In Which Lorn's Boots Are an Ill Fit

July 12, 1177

"So... wanna go play at the tournament grounds?"

It really said something when it fell to the five-year-old boy to break the awkward silence. Then again, five-year-old boys were... well, five-year-old boys. As far as Ricky was concerned, Auntie Rona had every right to refuse to come out of her room. In fact, it probably didn't make sense that Auntie Rona might view having to leave her room as a punishment, considering how many times Ricky's own room had been a place of exile. It meant nothing to him to just let it be and go about his business.

Similarly indifferent, Karlspan shrugged. Searle's son was a little older than Ricky was, maybe a little meaner too, but that didn't make him any less of a kid. "Fine."

The boys gave their parents a quick wave and hurried off. Maybe they had the right idea, not letting Rona's lack of cooperation get in the way of a good visit.

Sighing, Lorn let the doorhandle drop and took the seat next to Leara. Decorum stated that he should have offered it to Searle, but if Searle hadn't seated himself yet, then he probably didn't care. "It seems my sister will not be gracing us with her presence just now."

"It's all right," Ren dismissed, in spite of Leara's lingering frown. "We'll see her at supper."

At her side, Searle sniffed. "Assuming she deems hunger less tolerable than our company."

Was that a hint of offense? Surely it would be from anyone else. Then again, this was Searle. Then again, maybe it was preferable to err on the side of caution. "Sorry. She's usually quite polite. It's me she's angry with, not any of you." Well... maybe you, Searle. It was your idea, after all. Remind me why I went along with it? I told you she'd be upset!

Not that such a thought probably occurred to Searle. No... every thought occurred to Searle. "No matter. Many girls get upset over their betrothals. To hear King Oswald tell it, Ren here was none too pleased to hear that she was stuck spending her life with me."

"Searle!" The back of Ren's hand landed lightly on his arm. "You're three years younger than I am. That was a big deal at the time."

"Well, fortunately for Rona, this tournament has a strict lower age limit of sixteen." He pushed back a lock of hair. Lorn had tried that in front of the mirror a few times and found that the gesture only made him look feminine, but Searle somehow pulled it off. Maybe it was the complete lack of a soul made all the difference. "Speaking of which, how many competitors can we expect? Anyone notable?"

"Uh, well..." More than I was prepared to accommodate, at any rate! Not that he could push the words out of his mouth.

Thankfully, Leara was a bit more coherent. "We have about fifty competitors. Most of them are gentlemen looking to raise their status, but there are a few seasoned fighters with some connections here that have expressed interest. Casimiro de Cervantes has done quite well in some of the Galician tournaments, and Neilor del Marinos has a reputation in Catalonia."

"Del Marinos?" Searle raised an eyebrow. "Any relation to your brother's mistress?"

Lorn nearly choked. He was trying to be civil, and he realized that people's standards of what was and was not acceptable could vary, but bringing up the fact that Leara's brother had a mistress? And with the girls playing in the corner of the room, no less? "Searle--"

"No, it's... it's all right." Leara didn't sound quite 'all right', but Lorn shut up anyway. She was trying to compose herself, and--honorable intentions or not--his causing a scene would be counterproductive. Thank God for Leara. One of them had to know just what the hell they were doing. "But yes. He's Ellona's brother."

"Interesting." And yet, he looked like he was stifling a yawn. "Well, I imagine you can cross off most of the obscure names straight away. These tournaments do tend to go to the regulars." Searle stepped away from his wife's chair and set himself in front of Lorn while Leara exchanged a glance with Ren. "Of course, it's best to wait a few rounds before putting any serious money on the line. Are you a gambling man, Lorn?"

Lorn's toes curled inward, his boots oddly vacant, more like his father's boots whenever his sisters had bullied him into joining their dress-up games than any pair Lorn himself had ever owned. These were a man's boots and he'd never felt more like a boy. "No. Not particularly."

Searle laughed. "A pity. I was hoping you were. I imagine you'd be terrible."

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