Count Leopold was a young man: short curled hair, a red beard, pale skin. He could not have been more than thirty. He wore a crimson surcoat belted with gold, and servants followed behind him, bearing the train of his red cloak as he strode to his seat. He paused before the chair, one hand resting on a sword-hilt inlaid with gold and ivory. The gesture made him look every inch the high lord.

Lothar sighed inwardly. Both men held the title of Count; but put his father Werner beside Leopold, and even draped in all the treasure he'd brought back from the Holy Land, Werner would look like a country squire.

This era was not defined by the West being wealthier. Quite the opposite. Both the Eastern Empire and the Ayyubid Sultanate of Egypt were regarded as the true lands of plenty. And Count Leopold, who controlled Vienna, the hub of overland trade between Western Christendom and the Eastern Empire, commanded wealth to match.

The person who followed Leopold onto the dais was not a countess. It was a mysterious woman in a brown hooded mantle and a grand crimson gown, her face hidden save for a pale, fine chin.

Someone in the crowd muttered, "That woman, they say, is the Count's witch advisor. Some claim to have seen her in the Emperor's own bedchamber." Another grumbled, "A wanton creature like that—sitting higher than us?"

"Keep your voice down! That's a witch!" "I heard the Count Palatine, the Emperor's most trusted man, once offended a witch. She turned him into a rat on the spot. The Emperor himself had to intervene to make her change him back."

Whispers buzzed. For all their gratitude to Count Leopold for hosting the tournament, the crowd still resented the favor he showed his witch.

Prajna spoke abruptly. "Her presence... is familiar."

"Familiar?" Lothar tensed.

The woman on the dais had barely taken her seat before she swept her gaze directly toward them. Lothar lowered his head as a suspicion took shape. "You mean... the serpent we saw last night?"

"Yes." Prajna nodded slightly. "She's recognized me too. But she likely takes me for a fellow witch. We'll stay out of each other's way."

Lothar nodded, though unease still prickled over him. Fighting beneath the idle gaze of a lioness who could kill you at any moment, even knowing she would not leap down and devour you, was not comfortable.

Count Leopold raised a hand, and the crowd quieted. He traced the sign of the cross and intoned, "Knights. Nobles. Freemen. Praise be to the Heavenly Father!"

"Now and forever, Amen!" the crowd answered.

Leopold's voice deepened. "I thank every brave man who has honored me with his presence here today. The foul heresies of the East now threaten the Holy Land itself. As knights of the Heavenly Father, we must follow in our forefathers' footsteps: raise the cross once more, and march east. I myself am constrained from departing, for reasons I cannot set aside.

"But I would still support all faithful warriors bound for the Crusade. Regardless of victory or defeat in today's lists, any man who pledges to take the cross shall receive one hundred denarii for his journey. And now—knights! Show us your valor! Beyond sponsoring the Crusade, I also seek to select a personal champion. He shall receive not only the town of Wienerwald as his fief, but other weighty responsibilities as well."

The knights erupted at that. Even some of the barons present looked ready to leap into the lists themselves. Wienerwald was a mountain town. It could not compare to wealthy Vienna; but it was still a town. A goose that laid golden eggs.

"Praise the Heavenly Father! Praise the great and generous Lord Leopold!"

Lothar marveled quietly. A town offered as a prize—only the Margrave of Austria, whose frontier was still expanding, could likely afford such a gesture. In all of Greater Germania, could even the Emperor of House Hohenstaufen put up a town as a tournament prize?

Bout followed bout. Every contestant drew lots and faced a single opponent. The winner advanced; the loser withdrew. Lothar watched from the stands for some time before a thought surfaced. This is it?

The quality of the knights varied wildly, but none he had seen so far gave him any real sense of threat. Am I simply that strong—or are these knights that weak?

A herald's voice rang across the field. "The next bout: Lothar von Habsburg of Aargau against Averardo de' Medici of Tuscany!"

Medici? The house that would rule Florence for centuries? Lothar came alert. He rose at once and beckoned Laine to help with his gear and lead his mount to the list.

Lothar entered early. He waited a long while before his opponent finally made his appearance. Averardo came riding in on a tall charger, blue surcoat marked with white fleurs-de-lis, waving to the stands as the crowd roared its welcome. The name Averardo clearly carried no small renown. Lothar, by contrast, was a nobody.

"Habsburg? Which house is that?" "Aargau, that backwater in the Swiss mountains?"

"Don't mock. The Count is a formidable man. The Emperor himself holds him in high regard: invited him to command the imperial host once."

"Doesn't matter. The father's strength doesn't pass to the son: especially not a second son. Averardo took his name from the legendary knight who served Charlemagne. He's swept every tournament in Lombardy. If he weren't so wild and unrestrained, some prince would have taken him as a vassal long ago."

The buzz of voices made Prajna frown. "You all decide the outcome very quickly. If reputation determined victory, why not simply declare this Averardo the champion the moment he took the field, and spare everyone else the trouble?"

"Ha! What would a woman know?" A knight sneered. "For knights, reputation is strength." He turned a disdainful look toward Prajna. His expression froze.

Even veiled, even seen only by her eyes and brow: she was unmistakably a woman of devastating beauty. He changed tack instantly.

"My lady, you may have a point. I am Sir Melgen of Lorraine. Are you interested in the knightly tournament? Perhaps I could explain its finer points to you?"

"No."

Melgen pressed on. "My lady, I myself am a knight of no small skill. I took second place in the tourney hosted by the Duke of Lower Lorraine."

Prajna's hand tightened on the wooden rail. She squeezed, then let go. In the wood remained a deep-set handprint, every finger-groove perfectly defined. Melgen's face drained of all color.

He'd seen men snap thick wooden rails before. He'd seen men crush them. But he had never, not once in his life, seen anyone press fingerprints clean into solid timber like a signet into wax.

"F-forgive me, my lady. I spoke out of turn. Please, pardon my offense."

Prajna waved him off like shooing a fly.

Averardo's expression was not arrogant, but his eyes were hungry. He looked Lothar over the way a wolf sizes up prey. "Your armor—it's the work of a Milanese master, isn't it? I don't know your crest, but I know fine smithing when I see it. A pity. It, and your horse, will soon be mine."

His grey eyes held nothing but cold scorn. He had claimed the title of Champion Knight in tournament after tournament. Clearly, he saw no reason to take an unknown novice like Lothar seriously.

"Let's hope your skill matches your mouth." Lothar let a mocking smile curl at the corner of his lips. He knew Averardo's type: prideful. That look, that tone: nothing angered a proud man more. And anger meant a loss of reason.

But the knight across from him showed only cold, steady focus. Two emotions blended perfectly. Unshaken. Confident, and cautious. A formidable opponent.

Averardo took lance and shield from his squire and lowered his helm. "Let us begin. The sooner I've beaten you, the sooner I can dedicate this modest honor to a lady in attendance." He pulled down his visor.

Lothar put on his great helm, took up lance and heater shield, and ordered Laine to have a spare lance ready. He spurred his horse into a canter. Averardo was the first to accelerate into the charge. He held his shield over the weak points of his armor, his lance tip tracing small, searching motions: even at full gallop, his eyes hunted for Lothar's openings.

Crack.

Both lances struck shield at the same instant. A colossal force tore through Lothar: he was ripped clean out of the saddle. Averardo fared no better. Both men hit the ground together.

But unhorsing was not the end. Averardo scrambled to remount.

Lothar did the opposite: he drew his arming sword and charged straight at Averardo. In horsemanship, he was outmatched. In raw strength, he held the edge. Against an opponent like this, he had to play to his strengths.

Shring. Lothar's blade slashed across Averardo's surcoat, then lodged in the mail rings beneath, going no further. In paintings and tapestries, armor was paper. In truth, a knight in good harness was an all but unbreakable tank.

Averardo abandoned his attempt to remount. He drew his bastard sword and met Lothar on foot. The two hammered at each other for a dozen exchanges, sparks spraying from ringing steel. Neither could find the breakthrough.

Count Leopold, clearly enthralled, ordered his attendants to separate them. "Both of you have fought with exceptional valor. There is no need to settle this now. I advance you both. You shall settle the score in the final bout."

The two combatants withdrew. Lothar pulled off his great helm and mail coif, breathing hard. Laine was already there with a clay jug of water. Modell said gravely, "My lord, that Averardo is a dangerous man. You're still young: don't risk a headlong clash with him."

Lothar nodded. "Don't worry. I know my limits. If I can't win, I'll yield. I'm not too proud for that."

Both Modell and Laine had tied their fates to his: they had no desire to watch him kill himself in the lists.

He walked over to Prajna and asked quietly, "Is this too boring for you?"

Prajna inclined her head. "A little." Watching the tournament through Prajna's eyes was like watching ants fight.

"Wait here." Before she could ask, he walked off toward the long banquet table, piled high with every imaginable food. A moment later, he returned.

Prajna felt something pressed into her palm. She looked down. Hazelnuts.

"Something to nibble on," Lothar explained. "Help pass the time."

Prajna was not, strictly speaking, human. She could eat human food, but it made little difference whether she ate or not: she had no need to sustain herself through something as crude as digestion. She did not refuse. She cracked open a hazelnut, ate it, and nodded faintly. "Not bad. Go rest now. You have more opponents ahead. You'll need your strength."

"All right." Lothar nodded.