Old Toma put down his hammer, wiped away his sweat, and walked over.
The two men exchanged a few words, then Old Toma turned back and beckoned to Malansi.
Malansi put down the bellows and walked over.
The old man sized him up, his gaze lingering on his face for a moment.
"Are you the boy from the Ma family at the west end of the village?"
"Yes."
The old man nodded. "I am a steward under the Lord Steward, surnamed Conan. That patch of land by the roadside where you were cutting grass yesterday—the Lord wants to plant new seedlings, so it needs to be tilled once over the next few days. Can you do it?"
"I can."
"Three copper pennies a day, with two meals provided. Meet at the village entrance tomorrow morning."
Malansi nodded.
The old man turned and left, his pace not fast, hands behind his back, looking like an ordinary country old man.
Old Toma patted him on the shoulder, pointed at the furnace, and then pointed at his chest.
Malansi was taken aback for a moment.
Old Toma grinned, revealing a set of toothless gums, and made a few gestures.
The meaning was: You've got something hidden in there, kid, I can tell. I won't say a word.
Malansi looked at the mute blacksmith and remained silent for two seconds.
"Thanks."
Old Toma waved his hand and went back to his smithing.
When Malansi went home that evening, he had the repaired sickle tucked in his arms, and the dragon egg at his chest felt a bit heavier than in the morning—perhaps it was an illusion, or perhaps it really was absorbing heat.
The sky had turned pitch black.
He lay on his straw mat, listening to the chirping of insects outside, his hand resting on the dragon egg.
A sliver of moonlight filtered through the crack in the door, falling on the ground like a white line.
Tomorrow, he would go till the earth.
...
Malansi spent three days tilling the fields.
When work finished on the evening of the third day, word was spreading through the village—a tourney was to be held outside Highgarden.
Holding his rice bowl, he crouched at the village entrance, listening to several young villagers gathered together in discussion.
"Have you heard? They've set up tents over by the Arena."
"Nonsense, I went to deliver vegetables this morning and saw it with my own eyes. The platform is already built, thirty feet square, with brand new wood."
"Who's hosting it?"
"It seems to be House Redwyne, for Lord Renly's name day or something."
"What's the prize money?"
The man lowered his voice, a mysterious expression on his face. "Two hundred gold dragons."
The surroundings fell silent for a moment.
Malansi's movement of biting into the black bread stopped.
Two hundred gold dragons.
If he worked the fields for a year with food and lodging provided, he'd be lucky to save three or five silver coins. It took a hundred silver coins to exchange for one gold dragon. Two hundred gold dragons was enough for him to buy half the village.
"Who's participating?"
"I don't know. Anyway, the knights of the nearby lords will definitely come. I heard everyone in The Reach who can fight will be there."
"Can we go up there?"
"You?" The speaker laughed, sizing the other up. "Have you ever held a sword? If you go up there, you'll just be a target for them; one thrust of a lance and your life is gone. The prize money is for the knightly lords; what does it have to do with you?"
The group laughed and dispersed.
Malansi didn't laugh. He stuffed the last bite of bread into his mouth, chewing slowly, his eyes fixed on the distance.
In the direction of Highgarden Castle, the sunset glow was burning a deep red.
A tourney.
Two hundred gold dragons.
A knight.
He looked down at his hands. His palms were covered in calluses, worn down by the sickle and the hoe. Not a sword hilt, not a lance shaft.
He had never seen a real tourney, only heard of them. Knightly lords in shining armor, riding tall horses, charging at each other with lances. The sound of splintering lance tips, the thundering of hooves, the shouts of the crowd.
That was something from another world.
Malansi stood up, returned his bowl, and walked toward the blacksmith shop.
Old Toma was tidying the furnace. Seeing him arrive, he pointed to the corner—no work today.
Malansi ignored that, crouched down by the furnace, and reached out to warm himself by the fire.
The dragon egg in his arms absorbed the heat. He stared at the dancing flames in the hearth, those three words revolving in his mind.
Two hundred gold dragons.
"Uncle Toma," he suddenly spoke, "have you ever seen a tourney?"
Old Toma looked up, glanced at him, and nodded.
"What was it like?"
Old Toma put down the fire tongs in his hand, thought for a moment, and began to gesture. First, he pointed to his own body, meaning armor; then he mimicked riding a horse and holding a lance; finally, he crossed his hands—the lance broke, and a person fell.
After finishing his gestures, he looked at Malansi, grinned, pointed at him, and shook his head.
The meaning was: You can't do it.
Malansi didn't argue.
He knew he couldn't. He had never ridden a horse, never held a sword, and had hardly even been in a few fights. Going up there would be a death sentence.
But he still wanted to go and see.
On the day of the tourney, Malansi took half a day off.
The Arena was outside Highgarden, next to a small river. When he arrived, hundreds of people had already gathered. Farmers, peddlers, craftsmen, and many well-dressed townspeople stood huddled together.
In the center of the grounds, a large wooden platform was built, thirty feet square and half a man high off the ground. Colorful banners were planted around the platform, fluttering in the wind.
Malansi found a spot, standing behind the crowd, and stood on his tiptoes to look inside.
The first match was two knights charging at each other on horseback.
He had only heard of it before; this was his first time seeing it with his own eyes.
When the horn sounded, two horses charged from opposite ends of the field, their hooves making the ground tremble. The knights atop them were encased in full plate armor, the sunlight reflecting off the metal so brightly it was blinding.
Lances leveled, horses accelerating, the two drew closer and closer.
There was a dull "boom."
A lance shattered, splinters flying. One knight was thrown backward off his horse, his back slamming heavily onto the ground, his armor covered in dust.
The audience erupted in cheers.
Malansi didn't make a sound. He stared at the knight who had fallen from his horse, watching the people on the sidelines run over to help him up and remove his helmet, revealing a young face—in his early twenties, nose bleeding, but still smiling.
The other knight raised his broken lance from his horse, acknowledging the surrounding spectators.
Another match began.
Malansi watched for the entire afternoon.
Some knights had precise lance work, unhorsing their opponents with a single thrust; some had excellent horsemanship, riding circles around the field and leading their opponents on a merry chase; others dismounted and hacked at each other with swords on the platform, sparks flying as blades clattered against armor.
As the sun dipped toward the west, the tourney came to an end.
A knight in blue robes took the championship and walked away with the bag of gold dragons. The crowd slowly dispersed, each heading home.
Malansi stood in his original spot, unmoving.
People in the grounds were dismantling tents, pulling up banners, and gathering the splintered wooden lances into a pile. The setting sun shone on the empty wooden platform, illuminating the marks of sword cuts and axe gouges.
Those images were still playing through his mind.
The dust kicked up as the horses charged. The flash of the lance tip in the sunlight. A person being thrown up, falling down, and the dull thud of hitting the ground.
And the faces of those knights.
Those who won were smiling, and those who lost were smiling too. They climbed up from the ground, brushed off the dirt, embraced their opponents, and patted each other on the shoulder.
Malansi touched his chest.
The dragon egg was still there, heavy and warm.
He turned and walked toward the village.
Passing by the blacksmith shop, Old Toma was sitting at the door drinking thin porridge. Seeing him approach, the old man lifted his chin, his eyes asking: Finished watching?
Malansi nodded and crouched down beside the old man.
The two of them just crouched there, neither saying a word.
It grew dark. The stars came out. Lights shone from the windows of Highgarden Castle in the distance, bit by bit, like gold dust scattered on black velvet.
Old Toma finished his porridge, set the bowl at his feet, and turned to look at Malansi.
Malansi didn't look at him, staring instead at the distant lights.
"Uncle Toma," he said, "I want to be a knight."
Old Toma didn't move, nor did he gesture.
...