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of admiration went up from the watching crowd, quickly stifled as they remembered the soldiers watching them. The armed rider, neglecting the traditional salute to the sovereign, lifted his left hand in greeting toward the prisoner. She did not move or change her expression in any way, but her eyes were on him.
    Now the Red Knight moved forward in the lists and, setting his spear to rest, spurred his horse to charge. The black knight was hardly able to unsheathe his lance before the other was upon him, so he lashed out with the spear in a hasty but powerful parry, knocking aside the Red Knight's lance. The Red Knight thundered past, and the black knight roused his steed to a canter, riding to the opposite end of the lists.
    “Your champion does not stand on ceremony,” Wyrth remarked to the Urdhven.
    “Sir Hlosian Bekh is the champion of the Crown,” the Protector replied stiffly.
    “Ah. Well, at least you stand on ceremony.”
    The Protector smiled his leonine smile. “Ceremony is very well,” he conceded, “but they”—he gestured at the crowd—“will not be won by ceremonies, or kept by laws. They are only impressed by victory, by power.”
    “You know,” the dwarf replied, “I disagree with you. When Morlock wins—”
    “That is not possible.”
    “Then this is simply a ceremony, not a trial. Or is that what you've been telling me?”
    The Protector's silent smile was ominous.
    Now both knights had repositioned themselves at opposing ends of the lists. The heralds' trumpets sounded three times, the call to attack. Then both champions charged into the narrow field, their spears at rest. As they drove toward each other the Red Knight's lance swung back and its point struck full on the white device of the black shield. But the Red Knight's spear shattered like glass and the black knight rode past unshaken.
    No one dared cheer. But the silence grew as dense as the clouds of dust rising to obscure the noon-bright air.
    “A good shield is worth its weight in spears,” Wyrth remarked cheerfully to the King, who smiled doubtfully.
    The delay between passes was greater this time, as the Red Knight needed a new spear. Finally the trumpets sounded again; the combatants thundered again into the lists, their armor gleaming dimly through the descending mist of dust.
    Spear-points wavered in the air, then one struck home. The Red Knight's spear hit the black knight just under the helmet, a killing blow, throwing Ambrosia's champion from the saddle. He struck the dusty ground, his armor singing like the cymbals of Winterfeast, and he lay there.
    The tension in the crowd perceptibly relaxed. There were mutters of relief and sighs that were unmistakably disappointed. Ambrosia's champion had fallen as so many of theirs had fallen, so many of their kinsmen, sacrifices to the prowess of the Red Knight.
    Ambrosia's iron-gray gaze was as impassive as ever, and still fixed on the fallen knight.
    Wyrth's gaze followed Ambrosia's, and he laughed aloud. The black knight was moving. “The old fool was right!” he muttered.
    Meeting the King's astonished eye, he explained, “You see, Your Majesty, Morlock insisted on making his own armor for the combat. That's why he was late for the trial. I said it was a waste of time, and they'd be stringing his sister's guts across the gateposts of the city before he got here. He got this look on his face—you've probably seen Ambrosia wear it—and we did things his way. It probably saved his neck just now.”
    “Dead or defeated, it does not matter,” the Protector said, rising. “The combat is over.”
    “Your champion doesn't think so,” the dwarf retorted. “Look!”
    The Red Knight had turned to contemplate his dead opponent. Seeing the black knight alive seemed to drive him to fury, and he turned his horse about to charge down on the dismounted knight. Only by rolling to the side of the lists did the black knight avoid being trod under the hooves of the Red Knight's horse.
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