"You ride splendidly," said Manfred in Arabic.
"Tell the men I am very proud of them, Omar," Daoud said. Omar flashed bright white teeth at him.
To Manfred Daoud said, "Now, Sire, if it be your pleasure, the Sons of the Falcon will demonstrate their skill in casting the rumh—the lance."
Manfred nodded and waved a gauntleted hand. He was dressed in a long riding cloak of emerald velvet, with an unadorned green cap covering his light blond hair. His only jewelry was the five-pointed silver star with its ruby center, which Daoud had never seen him without.
Just as I still wear the locket Blossoming Reed gave me.
Omar bowed, and vaulted into the saddle with an agility that brought a grunt of appreciation from Manfred. Waving his saber, he rode back down the hill.
A scaffold and swinging target for the lances had been set up halfway across the valley. Recalling his own training—and Nicetas—Daoud watched his riders form a great circle in the plain below them. He heard in his mind a boy's warbling battle cry, and felt a deep pang of sadness.
"Why do you call them the Sons of the Falcon, Daoud?" Manfred asked.
"Because I know the falcon is the favorite bird of your family, Sire," Daoud said. Manfred grinned and nodded.
He thought, And because the falcon does not hesitate.