Whatever. He was beyond having an opinion about fashion. The clothes fit perfectly, and were lightweight and comfortable. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked like a young knight or squire dressed for a feast day. His mind flashed back to the golden-haired warrior from his dream.

When he returned to the front room, Hastings was just hanging up the telephone. The wizard nodded approvingly when he saw Jack. “You look fit to play a part,” he said. Hastings was dressed in his usual dark colors, but he wore a short cloak in the same midnight blue color as Jack's tunic, fastened at one shoulder with a silver clasp in the shape of a dragon.

“Well, the Game is going forward,” Hastings said. “The Red Rose must have managed to get their champion here in one piece, because they are declaring the tournament as we speak, down at the lists. All interested parties are expected to be present. Are you ready?”

Jack nodded, hoping it was true. “What will happen today?”

“The bans, or announcement of the tournament, is made by the sponsor putting forward a champion. Any challengers declare themselves. Then the contestants are qualified. Lots of pageantry.” Hastings tossed Jack his cloak, which was still damp, and pulled on his own. “Let's maintain our anonymity for as long as possible, shall we?” Jack pulled the cloak on over his clothes and tugged the hood up over his damp hair. Hastings carried a large, leather-bound book under his arm. Jack realized with a start that it was his Weirbook.

Events were moving forward briskly, giving him little time to think. Maybe that's how they convince young men to go to war, Jack thought. You're just swept along until you find yourself looking death in the face, and you wonder how it ever happened.

One of the galleries had been completed alongside the playing field, and a large crowd was already seated there. Many sported devices carrying the white or red rose. Some were in contemporary clothes, but most had dressed in medieval style for the occasion. There were more men than women, and appeared to be mostly young to middle age, but then you could never tell with wizards. He saw no children, and he was glad of that. He was sure it was entirely wizards in the crowd. He could feel the hard push of power from the stands.

And still, the voices clamored inside his head. Away the warrior. He forced himself to ignore them. You're going to kill somebody here, or be killed. It was as simple as that.

Front and center in the stands, there was a small area of box seats roped off for dignitaries. Several finely dressed wizards were seated there. Jessamine Longbranch sat above the judges' box, surrounded by a crowd in White Rose livery. She was dressed in a green velvet riding dress, cut very low in front, with embroidered white roses and thorns emphasizing the neckline. Her shining black hair was pulled away from her face with a green velvet band. She held something that looked like a baton or a riding crop in her right hand, slapping it absently across her other palm. She didn't look happy. Jack was glad of the cover of the cloak, given his last encounter with the wizard. He pulled the hood forward to further cover his face. He had to admit, the woman intimidated him.

Hastings pointed to a man with aristocratic features and dark, close-cropped hair who was leaning back in his seat, gesturing with fine-boned hands, talking to the man next to him. “Claude D'Orsay,” Hastings said. “The others are members of the Wizard Council, who are judges of the field. Dr. Longbranch is representing the White Rose. She is current Holder of the Tournament Cup.”

Hastings and Jack joined the crowd milling at the edge of the gallery. Several wizards in livery of the Red Rose were clustered together on the field. Jack recognized the gray-bearded wizard from the graveyard, the one with the burned face.

“Geoffrey Wylie,” Hastings murmured. “Premier wizard of the Red Rose.” There was an intensity about Hastings that hadn't been there before, like that of a wolf who has caught the scent of blood. Jack recalled what Linda had said, that Wylie had killed Hastings's sister. “Pity,” Hastings added. “Looks like he's had some sort of magical accident.” Wylie was reading from a thick, leather-bound book.

“What are they doing?” Jack whispered to Hastings.

“They are reading their contestant's ancestry, proving that he is a legitimate warrior heir to the Weir. That is a first step to qualifying for the tournament.” Hastings broadened his stance and folded his arms under the cloak. “This could take a while.”

Jack looked around to see if he could spot the other warrior, but couldn't pick anyone out. Obviously, the Red Rose sponsors were maintaining their own sense of mystery.

Wylie was fairly far along in the family tree, and it took only ten or fifteen minutes to wrap things up somewhere in the tenth century. He took a few more minutes to outline plans for the tournament, should a challenger appear. It was to be held on Midsummer's Day, two days hence, two P.M., Raven's Ghyll Field, under the Rules of Engagement.

D'Orsay, who was obviously bored with the proceedings, returned his attention to the field when the announcements were finished. The five wizards seated in the boxes held a brief discussion, and then D'Orsay said, “Contingent on documentation of the same, the genealogy is accepted. The Red Rose shall submit said documentation. Contingent on verification of the stone, the warrior appears to qualify.”

A cheer went up from the crowd, at least from those wearing the livery of the Red Rose. It had been three years since the last tournament.

D'Orsay was speaking again. “The tournament is declared by the Red Rose. Are there any challengers?”

There was a long pause. The crowd was silent, everyone looking around for someone to step forward.

“From the White Rose?” D'Orsay prompted, looking at Longbranch.

“The White Rose can put forward no champion at this time,” Dr. Longbranch said reluctantly.

A murmur of disappointment ran through the crowd. It appeared there would be no tournament after all.

“What happened to their last champion?” Jack whispered to Hastings.

“Killed himself,” he whispered back. He rested a hand on Jack's shoulder a moment, tightening his grip. “Now we're for it. Remember what we talked about.”

He moved away from Jack, closer to the judges' box. “We will challenge the Red Rose,” he announced in a clear voice.

D'Orsay scanned the crowd, trying to determine who had spoken. “Is it the White Rose after all?” he asked.

Hastings stepped onto the field, into the sunlight. “I am the player's sponsor,” he said. “Neither the White Rose nor the Red.” And he ripped back his hood.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then, “Hastings!” D'Orsay exclaimed in disbelief, the name spoken as an epithet. The other judges of the field stood to get a better look. “What are you doing here?” the Master demanded angrily.

A ripple ran through the crowd, seated spectators standing to see better, turning to one another. Some seemed to know the identity of the tall stranger, and were being kept busy explaining.

Hastings shrugged as if it were obvious. “I'm here to play,” he said, smiling.

Geoffrey Wylie was smiling also, but his grin was nasty. “We're so glad you've come, Leander. This is most convenient.The Red Rose has unfinished business with you.” He turned to his colleagues on the field. “Take him!” Four red-clad wizards advanced on Hastings, hands outstretched, wizard fire leaping from their fingers like Roman candles.

It happened so fast that Jack stood frozen, unsure whether to try to intervene. Hastings had told him to stay put. But the wizard didn't seem to need his help. He threw out his right arm, and the air between him and the Red Rose shimmered, solidified, a barrier that turned the wizard attack for the moment, sending the flames careening out over the cowering crowd. With his left hand, he pulled a small book from under his cloak.

“What about the rules, Claude?” Hastings thrust the book into the air. “As a wizard and potential sponsor, I am protected. Call them off.”

“This man has incited the servant guilds,” Wylie argued. “He's a traitor who has spilled wizard blood in defiance of the rules. He doesn't deserve their protection.”

“Prove it.” Hastings swiveled, still holding the rules aloft so everyone in the crowd could see. “Of course, I've always believed that blood is blood: wizard or warrior, enchanter or sorcerer or seer.”

“That's not what the rules say,” Wylie snapped. “Why don't you read them for a change?”

“Give over!” D'Orsay said reluctantly, shaking his head at Wylie. “Desist, or you'll be disqualified.”

Wylie gestured, and the wizard posse stopped. “I should have cut your throat when I had the chance.” He turned to D'Orsay. “This is preposterous. He cannot be a sponsor. This can't be allowed! The tournament holds between the Roses.”

“Where is it written?” Hastings asked coolly. He extended the rules toward Wylie. “Show me.”

But Wylie persisted. He had just seen an obvious forfeit turn into a possible contest. “This game is based on centuries of tradition! No one else has ever been allowed to play.”

“Has anyone else ever tried to field a candidate?” Hastings looked from one to the other.Wylie and D'Orsay were speechless for a moment.

“What house do you represent?” D'Orsay asked warily.

“The Silver Dragon.” Hastings shed his plain cloak completely and folded it over his arm, revealing the blue cloak with the dragon device beneath. A rumble went through the crowd again. The Silver Dragon? Whoever had heard of the Silver Dragon?

Jack glanced into the gallery, at Jessamine Longbranch. She was watching the proceedings, frowning, tapping her chin with her bloodred nails. Apparently she hadn't yet made up her mind what this turn of events meant to the White Rose.

“You must field a warrior, Hastings,” D'Orsay said, then condescendingly, confident this condition could not be met, “or you can't play.”