try his facade and see if it held. It would amuse her well enough through the dance.

"Tell me Lord Pickell, do you think politics could be compare to a dance?"

His smile wavered only for a moment. It was the eyes that gave him away. They focused on her, sharp and penetrating, before he lapsed back into his lazy, foppish mask. "I had not considered it," he said, turning sharply around her.

"Really?" Bronwyn tossed her head and stepped back. "The side-step, the caper, the gypsy. They've always reminded me of the maneuvers at court."

"How so, fair lady?" he asked.

"You must keep in step or step on others. Fall out of line and you will be embarrassed. Mis-step and you might fall yourself and there's the end to your dance," she said, arching a brow. She shuffled and sidestepped, demonstrating. "Can you not see it?"

"Indeed, milady," he said. The set was coming to an end. With a bow, he flashed a gallant smile. "So it must be important to choose your position well and keep to proper timing. And of course, above all, to avoid mis-steps."

"Indeed, milord."

With a deep bow, Pickell took his place, ready for his next partner. When his eyes lingered on her later in the evening, she pretended not to notice.

#

Bestua bustled, packed to bursting with squires, ladies-in-waiting. Knights, lords, barons and sycophants in various shapes and sizes. Cantors, bards, players and merchants as well as large bands of common folk abounded as the Weldenland capitol prepared for tournament. High King Tenneth had passed away without naming an heir. Instead he had demanded that the Cyntae choose his successor in tournament, as the Weldenland High Kings had been chosen in days of old, the days before the War of the Wyrm. Invoking an old law, he had made the terms binding and specific. Now the Crown would be decided in battle, publicly.

Tenneth had granted enrollment in the lists to any man who could use a sword, bow or lance. Any man, not only the nobles could enter. Such a thing had not been done in centuries. The first week after the proclamation had seen hundreds of travelers pour in. Some boasted, eager to try their hand and win the crown. Others wanted to cash in on the spectacle and its witnesses, using the opportunity to hawk wares and food.

The first set of challenges, tests of courage and arms, would begin in only three months. These would be succeeded by tests of strategy, followed by a final test of character until only one remained. No one knew what the latter tests held.

Rumors abounded. Bronwyn had heard the night before from more than one suitor Arcantor Modric himself would oversee all, speaking for the Cyntae. Others whispered the Cyntae themselves would finally leave their heavenly abode, disguising themselves as ordinary soldiers and participants to judge. One note sent that morning suggested the Bindery Masters would perform with their best students and release the Song unfettered with magical instruments that only they guarded, choosing the best person for the role. Another claimed that the High King's relatives waged a private war with each other and the pageant was all for show. Only one of them could win, whichever survived the other.

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