by K.N. Lee
“Er—Isabelle. Isabelle Aryn.”
“And what is your business in the city?”
“I’ve come to try my hand at becoming a Fabled Hunter.”
That got his attention, and everyone’s within hearing distance. Several pairs of eyes looked her way. Isabelle shifted uncomfortably.
“A Fabled Hunter?” The man eyed her doubtfully. “You mean you plan to enter the tournament?”
“Yes.” Isabelle looked back coolly, hoping she hid the doubt that swirled inside. “Is there a problem?”
“You won’t win, girl,” a stranger said. He was a rough looking character, with shaggy hair and scraggly beard. “You won’t last a second against the others.”
“If you’ve proven your worth, anyone can compete,” the gatekeeper said sternly, but then in an undertone said, “You might want to rethink it, lass. The competition is stiff every year, but this one has some particularly unsavory characters, what with commoners being allowed in.”
“This may be my only chance, sir.” Isabelle swallowed, gripping the handle of her bow. “I’m a commoner, too.”
“Ah. Well.” The gatekeeper nodded his head. “Good luck, lass. I wish you the best. Isabelle Aryn. I will try to work out my guard duty schedule ahead of time in order to make sure I’m there to cheer you on.” He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the edges.
“Thank you, sir,” Isabelle replied. The knot in her stomach loosened a little. She passed under the snowy white arch and entered the city.
She was immediately lost. The clamor of noise was deafening. Hawkers cried their wares, housewives gossiped in the streets, farmers led their oxen and carts down the streets … she even saw a small girl herding a gaggle of geese.
There was color everywhere. The cobblestones were every shade of brown, gray, beige, even purple and blue. The houses were painted in bright whites, pale yellows, and greens. Most of the roofs were a bright white tile.
There was something different about this city, but Isabelle couldn’t quite put her finger on it. A herd of children ran by giggling. A horse drawn carriage rattled by, the driver whistling. Staring in open-mouthed wonder at it all, Isabelle bumped into a man selling turnips.
“Steady now,” he laughed.
Then Isabelle knew what it was. Everyone was happy. Mother’s sang to their babes, men talked over ale, and children ran without fear.
Illyminatym.
Isabelle wandered aimlessly for nearly an hour, soaking in the city. It wasn’t until her stomach growled in hunger that she suddenly remembered why she was here. She asked for directions from several different people, and eventually found herself on a broad, straight street. It was larger than the other winding paths she strolled down earlier, and the traffic on this road was so thick her progression was considerably slowed. On foot, she was able to move more quickly than riders on horses and farmers with livestock.
Less than an hour later the king’s palace stood before her. It was even more impressive up close. The white stone it was made of sparkled and shone in the sunlight. The roofs looked like they were made of glass. The door and window frames gilded with gold.
There were more guards standing at attention here, and she swallowed, pretending to be confident as she walked up to them. Giving them her name and reason for coming, the guards exchanged looks, but allowed her to pass.
A young servant in pale blue and white livery stood at the top of the steps leading inside the palace.
“You’re here to participate in the competition? This way, please.”
The boy’s hair was blond and clipped just above the shoulders, bouncing when he walked. Isabelle watched it as she followed him, pressing her hands to her stomach. She felt awful. What if the king wouldn’t see her? She’d pulled Lord Girild’s letter out of her rucksack, and clutched it like a lifeline. What if it wasn’t enough? What if the king didn’t believe her?
She was so preoccupied with her thoughts she barely noticed the riches and finery around her. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that the king allow her to compete. She had to prove to herself that she was capable of this. She could be a Fabled Hunter.
At last, they came to an immense pair of oaken doors. The servant bid her to wait and entered, leaving her standing alone with two guards at the entrance. Several minutes later he returned, swinging an arm formally toward the door with a bow. “Please enter. The king will see you now.”
“Now?” Isabelle stammered, and the boy smiled.
“He holds would-be Fable Hunters in high esteem, my lady. Only the brave and strong aspire to such a lofty goal, and make it this far.”
Isabelle wasn’t sure if that should make her feel better or not, but lifting her chin and taking a deep breath, she walked past the servant and into the throne room.
28
The throne room was three times as large as Lady Ebony’s audience chamber. The floors were white marble, with cream-colored pillars that towered impossibly high, the ceiling vaulted like a cathedral. The windows were stained glass, depicting clouds and a shining sun. Above the throne itself was a massive window depicting a pale blue dragon, each of its scales crafted in detail.
Isabelle barely had time to take it in before her gaze settled on the golden throne, in particular on the man sitting in it.
The king. King Ruald. He sat on the throne with an air of authority, his dark head held up proudly. His hair was black, his beard neatly trimmed. He wore a crown of gold. He fixed his piercing, dark brown eyes on Isabelle, his large hands resting easily on the throne’s armrests. His skin was the same color as Isabelle’s; it was said his ancestors hailed from Seabound.
“My king.” Isabelle sank in a deep curtsey, heart thumping wildly.
“Servant Pascal says you mean to compete in the tournament.” The king’s voice was rich and deep. “Is this true?”
“Yes, my king.” She swallowed, trying to work moisture back into her mouth.
“Rise.”
Isabelle stood, willing her legs to stop wobbling. She looked at the king, locking gazes. He leaned forward a little in his throne, watching her with interest.
“Isabelle Aryn. You’ll be one of the few women who’ve entered the tournament. Know that it’s not for the faint of heart. A Fabled Hunter must be the strongest and brightest of individuals in the land. Women are not treated any different in the competition. You must prove you are more resourceful and powerful than the men who also compete.”
“I am prepared my king.” I hope.
King Ruald rubbed his bearded chin thoughtfully. “I am intrigued. The other women have been big for being female. Strong. You are a wisp of a thing, barely a day over sixteen, if I guess correctly.”
“Eighteen, my king.” Magic that be. Did she look that young? “I shoot the bow. I have a keen eye.”
“An archeress?” the king mused. Many of the nobles gathered in the room were now eyeing her with curiosity, the women with derision. “That is traditionally a man’s sport.”
Isabelle couldn’t help it. She raised her chin proudly, eyeing the nobles gathered. “There isn’t a man in the city who could beat me at archery, my king.”
At this, a murmur rose up among everyone gathered there, some of the nobles snorting in disbelief, the woman staring at her in shock.
The king laughed. “A lofty claim, Isabelle Aryn. I hope you can back up those words at the tournament.” He held out a dark hand. “What have you brought to prove your worth?”
Isabelle walked forward, meaning to hand him the letter that was signed and sealed by Lord Girild, but a fussy looking servant stepped forward with a shocked titter, snatching the envelope from her. “Commoners don’t approach the king,” he said, frowning at her. He turned and, with a flourish and a bow, handed the note to the king.
King Ruald frowned at it. “This is signed by Lord Girild in the Eastern Province. What business do you have with him?” At those words a hush landed over the throne room, nobles leaning forward as they strained to hear ever
y word.
Isabelle’s mouth was dry. She didn’t know what to say, and before she could form a proper answer the king broke the seal, opening the letter. The king’s brow lowered in amazement as he read.
“Lady Ebony is dead.”
The throne room erupted, nobles and ladies talking amongst each other in shocked incredulity. Some of the ladies shot smug looks at Isabelle, waving their fans in front of their painted faces as if looking forward to her just punishment for bringing such ill news.
“Lady Ebony, it would seem, was behind the murders of several women in the Province, killed out of jealousy.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Isabelle was sure that she’d be able to hear a feather drop. She waited with bated breath, watching the king. She hoped she hadn’t made a terrible mistake. The king wouldn’t blame her, would he?
King Ruald was nodding thoughtfully as he read. “I see. Interesting. It’s a pity that she allowed herself to be so consumed by jealousy, but it doesn’t surprise me. She always was an overly ambitious woman.” He folded the letter closed. “It mentions a silver comb, enchanted with an Endless Slumber spell. I presume you have it?”
“Yes, my king.” Isabelle knelt on the cold marble floor, carefully searching through her pack, and procured the comb, prudently wrapped in a linen cloth. She handed it to the fussy servant who then handed to the king. “Careful, my king,” she cautioned.
King Ruald smiled wryly at her, then held the comb on the palm of one hand, gently gliding his other hand over it, muttering under his breath. The comb glowed briefly, then returned to its normal state. Isabelle’s eyes widened. She had no idea the king practiced magic. It was a rare skill to have.
“It’s enchanted,” he confirmed. He spoke loudly, lifting his dark head, so the nobles would hear. “The girl tells the truth. Lord Girild is ruling in Ebony’s stead until I am able to work out matters there.” He fixed Isabelle with a piercing stare. “A girl who can shoot better than any man in the city, who also helped topple a corrupt Province ruler.” He smiled. “I will be watching you, Isabelle Aryn. I rather hope you do well.”
Isabelle sank into a curtsey, and then Pascal was tugging on her arm, leading her away from the throne room. Everything seemed to move slowly, like she was walking underwater. Lord Girild had fortunately spoken highly of her and the king wasn’t angry.
Isabelle was given a room above the servant’s quarters. Less grand than a noble’s room would be, it was still more lavish than any of the inns she’d stayed at during her travels. The walls were painted a pale blue, the hardwood floor polished so it shone golden in the light that streamed through the window. There was a small desk and chair for writing, and a small dresser with a pitcher and washbasin. She hardly saw it any of it.
She dropped her things in a corner, walking over to the bed. Sitting on the edge, a huge grin spread over her face. She’d been approved by the king himself. Isabelle laughed, hugging herself. She could hardly believe it. Her hard work had paid off.
She was going to compete in the tournament.
29
Isabelle woke the next morning as dawn began to tint the horizon a rosy pink and orange. She sat up in bed, yawning, stretching her arms out in front of her. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d slept that well. Not since the last time she’d slept in a proper bed. She then remembered the last time she had; she’d woken up with Silvan lying next to her.
Color flooded her cheeks and she scrambled out of bed. Striding to the window she pushed it open, breathing in the morning air. It smelled fresh; clean. For a city anyway.
She hurriedly dressed, but left her cloak in the wardrobe. She wouldn’t need it today. Today was the day she’d be shown where the competitions would take place.
A knock sounded on the door, and when Isabelle opened it, a young serving girl stood in the hall. “Breakfast.” She skipped into the room, holding a silver tray laden with porridge, berries, and cream. She was dressed in the pale blue and white livery of the king’s servants, her blonde hair hanging below her shoulders. She smiled up at Isabelle. “Will that be everything, my lady?”
“Oh, no. I’m not a lady,” Isabelle protested. She picked up a berry, popping it into her mouth. “I’m just Isabelle.”
The girl smiled. “You’re a competitor in the tournament. That makes you a lady, at least until you lose.”
Isabelle smiled wryly, folding her arms across her chest. “I’m not going to lose.”
“As you say, my lady.”
Isabelle frowned at the girl. “Now you’re just saying that.”
The girl fidgeted with her apron. “Sorry, my lady. It’s just, Sir Reginald is going to be competing. Everyone says he’s going to win.”
“Who’s he?”
The girl looked up at her, obviously horrified by Isabelle’s ignorance. “He’s … he’s—Sir Reginald! He’s from the Western Province. Lord Brand’s son.”
Lord Brand was the ruler of the Western Province. Isabelle had heard of him, but knew nothing of him past that, and didn’t know anything about his children.
The serving girl had taken on a dreamy expression. “He’s so handsome. He has long, black hair and dark brown eyes. He’s very tall, and very strong. I hope he throws me a flower.” The girl shivered and Isabelle bit her lip, trying to hold in a laugh. The servant couldn’t be older than fourteen.
“What about the other competitors?” Isabelle asked. “Did you see a man with red hair?”
The girl shook her head. “No. But I haven’t been around many of the others.”
“Can I go look?” Isabelle needed to know if Jack was here. He had to be here.
The servant shook her head again, blonde curls swaying. “No, my lady. The king doesn’t allow the competitors to speak to each other before the tournament begins.”
“I see.” That was frustrating. “So I’m just supposed to stay in my room all day?”
The girl curtseyed. “If it pleases you, I can take you to the training halls. Hunter Tyro has requested to see your skill with the bow.” The girl’s eyes flitted over to the bow that was leaning against the foot of the bed.
“Tyro? He’s here?” Isabelle’s heart lifted. “That’s great! Can we go now?”
The girl motioned to the tray. “If it pleases you, my lady, please eat. I will take you when you’re ready.” She then pointed to the wardrobe. “You’ll find some trousers in there, my lady. It’d be wise to don some before heading off to training.”
After getting dressed, Isabelle wolfed down her breakfast in a manner that was probably less than ladylike, then snatched up her bow and quiver, following the girl out the door. The servant’s name was Cerah, and she skipped down the hall less like a servant, and more like a carefree child.
Isabelle was more at ease today now that she knew she was going to compete. It was as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders, one she didn’t know she’d been carrying.
She looked around the palace with interest as she was led to the training halls. The riches she’d seen in Lady Ebony’s castle was comparable, but darker. Evil. Here, everything was light. Colorful. Joyful. Isabelle could see why it was considered the heart of the country.
The training halls were huge, massive pillars of stone holding up the immense ceilings painted with epic battle scenes. Isabelle looked up at it when she entered, her jaw dropping in amazement. Even from here she could see the painstaking detail the artists made in the mural.
“Isabelle.” She started in surprise at her name and saw Tyro striding over to her, his handsome face split in a wide grin. “I wondered if you were going to come.”
“I got a little waylaid, but here I am.” Isabelle shrugged. “Cerah said you wanted to see me?” She jerked her head in the direction of the servant only to realize the girl had already left.
“Yes.” Tyro nodded in affirmation, his long red-brown hair pulled back in a sleek tail. “Every competitor who would compete must pass a physical examination.”
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“What do you mean?” Isabelle asked, puzzled.
“A couple of things. I need to watch you run, jump, basically to perform a series of exercises to make sure you’re in good physical condition. I also need to know that your body is healthy.” He coughed awkwardly, his face reddening. “Aviina will be here shortly. I’ll have her take care of the second part of the exam.”
“Thank you,” Isabelle said faintly. She hadn’t even considered that. “Does the king really care whether or not I’m in good shape?”
Tyro nodded. “Our king is caring. He would not have someone who is not physically able risk their lives trying to secure a position they wouldn’t be able to bear.”
Isabelle nodded. It made sense. She felt a nervous tingle run down her spine. Was she strong enough?
Tyro motioned to the back wall where a long table stood. “I see you brought your bow with you, but only the weapons found on those tables will be allowed. We can’t risk someone using an unauthorized magicked weapon.”
Isabelle walked down the hall to examine the array of weapons. There were several to choose from: swords, maces, spears, bows, daggers, and more. Her hands lightly touched on the daggers. She missed Jack.
“You don’t have to choose anything now,” Tyro said. “Start by running the length of the hall, twice.”
Isabelle broke into a run, obliging him. Tyro then had her perform a series of exercises that she was completely unfamiliar with: pushups, jumping jacks—she chuckled at the name—bridge, and climb-the-mountain. She was exhausted when he called for a halt and collapsed on the floor, groaning.
“Did I fail?” she gasped.
“On the contrary, you did surprisingly well.” He offered her a glass of water and she took it gratefully, gulping it down. “Easy, Isabelle. Drink too fast and you’ll make yourself sick.” She paused and he continued. “Granted, you’re still one of our weakest opponents on a physical level.”