Raymond E. Feist - The Complete Conclave of Shadows Trilogy - Talon of the Silver Hawk, King of Foxes, Exile’s Return

They travelled with the caravan through the Western Realm, through rolling hills and into low mountains not unlike those of his homeland. But where those mountains had been populated by folk living in villages of wooden huts and stockades, these mountains boasted towns and castles. In Ravensburgh they had the finest wine Talon had tasted, and he asked many questions of the innkeeper. He stole an hour to seek out a winemaker and plied him with questions, too.

Demetrius had said at some point that their masters would be teaching Talon about wine, and he now thought this would be a good thing.

The journey continued to the town of Malac’s Cross, and there they bade goodbye to the caravan master. After a night spent sleeping in a relatively clean room, Caleb secured two fine horses and they set off to the east.

As they rode towards the rising sun, Talon said, ‘Caleb, am I to ever discover what it is we are doing?’

Caleb laughed. ‘I suppose it matters little if I tell you now or tell you when we reach Salador.’

‘Then tell me now, for I am afire with curiosity.’

Caleb said, ‘In Salador we shall finish with your education in manners and breeding. For a year or more you will learn at least two musical instruments – the lute and another, perhaps a horn or pipe. You will learn even more about the culinary arts, though you are well on your way, having tutored under Leo. And you will learn more about manners of the court, costumes appropriate for all occasions, and how to comport yourself with persons of any rank. You will learn to judge wine and you will learn to sing, though I suspect this last matter may be a lost cause.’

Talon laughed. ‘I can sing.’

‘I’ve heard you, and I’d hardly call it singing.’

‘But to what ends does all this training in the art of being a man gentle born lead?’

Caleb switched from the King’s Tongue, which they had been speaking since arriving in Krondor, to Roldemish. ‘Because in a year’s time, my young friend, you shall journey to the island kingdom of Roldem, and there you shall enroll in the Masters’ Court. And if the fates are kind, we shall establish you there as a minor noble, a distant cousin of a noteworthy family, rich in heritage but poor in resources, and as such employable.’

‘The Masters’ Court? Kendrick told me a little about it. He said the finest swordsmen in the world trained there.’

‘And that, my friend, is your task. For when you leave Roldem, you must be counted as the best of them all. You must be counted as the greatest swordsman in the world.’

Talon stared at his friend in stunned silence and rode on.

‘Revenge is sweet but not nourishing’

Mason Cooley

T AL BLINKED.

The blade that hovered for the briefest instant in front of his face flicked to the right, and he hesitated, then moved in the same direction. As he had anticipated, his opponent was feigning to the right and went left. He slipped past his guard so fast that the other swordsman couldn’t react in time and Tal’s blade struck home.

‘Touch!’ cried the Master of the Court.

Tal retreated a step, then came to attention and saluted his opponent, a young noble from the coastal city of Shalan. Duzan or Dusan, Tal couldn’t quite recall his name. The spectators applauded politely as if the match had run to form, which it had.

The Master of the Court stepped forward and declared, ‘Point and match to M’lord Hawkins.’

Talwin Hawkins, a minor noble from Ylith, distant cousin to Lord Seljan Hawkins, Baron of the Prince’s Court in Krondor, bowed first to the Master of the Court, then to his opponent. The two men removed the protective mesh masks they wore, and crossed to shake hands. The young Roldemish nobleman smiled and said, ‘Someday you’re going to guess wrong, Tal, and then I’ll have you.’

Tal smiled in return. ‘You’re probably right. But as my man, Pasko, says, “I’d rather be lucky than good.” Right, Pasko?’

The burly servant, who had appeared at his elbow and was now taking his master’s sword and mask, smiled and said, ‘As my master says, given the choice, I’ll take luck any time.’

The two combatants exchanged bows and retired to opposite corners of the huge duelling hall that was the heart of the Masters’ Court in Roldem City. Large carved wooden columns surrounded a massive wooden floor which had been polished to a gleam like brushed copper. Intricate patterns had been laid into the floor and, once he had been introduced to the instructors, Tal had quickly seen they served a function beyond the aesthetic aspect. Each pattern defined a duelling area, from the very confined, long and narrow duelling path for rapier fencing, to a larger octagon for longer blades.

For blades were the reason for the existence of the Masters’ Court. Over two hundred years ago the King of Roldem had commanded a tourney to name the greatest swordsman in the world. Nobles, commoners, soldiers and mercenaries had travelled from as far away as beyond the Girdle of Kesh – the mountains that separate the northern and southern halves of the Empire, the Far Coast of the Kingdom, and all points in between. The prize had been fabled: a broadsword fashioned from gold and studded with gems – an artefact worth a kingdom’s taxes for years and years.

For two weeks the contest had continued until a local noble, a Count Versi Dango, had prevailed. To the King’s astonished delight, he announced he would reject the prize, so that the King might make use of the value of the sword to pay for the construction of an academy dedicated to the blade, and there hold the contest on a regular basis: and thus the Masters’ Court was born.

The King ordered the construction of the school which covered an entire city block in the heart of the island kingdom’s capital, and over the years it had been rebuilt and refined, until now it resembled a palace as much as a school. Upon its completion, another tourney had been organized, and Count Dango had prevailed in defence of his rank as premier swordsman in the world.

Every fifth year the contest was held, until on his fourth defence, Count Dango was wounded in his match by the eventual winner and was forced to retire from the contest.

Since then thirty-one different men had won the championship. Talon of the Silver Hawk, now known as Tal Hawkins, planned to be the thirty-second such champion.

The duelling master approached and Tal bowed. ‘Master Dubkov,’ he said with respect.

‘That was a fine display, but you took your opponent for granted. If you did that with a more experienced swordsman, you might have found yourself taken, my young friend.’

Tal inclined his head in acknowledgement of the duelling master’s correct appraisal. Then he grinned and said, ‘If I never offer the less skilled a slight chance to win, what motive do they have to spar with me?’

Master Dubkov laughed. ‘And those with more experience – say, those anticipating a place in the tourney – will not spar with you lest they reveal too much and disadvantage themselves to you during the contest, eh?’

‘Exactly,’ said Tal.

‘Well,’ said the duelling master, lowering his voice, ‘I don’t know how much good you think you’re doing yourself by these exercises, but the crowds enjoy them – especially the young ladies.’ He inclined his head towards an area of the gallery where a dozen of Roldem’s noble daughters sat observing the bouts.

Several smiled and nodded in Tal’s direction. He smiled back and returned the nod in their general direction without making eye contact with any specific girl. Master Dubkov raised an eyebrow at this. Then he said, ‘Well, I must be about my duties. Good day to you, young Talwin.’