The story so far: When a small freighter founders on the jagged rocks of Sea Lion Cape, two strange eggs wash ashore. Ten years later, the king orders a grieving Adon Santinetta and his crew, including his daughter, Artema, to the area.

One // Two // Three

As messenger birds flew, it was seventy-five leagues from Palisade to Wesfair and nearly ninety by the king’s often rutted roads. Adon’s crew had made excellent time after crossing the White River by ferry. Two weeks of hot and mostly dry travel over the dusty mid-summer plains found them in sight of the port city of Wesfair in southwestern Margonne.

Adon, along with Mast Smith, the crew’s cook, and Bandrick Muler, their scout and animal handler, had adjusted quickly to Artema’s presence. Despite her obvious femininity and city-living, she had taken, and with barely a complaint, to the rigors of life on the road. With the heavy canvas cover raised over her wagon’s bed, she had the privacy she needed and enough room for her to sleep comfortably. It also helped that she had known Mast for most of her life and Bandrick for the last few years.

As he had predicted, her father had thrived on the road. Mast’s hearty meals had returned some weight to his frame, and daily walks beside the wagons and nightly sword forms and chores around the camp had rebuilt much of his strength and stamina. He was not as jovial as he had been, but he had begun to act like the Captain Adon Santinetta his friends remembered.

The sun rode high in a clear blue sky as they topped a small rise. Below them, a fairground spread westward, filling a wide meadow west of the road. Along both sides of two wide, parallel thoroughfares, intersected at several points by narrow lanes, an assortment of booths, tents, wagons, and tables formed a makeshift market. Their proprietors hawked their wares and services to hundreds of milling citizens of Wesfair who had come out to enjoy the fair.

Beyond the market, a massive yellow-and-red-striped tent promised actors, singers, dancers, jugglers, and acrobats. An adjacent row of a dozen cages displayed exotic animals and birds from across Osegra and the Summer Isles. Farther west, a crude arena encircled with rough wooden bleachers lay under a billowing cloud of dust.

“I had forgotten about the West Fair,” Mast said to Adon, who rode Renegade beside his wagon. “But I reckon it is almost two weeks past mid-summer.”

“Tomorrow is the last day, then,” Adon replied. “We arrived just in time.”

“Are we going to go?” Artema asked, her voice suffused with pleading.

“Sure, why not?” her father said, sniffing the air, which mixed the ocean’s salt tang with the savory aromas of grilled meats. “It’s about time we ate something other than Mast’s mess.”

Mast grinned under his full white mustache. “I’m in full agreement, captain! I want to eat something other than my cooking just as much as you do. And perhaps drink something more bracing than water or tea, too.”

“Which came first: Wesfair or West Fair?” Bandrick called, having circled back from his forward position.

“Now you’re just trying to make trouble,” Mast said, shifting his ever-present toothpick in his mouth. “You know full well that the town came first! ‘West Fair’ is just someone’s idea of being clever.”

“Clever enough to last for generations,” Adon said. “There’s been an annual trading fair here since at least the reign of Lorens I—what, for about a hundred and fifty years?”

“Sound about right,” Mast agreed with a nod. “That tent and arena look about that old.”

“Well, we can spare a few hours to wander through the fair,” Adon said, pushing his short-brimmed hat back on his head. “Duke Vash isn’t expecting us till tomorrow.”

The scout stretched his back. “I’m willing to watch over the wagons if someone will spell me in a bit.”

“It’s a deal,” Mast interjected before anyone else could reply. “I’ll take a quick trot through the stalls and collect a few things, then I’ll come back. It shouldn’t take long.”

“Take the crew’s purse if you’re going to buy anything for the trip,” the captain suggested. “You should take Artema with you to teach her the tricks of the trade. She can help carry things for you, too.”

“Father!” Artema objected, seeing her vision of a free afternoon dissipate like mist under a scorching sun.

“Work before play, my dear,” Adon said gently. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll make a quarter-mistress of you. At least you’ll learn how not to be robbed blind by the hucksters down there.”

“And wear your knives,” Mast warned. “Most folks down there are good people, but you can be sure the thieves and cutthroats guilds are well-represented. This ain’t Market Street in Palisade.”

Bandrick scoffed. “Plenty of crooks there, too.”

“I agree with Mast,” her father said. “We need to be careful. One of us will be with you the whole time, but you’re a pretty woman, and you’ll attract attention—certainly the wrong kind.”

“And I thought the wild plains of Margonne would be the dangerous part,” Artema said, rolling her eyes a little.

They parked the wagons as close to the fair’s entrance as possible. Bandrick immediately unhitched the donkeys, gave them a little water, and staked them to graze on the dry grass. Artema wished she could bathe, but knew she had to settle for rinsing her face and hands and brushing out her hair before tying it into a messy bun held with two long pins. Her usual dark riding pants stuffed into her boots and a red-and-white checked blouse would have to do.

Adon, Artema, and Mast entered the fair together, but the captain soon wandered off to peruse items at a booth that caught his attention. Vendors sold an array of handmade items, from spindles to spoons to spurs. Mast passed them all by without slowing his pace or turning his head, intent on the open area at the center of the market.

Artema soon figured out that the central acre was the source of the delicious aromas filling the air. Dozens of wagons and booths lined a large open space dotted with tables and benches, many of them filled with guests enjoying their lunches. Mast strode directly to a particular wagon and engaged the big-bellied man tending the fire under a large iron grill. A few minutes later, after an exchange of coins, Mast came away with a paper package containing a generous pile of sliced beef slathered with a spicy red sauce.

“This should keep the hunger away for a while,” Mast said as they retraced their steps to the wagons. On their way, they bought the few goods that Mast needed—flour, beans, oil, salt—and stopped at a few stalls selling spices, good liquor, tobacco, and spearheads. When they walked up to the wagons not long thereafter, Bandrick was happy to see them back so quickly and even happier to see the sliced beef.

When they had eaten their fill, the scout accompanied Artema back to the fair. They had browsed their way to the central hub when they noticed men—and not a few women—excitedly passing on news and hurrying away toward the arena. A steady stream of people took well-worn paths over the grassy meadow, and more were joining them with every passing minute. Bandrick stopped a young man heading in that direction.

“What’s all the excitement about?” he asked.

“You ain’t heard?” the youth asked in return. Not bothering to wait for an answer, he charged on, “A masked fighter entered the tournament t’other day, and so far, no one’s even scratched him! Some people say it’s the king in disguise!”

“I seriously doubt that,” Bandrick scoffed.

“I just know I ain’t missin’ his next bout,” the other said and rushed away.

Bandrick shrugged. “Probably some nobleman who likes a good fight but doesn’t want it known.”

“Probably,” Artema agreed, looking down at the now-crowded area around the arena, “but I’d like to see him anyway, if you don’t mind. I mean, if he’s that good . . .”

“I have nothing better to do,” the scout said, and they joined the current of eager spectators. As they approached, they noticed Adon standing on the far side of the arena, next to the fence, where the onlookers were not so tightly packed. He soon spotted them and waved them over. With a few “Sorry, I need to get to my father” apologies accompanied by winsome smiles, Artema finally reached his side. Being neither young nor pretty, Bandrick remained at the edge of the crowd.

At the arena’s center stood an athletic man of roughly twenty years, attired in black from head to toe but for a brown leather belt about his waist. Around his head, he had tied a black cloth mask that hid his face from hairline to cheekbones, bunching his dark hair into an unruly, crown-like mass. Brown eyes peered from a narrow slit. He stood straight and tall, unarmed but for a dark-stained and polished ash staff of his own height leaning against his shoulder.

Without warning, a gate creaked open at the south end, and a half-dozen brawny men, four with clubs and two with axes, strutted into the arena, a few sneering at the fair’s champion, reckoning the fight’s outcome a foregone conclusion. They appeared to be toughs from the alleys of Wesfair, hoping to make a little drinking money.

Unperturbed, the young man yawned and rolled his shoulders, adjusting his stance as the six men surrounded him, standing about ten yards away. He slowly swept his gaze from one opponent to another, sizing them up, then theatrically spun his staff with blinding speed in front of him. It served as the signal for the fight to begin, for as one, the six brutes converged on him with savage intent.

The fleetest of them never saw the blow that smacked him above his left ear. He fell into the dust like a marionette whose strings were cut.

Sidestepping, the champion tripped a second man as he flashed by, while he plunged the tip of his staff into the solar plexus of the heaviest of the remaining attackers. Dropping his club, the overweight ruffian fell to his knees, his breath coming in loud, sucking gasps, and he soon rolled onto his back, clearly out of the fight.

Wheeling about, the man in black parried a blow from a club and followed through with the other end of his staff, striking his opponent under his chin. The thug stumbled away, drawing ragged breaths through a bruised windpipe.

Returning to his feet, the tripped man, short, wiry, and red of face, glared at the champion, who had backed away to keep his opponents in front of him. The short ruffian, standing between the two axmen, neither of whom had advanced with the others’ speed, urged them to attack with him. They agreed with grim nods and stepped forward, but the hothead outpaced his larger, heavier comrades, and soon paid for his rashness with a broken forearm. Howling, he abandoned his club and stumbled from the arena, cradling his broken limb.

The two remaining thugs—one with a blond ponytail, the other with red hair and a full beard to match—were the tallest and broadest of the six, and they handled their broad-bladed axes with the skill gained by experience. They circled in opposite directions, trying to put the champion between them, but he flowed away gracefully, trading quick strokes with one or the other, gauging their skills.

They aimed blows between his hands, and the sharp-eyed among the crowd noticed a wood chip or two spinning into the air. The champion turned the staff in his hands, presenting an unblemished side to them. But the grins on the toughs’ faces showed they knew that a few more strikes would leave him weaponless.

The champion had not been idly exchanging blows but sizing up the blond one in particular. His swings, though powerful, were noticeably slower than his comrade’s, both in the attack and in bringing the ax back to his body. Slipping to his right, the challenger kept the blond thug between him and the redhead. A perfectly timed jump back caused the ruffian’s slow swing to miss him altogether, burying his ax in the dirt. The champion swung the staff in a long, overhand arc, as if he were chopping wood, smashing the blond’s fingers against the ax’s grip. He screamed in pain and quit the field, a few fingers jutting out at odd angles.

Immediately, the huge, red-bearded fighter stepped forward, sweeping a waist-high swing that the champion only avoided by taking a hasty step back. Determinedly, the big man continued to stride toward him, arcing a backhand slice that the youth blocked with the middle of his staff. Another sliver of wood flew into the air, leaving a large white scar in the dark wood. The champion spun away, forcing the redhead to change course.

Speeding up, the ruffian charged at the young man, battering him relentlessly, scoring hits on his staff. Then, with his immense strength, he aimed an overhead strike at the champion’s face. The masked warrior lifted his staff to block the massive blow, but his staff had endured too many hits and snapped in two.

Clutching the two pieces, the champion twisted and scrambled away, just evading the ax blade as it continued its arc. When the redhead rounded on him, the champion went on the offensive. Using one piece as a shield and the other as a club, he blocked and struck his opponent wherever he found an opening, trading two or three blows for every one the other dealt.

The hoodlum’s breath now came in labored gasps, and sweat dripped off his nose. He struck ponderously at his opponent’s left side, but the champion’s fitness gave him the advantage. Catching the ax blade on the splintered end of one of his half-staffs, he wrenched it aside, following through with the other half against the side of the brute’s head. It connected with a sickening crunch, and the big man dropped like a felled tree to the dirt.

The crowd roared. Flinging the two pieces of his staff away, the champion bowed to the four quarters of the arena. The master of ceremonies rushed out and whipped up the crowd to acclaim him with heightened applause and cheering. He made a great show of awarding the young man his winnings, after which a pretty young lady dressed as a showgirl placed a laurel on his head. He bowed again, sweeping the laurel from his head.

With a final wave to the crowd, he spun on his heel and jogged directly to where Adon and Artema stood, already turning to walk back to the wagons. “Miss!” he called. “Please stay a moment longer!”

“Me?” Artema said, blushing.

“Yes!” the young man said, smiling. “I saw you standing here during the fight. Please accept this gift for gracing this tournament with your presence.” To her astonishment, he handed her his leafy crown and bowed low.

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A note:

A dozen companies—part merchant caravan, part circus—plied the roads of Aertella, Margonne, Angeva, and Satele, stopping for a few days here and a week or two there. A few fairs, like West Fair, were long-established events held on the same days and in the same locations year after year. The company that operated West Fair followed a well-known route through the kingdom, visiting East Haven, Kolsati, Blayne, Palisade, Shipton, Wesfair, and many smaller towns throughout the year, ending and wintering in Kingsport. Before working as an agent for King Alfons, Adon’s father, Mardans, had acted in a troupe that played at fairs across Margonne, a time of his life he remembered fondly.

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