by D L Sims
They entered a large room, empty except for paintings of Kurem sitting on a throne of bones in the snow, and a painting of Nomir surrounded by flowers and holding a small babe. The symbol of the Gods was painted at the front of the room, an intricate twelve pointed star inside three circles with the words: The Gods’ favor is man’s will.
Six desks lined up in two rows of three with a larger desk sat before them. The tests were already on the surfaces with a pot of ink and a quill next to them. Khett chose the desk closest to the door, next to Arlen and behind Yvney. Master Roxell beamed and clapped his hands as if to get their attention, but they were silent and already turned towards the front of the room.
“Cheating will not be tolerated. You will be removed from the Trials if you are caught.” His smile never fell from his face. Khett wondered if it hurt the man’s cheeks to grin that much. “Remember, you have four hours. You may begin.”
Khett looked down at the pile of parchment in front of him. He flipped to the back to see that the test was over three-hundred questions, and then read the first:
What brought the end of the Dragon War in the 1300’s, and who was responsible for its end?
Around him, the scratching of quills had started, the only sound in the room besides the Champions’ breathing. Khett dipped his quill in ink and answered the question.
Grant’s hand was still cramped, even as he walked up the stairs of the Manor to his room. The test had been harder than he expected. He hadn’t realized there were going to be so many questions, or that there would be some questions he had left blank because the answer escaped him.
Who the hell was Sedrik the Wise anyway?
He pushed the door open to find Lonis sitting on the floor in the middle of the room. His raven hair had fallen forward into his eyes as he thumbed Grant’s blade. He didn’t look up as Grant entered and settled on his knees in front of him.
“How was the first Trial?” Lonis' voice sounded more like gravel than its usual honeyed tone.
“Harder than I thought.” Grant tried to catch his eye, but the other man kept his head down. “Who is Sedrik the Wise?”
“The first Trials Master,” Lonis answered, finally looking up at Grant with sad, light brown eyes. “He helped write the laws of Elthare and the rules for the Trials.”
“I should’ve had you take the test for me,” Grant said, trying to lighten his friend’s mood. He took the dagger from Lonis' hands and flipped it back and forth between his palms. “What is the matter?”
“Nothing,” Lonis said, taking the dagger back and gripping it by its ivory handle. “Thinking.”
“About?”
“I--” Lonis' eyes flipped up, and the emotion in the depths of his pupils choked Grant. He felt unable to breathe. The air hung heavy with so many unsaid words. “It’s nothing, Sin.”
Lonis crossed the room. He stood with his hand on the handle for a few moments with tense shoulders, and Grant wished he would say something, but he did not turn around. He did not say a word. Lonis opened the door and exited the room. Grant’s breath left him in a small woosh, leaving him aching.
Ikar gazed at the animal-shaped hedges in the Manor’s gardens. He stood in front of a large wolf, which reminded him of home. He missed the north, his manor, his bed. He missed the sad lute players who sat outside the shops and the smell of pine trees that came from the woods. He even missed the tavern and its drunken patrons.
“Here you are,” Roslen’s sweet voice came behind him, and he turned to see her picking her way over the white path, the skirt of her red dress gathered in her dainty hands. “I have been searching everywhere for you.”
“And you’ve found me,” Ikar said with a small smile. He went to her, pulling her to his chest and burying his face in her fiery hair. “What are you going to do with me now that you have me?”
“Wicked, wicked things, Lord Ikar,” she whispered in his ear, tracing the shell with her lips.
She kissed him, engulfing him in heat and the smell of cinnamon. Her hands tangled in his hair, pale against the midnight strands. She rubbed against him, her small breasts soft against his lean chest. He brought his hand up, cupping one in his palm. She let out a soft moan, rubbing against his hardness, but he pulled back, breathless.
“Not here. The world can see us.”
Her eyes blazed as blue and untamed as the ocean. “You know I’ve never cared about those sorts of things.”
He chuckled, cupping her warm cheek with his long fingers. “My love, the exhibitionist.” He kissed her again, light and chaste. “Come, let us make our way inside.”
“We will,” she said, pushing her body more into his as a slight breeze blew through the garden. He removed his black cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. “But I have something to say first.”
Ikar led her to a small bench further down the walkway and sank onto the iron frame, pulling Roslen to his side. Her ocean eyes were a calm before the storm. She pulled her bottom lip into her mouth, biting into the flesh with her top teeth.
“I’ve missed my bleeding for three months, Ikar.”
Ikar’s brows pulled down in confusion. “What do you mean? You are not ill, are you?”
Her eyebrow raised, and she smiled a little. “You really are very dense.” She kissed him, softening the blow of her words. “I’m with child, my love. You’re going to be a father.”
Ikar’s heart stopped in his chest. His lungs had stopped working for a moment. He stared at her, unseeing. His brain stuck on one word: father. You’re going to be a father. Ikar stood as still as a statue. He feared if the breeze blew any harder, he would break into a million pieces like glass.
“Breathe, Ikar. “ But when his chest still didn’t rise and fall, she shook his shoulder and said with more urgency, “Breathe.”
Even as he exhaled, her eyes were still worried, and she chewed on her lip. Her hands were cold in his. “Are-are you sure?”
“Quite. The doctor here in Rivland confirmed it this morning while you were at the Trial.”
“Who took you?” he panicked. “You shouldn’t have gone alone!”
“Briar was with me.” She brought her hands to his face, cupping his cheeks, rubbing her thumbs along the sharpness of the bones. “Are you happy?”
A smile, big, broad and rusty from decades of rarely gracing his face, appeared. He gathered Roslen in his arms, pulling her into his lap. “More than I have ever been, Roz.” He kissed her, losing himself in the taste of her sweetness. “Our parents are going to be angry.”
“Why do you say that?” her voice light and giddy, even as her eyes dimmed at his words.
“We are having a child before we are married.”
Roslen laughed. “They will be angrier if we do not have a boy.”
“Right you are, my love.” He kissed her again and again. “They will want an heir to carry the Dominikov name.”
“I will be happy as long as our babe has your eyes,” she said, resting her head against his shoulder.
“Oh, Gods, save our child from looking anything like me!” he joked, throwing his hands in the air. He looked up to the sky. “Kurem, make my child look like his mother.”
Roslen giggled. “Or her mother.”
Ikar smiled. “Or her mother.” He looked down at Roslen, getting lost in her wide eyes. “I have never been happier than I am in this moment. Thank you, Roz.”
“All I want is your happiness, Ikar. I need nothing more.”
“You are the only person who brings me joy like this. You are the light that chases away the darkness.”
He bent his head and kissed her for what felt like hours, placing his hand over her belly as if he could already feel his child moving.
Chapter
Nine
“You’re going to do well,” Arlen assured Andalen four days after the first Trial.
She was dressed in his trousers and tunic, each made from a shiny, soft fabric dyed the colors of their family. He was adorned in the p
lain trousers and tunic she had worn to meet him, and her curly wig, with his face partially hidden behind the hood of her cloak.
“This is what you were born for.”
Andalen itched at the uncomfortable bindings around her chest that made her small breasts virtually nonexistent. “Have you seen Nix? I wish to speak to her before I go out.”
“I haven’t,” he said. “Do you want me to find her?”
“No. She’s probably already in the crowd.”
Outside the tent, the roar of the audience could be heard, chanting the names of their favored families. The Master was revealing the Champions’ test scores, his voice carrying from the open field nearly fifty feet away. Arlen had done well on the knowledge test, tying with Khett for the highest score.
A small man, wearing a turban and a scarf over the lower half of his face, entered the tent, carrying a wooden box filled with brushes and paint. He looked around the clean tent with a bland expression, quirking an eyebrow at the trunk of clothes, a table of food and two chairs.
“Are you ready, Lord Arlen?” he asked, looking at Andalen.
Andalen’s heart pounded. Does he recognize that it’s me? But the man seemed too involved in his own work to care about her, and judging from his accent and his clothes, he came from Keresh. This man wouldn’t have known what Arlen looked like.
Arlen turned away from the man, tucking his face deeper into the hood of Andi’s cloak. His shoulders rolled forward as if someone were pushing on them.
She nodded. “Who are you?” She deepened her voice to resemble something close to a man’s.
Behind her, Arlen snorted. The man looked at her like she had disrespected the Gods. “You do not know me? I am Hasa, artist from the fire lands.”
“I’m sorry,” Andalen muttered. “I didn’t know.”
“They say you are brilliant artist, and you don’t know Hasa? What kind of artist doesn’t know Hasa?”
She could feel Arlen’s eyes on her, warning her not to mess up again.
The man came forward and painted her cheeks and forehead to resemble a fox, and then painted her lips black with a vertical gold line through the center. He stepped back, looking at his work. “You look like a warrior, Lord Arlen, a man made for battle.”
Long ago, when the nobles fought in wars, they would paint their faces with the animal of their house. The common soldiers painted theirs in beautiful dots and lines; she much preferred the dots and lines to the face of an animal.
“Done. Now you know Hasa.” He exited the tent, and Arlen turned, smiling slightly at Andalen.
“You really do look like a family soldier, sister.”
She ran a hand over the very short curls atop her head. “I feel ridiculous. I didn’t realize how much glamour and show went into participating in these Trials.”
Arlen laughed. “It would not be very entertaining for the kingdom if there were no performance.”
Another man came into the tent. “Lord Arlen? I’m to escort you to the field.”
Andalen turned and hugged Arlen, wrapping her arms around his slender shoulders as nerves took over. “Show them what it means to be an Amadon,” he whispered in her ear.
Andalen followed the man out of the tent and through the large field where the Champions were being held until the Trial began. There were several massive tents around her, the low buzz of chatter came from within some of them, but Andalen couldn’t make out any words. The Trial Master’s servants bustled through the field carrying trays of food, clothes, and bows and quivers.
They were stopped by a young man, no older than thirteen or fourteen if Andalen had to guess. He thrust a bow and quiver at her with no words. He kept his eyes down, showcasing a bruise on his cheek, yellow and purple as it healed.
Instead of taking the bow and quiver, she knelt in front of the child, and his eyes met hers, sad and blue. “Who did this to you?” she whispered in a deep voice.
He looked up at the servant escorting her, who was standing as stiff as a board beside her. “No one, Lord Arlen. Good luck.” He threw the bow and quiver on the ground and scurried away.
Andalen frowned, watching the child disappear between Khett and Ikar’s tents. She picked up the discarded items and then faced the other servant looking at her with a curious expression. “I do hope the Master is not abusing his servants.”
The man met her look of apprehension with a smile. “Master Roxell treats us well...my brother is an easy target for the other servants because he is young.”
“He’s your brother?”
The servant nodded as he led her out of the field and down a tree-lined path. “Our parents died when I was young. I was the only one who could take care of Belmar.”
“That is noble of you.”
“It was my duty.” The pride in the servant's voice made Andalen smile.
They came to another large field surrounded by spectators. They cheered as Andalen came into view. Banners of green and gold glittered in the sun.
“A-ma-don! A-ma-don!”
In front of her were six painted targets; circles of black, yellow and red on a white canvas. The Dominikovs were already standing before their targets, bows at their sides and quivers at their back. They were dressed in red and silver garments with their faces painted to look like wolves snarling at their prey.
The Master stood on a dais off to the side, dressed in an elaborate silver and black cloak with his styled hair shining in the sun.
“Welcome, Lord Arlen!” he greeted, his voice carrying through the crowd. “Take a spot at a target of your choosing!”
The crowd cheered.
One by one, the other Champions were escorted onto the field, all of them painted to resemble their family’s animal. Someone had put antlers on Phinn to make him look more like a stag. Khett stood on the other side of Lord Phinn, looking at Andalen with a mild, curious expression.
She turned away from him.
“Champions, welcome to the second Trial! For centuries it has been the great honor of the King to join his soldiers in battle! This Trial is to pay homage to all the kings who died protecting their kingdom!” The crowd’s cheers rose, nearly drowning out the Master’s next words. “The scores you receive today will be added to your test scores, and the two highest scores will receive an advantage at the next Trial!”
Andi’s hands shook at her sides, her stomach lurched. You are going to be queen. You are going to be queen, she chanted to herself, but still, nerves wracked through her body. The sun was too hot, and the roar of the spectators too loud.
“Champions, nock your arrows!”
With a trembling hand, Andalen reached behind her and pulled one of the five arrows from the quiver, fitting it into the bow. She held the bow fast. The familiar feel of the firm wood steadied her nerves. She breathed in and out until the roar of the crowd fell away, and her breaths were all she could hear.
“Loose!” the Master called.
The arrow sailed from her bow, whizzing through the air until it slammed into the target with a loud thwack, hitting it dead in the center. Around her, arrows hit their targets, but none had hit the red as hers had.
“Nock!” the Master called again.
They repeated the action for the next four arrows. Hers hit the bullseye each time, a cluster of feathers and wood blocking out the red paint. As she lowered her bow she looked around at the other targets. Arrows stuck out from the canvas, most in the yellow painted on as the second inner ring. But there were two in the bullseye of Grantham’s, and one in Khett’s.
“The winner of today’s Trial,” the Master called, “is Lord Arlen!”
“A-ma-don! A-ma-don! A-ma-don!” the crowd cheered louder than before, and it rushed through her like a wave. She smiled with triumph, thrusting her bow into the air in time with their chanting.
Andalen sank into the chair inside the tent.
She had asked to be left alone. The rush of the Trial had left her feeling like a wind-up toy that had come to it
s end. She sighed, pulling the knee-high leather boots from her feet.
“I knew it was you out there,” Khett’s voice came from near the tent’s entrance. She turned to see him standing just inside the flap with his arms clasped behind his back, his face still painted to resemble a hawk. “Where is Arlen?”
Andi sighed. She would never be able to lie to Khett. “How did you know it was me?” she asked as she untucked the tunic from the hem of her trousers.
“You stand differently than Arlen. You stand straighter, as if you’re a tree in the forest,” he answered, coming closer. He came to a stop at her left, close enough that she could smell the woodsy oil they had rubbed all over his body before the Trial. “And Arlen would not have been able to get all five arrows in the bullseye.”
“You underestimate my brother, Khett?” She quirked an eyebrow at him, posed, waiting; a viper waiting to attack if he said one wrong word.
“Not at all, but he would not have been able to make those shots with his blindness.”
Andalen could not argue with that, and she relaxed. “Are you going to tell the Master?”
Khett came to stand in front of her, smiling that smile that reminded her of mischievous children--the smile she had fallen in love with as a girl of sixteen. “No. I know how much you have always wanted to be queen. I will not tell the Master your secret, but you have to do something for me.”
“What?” she asked, dubious of what this favor would be.
His cunning smile only grew bigger. “I will ask before the next Trial.”
Khett came close, the smell of sweat and something strong and alluring emitted from his skin. He bent down to her. His brown eyes surveyed her face. It had been six years since she had ended their relationship, but she felt she would always be drawn to him, no matter where their lives would lead them in the future.
“Short hair looks good on you.”
“Khett--”
Her words cut off when his mouth touched hers. She closed her eyes, giving in to the kiss only for a moment, finding it hard not to curl into the familiarity of his lips on hers.