Tournament of Losers (26 page)

"You bast—" Jessa broke off as two guards grabbed him to keep him from launching himself off the stage and at the merchants, who bowed low to Teric and filed away.

Montague stepped forward again. "Your Most Holy Eminence, if you would grace us with your presence!"

The crowd in the stands parted, and Eminence Dathaten walked down the steps of the stands and across the field to stand in front of the stage, surrounded by a handful of priests. Montague bowed, then said, "You were the second challenge, Most Holy, and so I ask you and yours: how do you vote?"

Dathaten smiled. "We have faith in the kind heart that risked life and livelihood to see to the well-being of others. We do not have faith in the man who goes through the motions, but has no depth. We give our vote to Master Rathatayen."

Rath let out a soft, disbelieving huff of shaky laughter.

Dathaten departed and Montague called for the village representatives. "You are the third challenge, honored leaders of our distant towns and villages. How do the distant reaches of the kingdom vote?"

"We welcome the one who visited his designated villages eager and sincere, happy to listen and learn and treat us as equals. We do not welcome the man who constantly reminded those he visited of his superiority and made it clear he wanted only to be home. We give our vote to Master Rathatayen."

Once they had gone, Teric said, "The next vote belongs to the castle."

He motioned to Montague, who stepped forward and cleared his throat, then once more bellowed out in his clear, far-reaching voice, "I speak for the castle—the guards, the servants, the clerks, and criers. The fourth challenge was for those of us who support the royal family, and we cast our vote with he who has always acted like a prince. It goes to Master Rathatayen."

The cheers that time took the horns several minutes to quiet down, and only with the assistance of Teric.

Rath couldn't
breathe.
He'd won it at three, if majority was what made the difference. He'd certainly won it at the fourth vote. Tears streamed down his face.

A hand settled heavily on his shoulder, squeezed it, and he looked up, but immediately shied away from the smile on Teric's face.

When the crowd finally quieted, Montague resumed speaking, voice somehow louder and clearer than ever. "The last vote goes to the people, all those gathered here today. If you have a vote, declare the name!"

Rath was absolutely certain that he never again wanted to hear so many people chanting his name that loudly ever again. But right then, it was the sweetest thing he'd ever heard.

When the crowd was finally wrangled into silence again, Teric grabbed Rath's wrist and lifted it. "Master Rathatayen, Royal Champion of the Tournament of Charlet! I think it's long past time his prize came down and rewarded him!"

Nobody even bothered to try calming the crowd at that point, and the noise and fervor only grew as Tress jumped over the edge of the stands and ran for the stage.

Teric chuckled and let Rath go, smiling a bit mischievously. "If you wanted to strangle your fiancé a little bit, I would not stop you. Just do not actually kill him."

Rath gave a shaky laugh, but before he could form a reply, his arms were abruptly full of Tress, who pulled back a moment later, only enough to cup Rath's face and kiss him.

The crowd at that point screamed and cheered so loudly that Rath was certain vocal cords must be permanently damaged, but he really didn't care about anything but Tress's kiss, the familiar arms that slid down to wrap around him.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Tress muttered between kisses. He was panting when he finally tore away enough to properly speak. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to lie. You came. I can't believe you came. I was so sure when you weren't here—" His words turned to garbled nonsense as Rath cut him off with another kiss.

Rath was going to regret all the kissing when he could feel his banged up face again, but he just could not bring himself to care.

"All right, all right, save it for the wedding night," Teric said as he dragged them apart. "Isam, learn to share. There are other people who would like to congratulate him."

Tress laughed and stepped back as people began to climb the stage: Rath's mother, Toph, Warf, all his other friends, even Anta and her family, followed by the other competitors, most of whom congratulated him cheerfully, and the rest were at least polite.

He was so overwhelmed by people and steadily-returning pain, he barely noticed when they finally left the stage and were swept along to where tables and chairs had been arranged in various squares, jugglers already taking up their duties as people slowly milled about and found seats.

Rath watched it all go by in a blur as he was dragged into a small tent—an actual tent, not the open ones that were all he'd used so far. The flaps closed behind him, and Tress gently shoved him down into a chair. "You looked like you could use a chance to catch your breath."

"Yes, thank you." He looked down, feeling suddenly shy, or uncertain, maybe. "I'm sorry. I should have given you a chance to speak."

Tress made a soft noise and knelt in front of him. "You had a right to be angry. I almost told you a thousand times, but it always seemed like it was better if I didn't, for reasons that all seem stupid now. I didn't sleep all night because I was so scared you wouldn't come, and then you didn't show—" He swallowed, looked down, fingers curling restlessly on Rath's thighs. "Then suddenly, you were there, but you were hurt and that was my fault, too—"

"No," Rath cut in, covering Tress's hands with his own. "I shouldn't have said that. The only people to blame for my father's death are the people who killed him. I was just tired and frayed and scared. I never thought I'd actually win. I'm still having trouble believing it."

Tress laughed, leaned up, and gently kissed his cheek. "I'm sorry. I bet your nose isn't very happy with me right now. Come on. Let's get you in less bloody clothes, see that nose is treated properly, and then it's time to celebrate. And tomorrow, neither one of us is leaving my bed."

"I like the sound of that," Rath said. He watched bemusedly as Tress went to work on his boots. "I don't even know what to call you. You've always been Tress to me. I can't wrap my head around Isambard."

Throwing the boots aside, Tress looked up. A star, Rath noted belatedly. It was a tiny, now-smudged star painted beneath his left eye. "Tressen is my middle name. No one ever uses it, so when I'm sneaking around the city like a spoiled brat, that's what I go by. My family calls me Isam." He smiled softly and leaned up to press another gentle kiss to Rath's cheek. "I like Tress, though. You're welcome to keep calling me that."

"Oh, I'd hate to take away your sneaking-around name," Rath replied.

Tress made a face as he rose. He held out his hands and tugged Rath to his feet, then went to work on removing his pants. "It's already ruined. Too many people will recognize me now, and Quinton has run out of patience, anyway. You should have heard the tongue-lashing she gave me when she heard you mention 'Lord Tress'. She's had to go in search of me more than once, and she wasn't anywhere close to amused when she found me." His face fell slightly. "She came to see me the night of the dinner, warned me you'd figured it out.
How
did you figure it out?"

"Your dad told the story of when you stole two marks from his office."

"That's
what sunk me? Are you serious?" Tress scowled. "That's not fair."

"Fair? You're lucky your father didn't string you up by your toes, Highness," said a new voice, and they both turned to face Lord Quinton as she stepped into the tent and bowed.

"He probably has something much more evil in mind," Tress replied, rolling his eyes. "Did you come about the men who attacked him?"

"Yes, Highness, Master Rathatayen. We apprehended your assailants. They were hired by an intermediary, much like the men who hired your father, which means they were useless at finding a path back to the Tanner family. However, since the tournament is over, our good Friar was more willing to talk and gave us a couple of useful tips. Master Jessa and his father are currently under arrest, and acting rather sullen about it, but the bailiff thinks they will confess before the night is out. I came to see if you wanted a particular punishment levied. Given all the crimes they've committed, especially paying people to murder your father, the sentence will probably be execution."

Rath's eyes widened as Quinton and Tress looked at him. "Um. I don't want anyone else dead. What good does that really do in the end?"

Tress smiled at him, warm and fond, but it turned chilly as he turned back to Quinton. "Strip them of everything. Fine them so severely they will not have the time or ability to behave this way for a long time to come."

"I will convey your wishes, Highness," Quinton replied. She bowed again, then smiled at Rath. "Congratulations, Master Rath."

"Thank you," Rath said.

Quinton turned and strode off, leaving them alone once more.

Tress sighed. "I'm glad that's over with. Do you want to bear witness when they're punished?"

"No, I have more important things to occupy my time," Rath replied. He stepped back when Tress got a look on his face that Rath knew very well. "None of that while there are literally thousands of people on the other side of that tent. Look how easily we were just interrupted by Lord Quinton. Stay over there so I can finally get dressed."

Tress pouted but conceded. "Fair point." He turned away and opened a small chest, pulled out the clothes that Rath remembered from the night of the dinner. "Will you wear them this time?"

"I suppose," Rath said with a smile. "Since I'm apparently engaged to a prince, even if it's the brattiest of the lot."

"I'm the brattiest, ha!" Tress replied. "You haven't met my brothers; you'll change your mind." He helped Rath into his clothes, then opened another box and pulled out jewelry. Rath tried to move out of reach, but Tress caught his wrist and, by way of a carefully placed kiss followed by a pretty pout, got his way. "I think I'll always prefer the pretty, rough and tumble drunk who teased me for reading in a pub, but you make a lovely prince."

Rath kissed him softly, wishing he could do more.

"Let's get that poor nose taken care of," Tress said and pulled out a small case containing healing supplies.

"You're remarkably self-sufficient for a hoity-toity. Does that come from years of sneaking around?"

Tress rolled his eyes. "We can actually dress ourselves, you know. But yes, stuff it." He quickly, but gently, tended Rath's nose, adding more ointment to help keep lingering pain at bay, smearing a cream around his eyes that he claimed would minimize the bruising. "You look a trifle beaten up, but still like my handsome champion." He brushed back a strand of hair. "I really do hate seeing you tired and beaten up and worn down all the time. I'm glad this is over with."

"We still have a celebration to survive," Rath replied, "but I am glad tomorrow will be quiet."

Smiling, Tress captured his fingers and kissed them, then tugged him back out of the tent and into the crush of the cheering crowd, pushing through it until they reached the high table. Tress sat down next to the queen, and Rath wound up between him and Sorrith, who beamed and clapped him on the shoulder. Around the rest of the table, he could see his mother and friends, who waved at him as he caught their eye.

When they were seated, Teric rose and lifted his cup. "To all the tournament champions!"

The cheers that time turned swiftly back to conversation and drunken revelry, leaving Rath mostly in peace to eat, drink, and be happy.

Megan is a long time resident of LGBTQ romance, and keeps herself busy reading, writing, and publishing it. She is often accused of fluff and nonsense. When she's not involved in writing, she likes to cook, harass her cats, or watch movies. She loves to hear from readers, and can be found all over the internet.

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