“Hah, Gelar!” The voice of my friend Jerar calling to me drew my attention back to earth. He rode toward me from a group of about a dozen other mounted men. 

He passed through the shadow of one of the towers, a darkened swath that stretched the full width of the courtyard and climbed the far wall. As Jerar drew close, I saw that his plate was dusty and his face was streaked with sweat, indicating that he had been out practicing for some time. He had always worked harder than any of us.

He dismounted and we clasped hands. “The captain, the vice-captain, and both lieutenants,” Jerar said, pointing out the luminaries in the viewing stand. We stood between our horses, but they eyed each other and tossed their heads—spirited beasts trained to fight. “I knew they would all be here, but still— still it’s something to be riding in front of them. This is really it.”

“It’s no different from any other day,” I replied. “Ride the horse, point the lance… in your case, fall off the horse.”

The weak attempt at humor was the only way I could hide my own excitement at what was ahead of us—and hide the fact that my knees had gotten a little weak when he pointed to the viewing stand, and I realized that all the leaders of the Glorious Battalion of the Narran Empire would be watching me. Watching me, judging me, and deciding whether I was worthy of joining them.

Jerar and I had been training for years to enter the Narran Emperor’s service. We had survived the harsh attrition that had whittled a few hundred cadets down to a final few dozen. Those who remained were the strongest young men in the city of Narra. But no matter what we had accomplished so far, we still faced a final test, starting in the next few minutes.

“Sure, no big deal. You hardly care.” Jerar slapped my back with a level of force that would have been an assault if I weren’t clothed in metal. Jerar was taller than me and both broader and thicker. He had taken off his helmet and held it under his arm. Strands of yellow hair jutted out from the chain metal hood he wore, and, in the circle created for his face, the perfection of his form was heightened—his skin unblemished white, and his features almost abstract indications of what a face should be. There was some quality all native Narrans had—flawlessness was part of it, as was fineness. Jerar’s face was a perfect example. I was almost surprised when I saw this quality in him, as he had none of the hauteur of the other pure bloods. They considered me an outsider, because my father had once lived in the outlands. And, in Narra, anything from outside was considered inferior.

“I’m just not worried,” I replied to Jerar.

He laughed, mostly from good humor fueled by our state of general excitement. “Still, I hope I don’t have to ride against you,” he said. He meant that both as a compliment for my ability and a statement of allegiance. I nodded. We were supposed to think only of serving the Emperor, but our hearts had made a pact long before.

We said no more, because a herald called the names of the first two combatants. Over the next few hours, the cadets in training would joust against one another to determine who was individually the strongest. It was a final chance for us to exhibit our hard-earned skills, as well as our understanding of the rules of polite combat. The next day would be the final tournament, and the captain of the Glorious Battalion would make his selections after that. But a tournament was a very different thing, with all of us in action at once. Today, we would distinguish ourselves, or fail to do so, in the single contest of the jousting field.

Jerar and I watched the first few clashes. We had seen our fellow cadets in this sort of exercise many, many times in the past. I could identify any of the other youths just by how he sat on his horse or held his shield. But today they all seemed a little changed. One had a new nervous tick of shaking his lance back and forth while he waited. Another rode unusually low, almost crouched. And with the pressure of this final test, they rode a little faster, pressed a little harder, and, in a few cases, fell harder as well. There were at least two serious injuries in the first several passes.

Jerar was called out. I watched him ride to his place, and I thought he was one of the least anxious of all of us. He seemed to simply welcome the opportunity to prove himself. He shattered his lance on the first pass, then ran his man down on the second. A tidy victory.

I was called next, and my stomach had by that time become a nervous void that threatened to devour me from the inside out. I mounted and felt a little more comfortable for being on my dear horse, Luma. I rode to the attendant holding lances, conscious that I was already under evaluation. I selected one and entered my side of the list, holding Luma’s reins tight, as I could feel her longing to run the straight, clear line in front of us.

I only had to contain her for a second. I saw my opponent, almost standing to hold his horse back. I saw the viewing stand and the faces of a few of the other trainees and had the powerful sense that since a moment ago everything had changed. I was no longer watching, but being watched. This moment was mine. I flushed with eagerness. Then the call came: “Charge!”

I hardly thought of what I was doing, but practice had trained my body and I had an instinct for combat. We hurtled together, I saw my target, I aimed my lance. I felt the contact of our collision only lightly, and then I was at the other end of the list, reining in Luma. I looked back, and my man was on the ground, his horse capering away.

The joust could feel awful when you didn’t do it right, but on those occasions when you rode perfectly, aligned all the forces to your advantage, and aimed true, then the collision could feel no more traumatic than kicking a ball.

Anyway, I would joust again because I had won. I was now definitively and mathematically in the upper half of my class.

Those who had lost their first match had by some instinct grouped together to the side of the viewing stand. None of them had remounted, and so they were all on foot. I headed for a cluster of other victors, all still mounted, where I saw Jerar talking with another trainee named Natan. Natan was so large that he almost seemed bigger than the horse he sat on. 

As I came near, Jerar called out, “A fine ride, Gelar!”

I shrugged, as much as that was possible in my mail.

“His opponent was only another merchant’s son,” Natan said. He directed the comment at Jerar, but it was plainly loud enough for me to hear. “There’s little honor in such a match.”

“I hope I’ll have the honor of knocking some nobles out of the saddle soon,” I shouted back. Over the preceding years, I had ignored many, many comments like the one Natan had just made. I felt that the nobles had a right to their hauteur. And, certainly, publicly opposing them was not a way to get anything you wanted in the city of Narra, and that included acceptance into the Glorious Battalion. But with the spirit of the fight still in me, I couldn’t hold back.

“I hope you try,” Natan said. He smiled. It might have been an expression of contempt, but it was also a gorgeous expression. I couldn’t argue with them that they were nearer the physical ideal of knighthood. My face was marred with a slight knot in the middle of my nose and a small declivity in my left cheek. 

“If you make it far enough, I will.”

“I don’t think it’s even possible for a half-blood to stand up to a true Narran. A merchant’s son is more your kind.” Natan punched Jerar’s arm. “Jerar, what do you think?”

“I think we’ve all seen what Gelar can do.”

“But blood…”

“I’ll trust what I’ve seen,” Jerar said. I was grateful for his support.

“Kiran, what do you think?” Natan called out to another of our cohort.

Kiran had not lifted his visor since riding, so he presented an impersonal front of metal—the distinctions being the coat of arms on his shield and the pouncing lions sculpted around the brow of his helmet. Kiran waved his hand in place of an answer.

Kiran had never once spoken to me, though he was my fiercest rival. Everything I did I measured against him. When I won some number of tests in a row, I looked to see if he could accomplish the same thing. Even though he never acknowledged me, I was sure he also watched me. He might have agreed with Natan that I was innately inferior, but he also felt driven to prove it. And he might have been the only one who could do it. He was one of the few who had gotten the best of me in training, though I had also beaten him.

I went on standing with the others, because I didn’t want to be seen as retreating from Natan’s disdain, but resentment ate at me. I looked forward to continuing the jousting, where I could prove myself, rather than just hurling words. And I was sure that when I was selected for the Glorious Battalion after the next day’s tournament, all question of whether I was a true Narran would be ended.

The next round began with another cry from the herald. Fortunately, Jerar and I did not face each other in that call either. He won again, and I took my man on the first pass again.

The diminishing group of surviving victors stood together, though we were all silent and tense. We all wanted to win. We all felt how close we were to real glory. It was hard to be companionable with anyone we might have to fight for that honor.

In the next round, there were only four of us still riding. The first call came, “Gelar of Night’s Quarter,” and I rode out. My opponent was called: “Natan, lord of Narran might, of noble descent on four sides.” 

Now Natan’s massive size and strength became a very practical concern for me. We were forbidden to strike above the chest, which eliminated the first strategy I thought of—to topple him by hitting high. I paced into my end of the list before I had any clear idea what I would do. As the herald called “Charge,” I loosened the reins and felt Luma surge forward, throwing me toward the inevitable collision. The idea came to me with the movement. I would simply concentrate on defense, leaning subtly to reduce the force of his blow, while trying to knock him off balance rather than straight back.

We struck each other, and I twisted so that his lance, while jarring me hard, slipped across my shield. My blow knocked him sideways in his saddle, and I thought it had been far enough that one of his stays should have snapped. My lance flew away from me, cracked from striking a wall of man and armor. It was not surprising, but still it was embarrassing that I had lost my grip.

I rode to the end of the list, turned, took another lance, and waited for the signal. If his stay had broken, then I would strike him at a sharp angle so that he would slip out of the saddle. Then his weight would turn against him and drag him down.

“Charge!” We started toward each other, riding straight along the list, gaining speed at every stride. Then I steered a few feet wide to increase the angle of my strike. I would let him hit me harder, too, to augment the force pushing him sideways. I aimed the tip of my lance for the inside of his breastplate, and then we collided. I was aware of nothing but the sudden screaming pain and massive confusion. I fought with all my strength to stay upright, feeling as if several men with strong arms were pulling against me. 

Then the crisis passed, and I had my balance again. I turned to look back. Natan was being dragged by his horse, one foot caught in the stirrup.

I had the shattered butt of a lance in my hand, and I rode off the course and dropped it in the grass. My side hurt, and my head was still ringing. My armor would need some small repairs. But I had won. Natan’s pride hadn’t helped him. I was near where the remaining combatants had taken to standing, and Kiran stared at me. I couldn’t see his eyes through the narrow slit in his visor, but I could feel them. Others were watching the drama as grooms ran to try to get control of Natan’s horse before it killed him. Kiran, as always, was focused on the opponents he might have to face.

“Jerar, lord of Narran dignity, of noble descent on four sides.” I heard my friend called.

“Kiran, lord of Narran purity, of noble descent on four sides.” His opponent.

They took their places at opposite ends of the lists. Here was a competition the people of Narra would have expected. Both of these young men were from the finest families. They had been set on their course toward this moment in earliest childhood, just as had been the case for their fathers and any number of other relatives. (As opposed to me, whose father had all along tried to talk me into a different course.) Indeed, the only surprise to any citizen of Narra looking at this tableau would be the realization that one of these nearly perfect young men would have to lose. 

Then the word “Charge!” and their horses reared and surged forward, feet scrabbling at the sod. 

Jerar and Kiran crashed together, their lances exploding into a cloud of splinters, and they both rode through the violence and hideous noise. They retrieved fresh lances and turned. Pages rushed to clear the larger bits of their broken lances off the course, so the horses wouldn’t be injured.

Again they rode to a violent meeting. I saw that Kiran ducked low to create an unexpected angle. Jerar rode high and proud in his saddle, unsuspecting. They struck and, as I knew Kiran had planned it, Jerar tumbled straight back over his saddle.

I was bitterly angry, and for a moment, until I saw Jerar move, every other feeling was held in abeyance, like an army held up by a scout’s signal. Then I saw that he was alright; he stood on his own. A host of feelings rushed forward—including relief that, because he had lost, I wouldn’t have to face him. We had ridden against each other before, as I had ridden against every other trainee, and it was a horrible experience. Neither of us could bear hurting the other, but neither could insult the other by passing without a blow. So we struck, until one of us fell. But it was an ugly proceeding, because our hearts betrayed us and our lances aimed wide and wild, while our horses took unguided, skittish runs.

So, it would be Kiran and me in the final round. Everyone in the viewing stand had seen my skill, whether I was victorious to the very end or not. I had proven myself one of the worthies and already, saving a dismal performance the next day, assured myself a spot in the Glorious Battalion. But I was so filled with excitement and anticipation of further triumph that I could think of nothing else. My older, strategic mind thinks that I should have been content with what I’d already accomplished and ridden safely in the final round. But instead I burned with desire for the final garland, while the thought of defeat, the thought of lying on the ground covered in the heavy reluctance of my armor, felt like a nightmare. And more than anything, I wanted everyone to know that I was stronger than all the others. I kept seeing myself the final victor. I kept imagining how they would all be forced to acknowledge me.

The herald cried out:

“Gelar of Night’s Quarter”

“Kiran, lord of Narran purity, of noble descent on four sides.”

I sat atop Luma’s anxious power, a twitch away from action, but the captain of the battalion stood in the viewing stand and moved forward to the railing to address us. All of the trainees who hadn’t been injured gazed up at him raptly. He wore a purple cuirass, embroidered with the sign of the Glorious Battalion—a quartered shield with the towers of the Imperial Palace, the Emperor’s crown, a stallion rearing, and a long sword. Any citizen of the Empire would recognize him as the captain of the Glorious Battalion, for no other man could wear that symbol so prominently. But no resident of the city of Narra needed that indication to recognize him. He was a hero among us. He had held his post for a dozen years, and in that time had put down all manner of rebellion and heterodoxy in the outlying kingdoms and beyond. The Empire was thought to be stronger than ever, and this was an Empire whose past stretched back beyond all remembrance. We told each other stories of how the captain had defeated warlords and overly ambitious kings in single combat, dispiriting their armies with the force of his victory. When he led the Battalion into battle, it was always outnumbered, often vastly, and yet it was always victorious. And one somehow saw all this as one gazed at him. It was in the sharpness of his dark eye. It was in his strong chin and supple lips. It was in his grace, even in the simplest movements. 

I think all the trainees felt as I did at that moment: we wanted more than ever to be part of the battalion. We longed to feel his acceptance, even to be like him.

The captain’s voice boomed so loud that it seemed to make distance irrelevant as he spoke to us. “Squires, you have all fought with a determination that pleases those who watch you. The victorious have honor today, but all will have a chance to win glory for themselves in the tourney. No other practice is more like our battles in the outlands. We serve our Emperor in those distance places, often far from support, and only our strength and our purity bring us through. If you will join us, you must be ready to overcome darkness, madness, pain, and wretchedness, to keep the light of the Empire undimmed. The tourney is the greatest test of your fitness for our ranks. All take heart for tomorrow!

“We have commanders for tomorrow’s action, here on either end of the list. Each will lead all of the men he defeated, as well as all those defeated by them. And the winner of this next pass will take the attack tomorrow. The loser will assume the defense.

“The Emperor himself will watch and judge tomorrow. You can imagine no greater honor, and you must all fight sensible of it.

“For him we serve!”

After the captain’s cry of devotion, we all stormed, “Glorious Emperor!” Then the herald cried—an individual voice so quiet by comparison that I almost didn’t understand it: “Charge!”

Luma jumped under the touch of my foot. I slowly let my lance swing down to horizontal. Kiran did the same in the opposing direction. We touched, both in perfect alignment, and our lances burst into fragments that danced under the sun. We turned, got new lances, and charged again. I shouted as I rode, words lost in the din of hooves and rattling armor, so that even I didn’t know what I said. We seemed aligned for another direct strike, but this time he darted wide (his horsemanship had always been superb), aiming to hit me with the flat of his lance, rather than its tip, while avoiding my strike. I saw it happening, but my body was slow to respond. His lance hit me square on the neckguard. I tightened, and it splintered and broke around me, like a wave dashing itself on a rock, and I rode to the end of the list, though my blow had failed to land, which was embarrassing.

I was furious. I could have lost. Some watchers might be whispering that I was lucky to still be up. My concentration deepened. I pictured the next ride in my head before it happened: I careered down the runway. This time, Kiran would try ducking low, rather than repeat the same maneuver against me twice. But I would aim perfectly, no matter how slight my target. I could feel the lance charged with the strength of my anger.

I touched Luma’s sides, and I seemed to ride into my vision. Kiran crouched low. I matched him, expecting the tactic. When we hit, our forces were so perfectly matched that both our lances shattered. It took all my strength to stay in the saddle, but when I looked back, he was still mounted too.

I urged Luma toward the end of the list again. I shouted at the fates as much as her, “Come on! Another! Another!” I was completely filled with passion in that way only young men can be. It was a passion that felt as if it must consume me and then go on to devour the world unslaked. It was not only that I desperately wanted to claim the honor, but also that I wanted to snuff the hate I felt coming from Kiran. He would relish beating me.

I grabbed another lance from the boy and turned as fast as I could. Kiran was already facing me. So we charged each other again, with no delay or gesture of recognition. We hit. It was as hard a hit as I had ever felt. A piece of my shield broke away. I leaned back till I was almost horizontal, wrestling gravity and the swaying motion of my horse. But I stayed up. And so did he.

“Another!” I shouted. 

The boy with the lances seemed to edge away from me, rather than offer another, but I grabbed one and swung it around until I gripped it right. Kiran had done the same on his side. His shield was utterly deformed, with a hole right through it in one spot. His breast plate was deeply dented. I supposed that I looked equally worn. But I spurred Luma to another gallop.

The straight line of the list coursed by me. I saw Kiran with perfect clarity. I saw the muscular lions on his helmet. I saw a gap left by the dent in his armor. I saw the moisture and the steam rising from his overheated mount. Everything else around us was a blur. The world had become him against me.

We crashed together, with the force of not only man and muscle and horse and armor, but with the force of enmity. I lost my breath with the impact, and the pain swept over me, obliterating thought. My body somehow managed itself and stayed upright. 

When I could think again, I noticed a large splinter of wood sticking right through my shield. A sharp, dangerous splinter.

At the far end of the list, the boy with the lances was gone. I looked around. “Come on!” I cried. “Another!” I turned and saw Kiran also without a lance. We didn’t wear swords for this exercise, so we had no way to continue our battle. We wanted to fight, but instead we stayed at a distance, trying to be sure the other knew our willingness to go on.

“Enough!” the captain called from the viewing stand. He had ordered the fight stopped, but neither of us had noticed until the lances were taken away. “You may be comrades soon. We can’t allow hatred to grow. Both sides will attack tomorrow. Equal honor.” He turned and led his officers away.

Kiran and I were left on a battlefield with no battle to fight. But the hatred and the passion of the fight did not fade quickly. I heard the noise of wind over the towers and saw that the sunlight had turned magenta with the approaching evening. I stood there a long, long time, waiting to feel that I could endure normalcy again, and so did he. Neither of us felt our fight was over.