The Might of Wits

In a past age, when it was common to meet those whose bloodlines were intermingled with the gods’, there was an elven princess named Mirien who was said to be fairer than any mortal ever born. She was descended from Aymara, and that goddess’ features shone in her face and bearing. When the time came for Mirien to take a husband, all the gods watched with interest, for she was no common mortal. Her beauty would fill legends, they all knew, but she also had her foremother’s talent for art; to hear her sing was to hear a sound fairer than the heavenly choirs. When Mirien’s mother began greeting suitors for her daughter, Aymara declared the princess her special ward, and that whosoever was worthy of her hand would be blessed, along with their union. 
Each of the gods, inspired by Aymara’s announcement, decided to take one of her mortal suitors as a ward, and the matter of Mirien’s marriage became a great competition among them. As the suitors presented themselves to Mirien and her parents, Morwyn proclaimed, “Let us all agree then: Whoever’s ward proves worthy of Mirien’s love proves also that his sponsor is the best among us; for let it not be said that all the gods looked on and let the fairest mortal ever born take the hand of any but the worthiest among men.” To this all agreed: The one whose ward was granted Mirien’s hand would be named Champion of the Gods, the greatest of them all.
By this time, the Three Sisters had been found, and Darmon Silver Tongue had fallen in love with Canelle, the fiery one of the three. The Master of the Road expressed his passion by competing with her, and she enjoyed competing with him. Mere moments after Morwyn’s proclamation, Canelle beat her chest and shouted, “Then my ward will win her hand, for all of us know that I am the greatest among the gods! What test has been devised that I cannot master? What contest of skill or speed has been set down in which I am not the victor?” While her braggadocio won her no favors among the rest of the gods, it only made Darmon the Traveler love her more.
Wily Darmon knew that the only way to Canelle’s heart was to best her. They had played a thousand games of prowess and skill, and she defeated him time and again. She refused to play him at games of wit and chance, which he might win, and he was certain that if he ever bested her, she would finally see him as worthy. He pledged to win Mirien’s hand for his ward. While the others selected their wards for beauty, wealth, nobility, or strength, Darmon, clever Darmon, went to the side of a lad of low birth and weak frame named Rinalde Wolfcall. Rinalde was disliked by most in his village, for while they were strong and toiled in the fields, he was wily, and found ways to perform his labors with minimal effort. Where others were brave in times of war, he defeated enemies with stealth and treachery. So the Lord of the Ways whispered into Wolfcall’s ear about the fairest lady ever born. He arrayed Rinalde in rich robes of purple and crimson, and gave him a circlet to wear on his brow, as if he might be a prince from a faraway land. Picking up the clever lad in his mighty hand, Darmon Silver Tongue bore his ward to Mirien’s kingdom, just in time to strive for the lady.
Now, the suitors faced too many challenges to tell of. A great tournament was held, with splendid deeds and stupendous feats, culminating in the withdrawal of Morwyn’s ward, who decided he and Mirien were not a fitting match. By the final contest, all the gods’ wards had been eliminated except those of Terak the Mighty, Canelle the Swift, and Darmon the Traveler. They would face the champion of Mirien.
Before the last contest began, Morwyn and the other gods whose wards had been eliminated declared that the remaining three patron gods couldn’t grant their wards special powers or skills. The suitor who won would have to do it on his own. And while Merry Darmon thought it unfair to change the rules of the game, neither Terak nor Canelle minded, for they were sure of their wards’ impending victories.
When Mirien’s champion strode onto the tournament field, the people of the kingdom cheered, and Mirien’s mother, the Queen, rose, saying, “Behold! Sir Edrikul, whom none have ever bested!” Edrikul stood a hand higher than the others and wore grim, black, armor. His face was obscured by a great helm with the likeness of a dragon atop it. The Queen declared: “The champion of my daughter challenges each suitor!”
And so Edrikul came first to Lord Morgan, ward of Terak, known to be the mightiest man alive. When he was but a boy, Morgan had slain a bear with naught but his hands. “Lord Morgan, it is known to all that you are the mightiest man alive, so I challenge you to a contest of might!” At this the crowd gasped, and Lord Morgan laughed, saying, “I accept!” Sir Edrikul responded at once, gesturing to a great hoist at the edge of the field. Its load was obscured, and at Edrikul’s signal a squire removed the cover to reveal an awesome anvil, seemingly made for giants.
“Lord Morgan, this anvil was made for the King of the Cloud Giants long ago, and its weight is as great as a hill’s. For the challenge, each of us will remove his armor, lie under it, and have it dropped on his chest. The mightiest of us should be able to lift it off. You go first.” Morgan stared at this terrible, black anvil and blanched. “This I refuse, for it is not strength you seek, but murder!” at which the crowd laughed and jeered. And so Terak’s ward was bested without even beginning the contest.
Next, Sir Edrikul approached Canelle’s ward, Donivere the Great. Known throughout the land as the greatest sportsman who ever lived, Donivere could strike the mark with his bow from a mile away, and sunder his arrow with a second shot. He had once outrun a horse for a bet. “Donivere, who is called Great,” Edrikul pronounced, “you are the greatest bowman who ever lived, and the swiftest on foot. Thus, I challenge you to a contest of speed and archery!” Now, Donivere was no fool and had seen the last challenge, so he hesitated. But with no choice, he eventually muttered, “I accept,” and the crowd cheered. At this Sir Edrikul clapped his gauntleted hands, and a great bow of yew was borne out to him by two squires, which Edrikul drew back and strung. “This is the mightiest bow in the kingdom, made by our greatest craftsmen. Each of us will draw it, and fire an arrow at the back of the other. The contestant must outrun the arrow shot from the bow. He that lives shall win the lady Mirien’s hand. You run first.”
Donivere thought something of the like was coming and, shaking his head in disgust, walked from the field without a word. At this the crowd booed and then laughed merrily, but Rinalde Wolfcall was not pleased. When Sir Edrikul approached him, Rinalde said, “A challenge of wits, Sir Edrikul, for I have proven myself wily? I accept.” Edrikul nodded and clapped again. Strong, tall men of the Queen’s guard came onto the field with huge, keen blades and surrounded the two. “You and I shall engage in a war of words, Rinalde Wolfcall,” the Champion of Mirien said, “regaling the Queen and all others with the worst insults each of us may conjure. We shall each of us tell the whole of the assembly what a base and vile creature we think Mirien to be, casting on her the most insidious attributes of perfidy imaginable for the entertainment of these, her most loyal guards.” Sir Edrikul indicated the tall men with great swords. “You speak first.”
All eyes were now on Rinalde Wolfcall. The hands of Mirien’s personal bodyguards, each of whom loved her more than life, tightened on their blades in preparation for a stream of outrages. But rather than walking away from this task that meant sure death, Rinalde said, “I have seen Mirien many times in this tournament, and I have observed that she is the envy of gold, and that starlight seeks to emulate her beauty.” At this the crowd gasped, amazed, for surely this was no way to win a contest of insults. And yet Rinalde continued for a full hour with a magnificent encomium to the princess’ many qualities. Some of the greatest poems to love were composed that day, on that ground, as words tumbled from Rinalde’s lips in song and verse, all hailing Mirien as the finest lady to grace the mortal world—and all said in earnest, for Rinalde had come to love the lady from afar with a passion unyielding.
And when he concluded, the crowd laughed, for clearly this supposedly clever man had lost this contest of wits and been proven a fool. But in a moment, the crowd hushed as Sir Edrikul raised his hands. They waited for the great knight to cast the pettiest insult at the princess to win the contest, for any ill word would win this challenge. And yet, he said nothing, instead unfastening his helmet and lifting it up. Spilling forth from under Edrikul’s helm, long golden hair and tears revealed the champion to be Princess Mirien, wearing armor that made her seem tall and fearsome, and Rinalde’s words had pierced her heart more surely than any barb or dart. Without a word, the armored princess embraced Darmon’s ward and kissed his lips, for as Rinalde had fallen in love with her from afar, the words of the wily suitor had won her most worthy heart.
When the two were wed, the other gods bestowed golden laurels on Darmon of the Many Faces to signify him Champion of the Gods. For he and his ward alone knew that to win, sometimes you must lose.