by K.N. Lee
Isabelle sighed with exasperation.
“Don’t get worked up about it,” Tyro warned. “If you let doubt worm its way into your mind, you’ve already lost. Keep cool. So you’re not as strong as everyone else. So what? What do you have that you can use to your advantage against your opponents?”
“I’m good at archery,” Isabelle said, and Tyro smiled.
“About that. You’re the talk of the palace. Nobles are saying you told the king you can outshoot him.”
“What? No I didn’t,” Isabelle protested on a rise of panic. “Only that I could shoot better than anyone … in the city,” she finished.
Tyro chuckled. “I’m going to venture a guess and say you didn’t know King Ruald is considered more than a fair hand at the bow. But no matter. You won’t be competing against him. Show me what you’ve got, Isabelle.”
Isabelle walked back to the table and selected a recurve bow. It was similar to the one she already owned, a little smaller perhaps. She then selected some arrows. She frowned at the tips, touching one. “What’s wrong with these arrows?”
“They’ve been enchanted,” Tyro replied. “They look like real arrows, and shoot like real arrows, but they won’t harm your opponent. Look.” He pressed his finger on the point, and blue dye bubbled up, coating his fingertip. “See?” It’s so the judges can make a fair assessment. Get dye in any of your vital areas and you’re out. Three marks of dye on non-vital areas and you’re out.”
“Okay.” Isabelle nodded. She felt relieved. She hadn’t known what to expect, but she was glad that the probability of her killing someone here was very low.
Tyro led her down the hall into another area, where several archery targets were set up. He pointed. “Shoot the target on the far left. Bullseye, of course.”
Isabelle nodded. It’d be too easy. She nocked her arrow, drew, sighted and shot. The arrow flew true, slamming into the exact center.
Tyro whistled in admiration. “Shoot the one next to it.” Isabelle did. “The next three targets, rapid succession.”
Thock. Thock. Thock.
Tyro laughed, delighted. “Magic that be, woman. You’re amazing.”
“Thank you, sir,” Isabelle replied. She felt her heart fill with pride. “Do you think I have a chance at this?”
Tyro sobered, but he nodded. “I think you do, but it’ll be tough. You’re going to be going up against some serious competitors, not the least, Sir Reginald.”
“So I heard,” Isabelle said drily. “If he hopes to win me by wooing me with his brown eyes and dark locks, he’ll be in for a surprise.”
She’d hoped to coax a smile from Tyro, but he looked serious. “Be careful, Isabelle. After watching you shoot, I’m not sure the king himself could compete with that. But you’re not going to be as strong or as fast as the others. I like you, so I’m going to give you some advice. Use the bow when you can, use your smarts when you can’t.”
Isabelle nodded. “Thanks, Hunter Tyro.”
“No problem.” Tyro looked past her shoulder. “Ah. Here’s Aviina. She can take you to the women’s quarters for your exam.”
Isabelle remembered Aviina from Erum; the short, thin woman with long dark hair and a perpetual scowl. “Come with me then. Keep up.”
Isabelle waved to Tyro and hurried after Aviina. The woman was shorter than Isabelle but walked quickly, her back rigid, her chin tilted up in an arrogant fashion. Isabelle wondered what is was about the woman that made her think she needed to act so hostile. She tried engaging her in conversation, but the tiny woman glowered so furiously at her that Isabelle immediately fell silent.
The women’s quarters were only a short way from the training halls, and fairly small. She’d passed the men’s quarters on the way and it’d been much bigger. When Isabelle remarked on it, Aviina had given her a glare so hot Isabelle half expected to see sparks shoot from her eyes. “Why do you think? There aren’t as many of us. Women are weak and useless. It’s a rare thing when any of us have the backbone and grit to shoulder the same responsibilities men must.”
Isabelle was startled at the tirade and stayed silent. Aviina spat on the ground, muttering something about someone being useless, but Isabelle couldn’t hear who. Probably me, she thought sourly. Only she’ll be wrong. I’m going to win this. I hope.
The examination was embarrassing. Isabelle stripped her clothing off, trying not to squirm when Aviina examined her body critically. “You’re skinny as a rail. How do you expect to defeat a man in hand-to-hand combat, let alone an ogre, as a Hunter, if you’re so thin you could slide under a door?”
“I’ll shoot them with an arrow,” Isabelle retorted irritably.
Aviina rolled her eyes. “I said hand-to-hand, stupid. Ugh. Whatever. You’re capable of walking, and I don’t see any wounds or signs of a curse. When is your moon cycle?”
“I had it last week,” Isabelle replied. “Can I get dressed now?”
“Fine.” Aviina watched her dress, a scowl on her face. She’d be pretty if she didn’t look like she smelled something bad all the time. She threw her hands up a moment later. “I’m just going to say this once. If you have any designs on Tyro, I’ll have your head, got it?”
Isabelle paused in the middle of pulling up her trousers. “What?”
“Don’t ‘what’ me. I’ve seen you looking at him.” Aviina’s hands were clenched at her side.
Isabelle could have laughed. “I don’t know what you’re seeing, but there’s someone else I like.” She paused, her heart skipping a beat. She’d just admitted it out loud.
Aviina’s face lost a little of its hostility, but she still looked suspicious. “Who? That Sir Reginald?”
“No.” Isabelle shook her head, buttoning up her trousers and tucking her blouse in. “A mysterious young man with—” She’d almost said silver hair, but how many young men in the provinces had silver hair? “—blue eyes. He’s not in the competition.”
“Hmm.” Aviina still looked irritated but not angry. She shrugged. “Okay. Tyro’s mine, and I’m a little territorial, that’s all. We’re engaged.”
Isabelle stared. She wasn’t sure why Tyro would be crazy enough to get mixed up with the likes of a harridan like Aviina, but that was hardly her business. “Congratulations.”
“Sure.” Aviina waved a hand toward the door, looking bored. “Head back to the training halls. Tyro and I will train you a little longer before it’s the next competitors turn to train.”
Isabelle trudged back, thinking about what she’d said. Silvan; kind, powerful, brave and unbelievably handsome. Just thinking about him put her stomach in knots. But there was Jack, too. Funny, clever, compassionate Jack.
Isabelle frowned, pushing thoughts of the redheaded man away. If he was here, she’d sort things out with him later. He wasn’t the one to save her from the witch and the curse. And if he wasn’t here, now was hardly the time to think of him. Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside the training halls to continue her preparation for the tournament.
30
It was the first day of the tournament. It dawned overcast and gray, but the less than perfect weather didn’t deter the competition’s spectators in the slightest. The streets, while always busy, were especially packed as everyone made their way to the tournament grounds.
Isabelle felt like she might sick-up from nerves. She’d hardly slept the night before, fretting over what could go wrong. She was a woman. Even the king had mentioned that the other women in the tournament were bigger and stronger. Unless there were some short, gangly teenage boys in the competition, she’d be the smallest competitor, and probably the weakest.
The competition would start at noon. She forced herself to eat breakfast, and dressed slowly, purposefully not rushing things. Deep breaths.
Silvan. Where was he? Would he find what he was searching for? He said whether or not he did was up to her. What did that mean? Did he want her to win the tournament? She bit her lip. He was a man of many secrets. Why? She didn
’t know, but she wanted to.
She left her bow in her room this time, as she wouldn’t need it. She didn’t wait for a servant to escort her this time, content to walk alone. She’d never been to the tournament grounds, but following the steady flow of people, it wasn’t hard to find.
The grounds were decorated with blue, white, and gold pennants, lazily flapping in the early summer breeze. It was crowded, seemingly every inch of the area covered by people.
Standing on her tiptoes, Isabelle still wasn’t able to see over the heads of most people, but caught a glimpse of a large pavilion and made her way toward it.
Someone bumped into her, and she stumbled, knocking against someone else.
“Move it,” an angry woman’s voice spoke, and Isabelle was shoved over completely. She scrambled to her feet, angrily looking for who had pushed her, but the crowd had shifted and changed, so the woman was lost in the sea of people.
She continued forward, struggling against the tide. She’d just reached the pavilion when a herald stepped forward. “Hear ye!” he shouted into the crowd, face red from exertion. “The king has requested that the rules be repeated here, so competitors participate equally and fairly.”
The crowd quieted, but only by a little. Isabelle recognized the herald as the stuffy servant who had stood by the king during her audience. He glared at the flood of people, clearly not enjoying his job at the moment. “Rule one. You must have been approved by the king himself to participate in the tournament. You qualified by completing a quest, by finding a way to make the Four Provinces a safer place for his people.”
A cheer went up and the servant paused, irritated by the interruption. “Rule two,” he continued, “you must play by tournament rules. No outside weapons, and no magic.” There were some groans in the crowd, but the servant ploughed on as if he hadn’t heard. “Rule three has been modified this year,” he said. The noise dropped away to complete silence.
“As you know, most years our most gracious King Ruald has allowed only those of the nobility to compete as it guaranteed that the best and brightest became the Fabled Hunters, the law enforcement of our Provinces, the defenders against evil.” He paused, taking some much needed breaths before continuing, his face red from shouting. “But the king has decided that this year he would allow the common people to compete alongside nobles. To find, as our magnanimous king has said, ‘the diamond in the rock.’” He paused, dabbing at his face with a handkerchief. “With one difference. While any amount of nobles could become Hunters, so long as they passed the test, only one competitor will walk away with the title of Fabled Hunter this year. If you have any questions, talk to any of the Hunters stationed here. They should be able to address any concerns you may have. That is all. The tournament will begin in two hours’ time.”
The crowd roared its approval. Isabelle’s knees gave out and she fell to the trampled grass, her mind reeling.
One.
Only one would win the tournament this year. Why? Why had the king made that decision? It didn’t make any sense. She’d been hoping to squeeze into the top ten competitors, maybe into the top five if she got lucky.
She’d have to win. She’d have to be first.
How was she going to accomplish that?
A pair of worn out boots appeared in her vision, and a weathered hand reached down, held out to her. “You all right, doll?”
Isabelle looked up to see the rough man she’d met at the gates of the city. She put her hand in his and allowed him to pull her up. “Thank you,” she said. “I am fine.”
“Heat getting to ya?” He winked. “Good luck, girl. You’re going to need it.” He turned and strode away, using his broad arms and shoulders to muscle his way through the crowd.
Isabelle darted after the man, taking advantage of the space behind him so she wouldn’t waste her strength trying to get through. He went to the tents where the competitors were lining up.
Tyro, Aviina, and a handful of other Fabled Hunters were tying strips of colored cloth on competitors’ wrists.
Isabelle hurried up to Aviina, who was closest. She took a strip of red cloth, and tied it around Isabelle’s right wrist. “Good luck out there,” she said. “When they call red, you’ll step forward with all the other competitors who have red. When white is called, they will step out and so on. This is how they’ll divide the first round of competitors.”
“Okay.” Isabelle’s stomach felt like there were snakes in it. She put her left hand over it, trying to settle her nerves.
Aviina’s expression softened a little when she saw the motion. “Tyro says you’ve got a chance,” she said gruffly. “And he never lies. Don’t mess this up, Isabelle. We could use more female Fabled Hunters.” She turned and tied another strip of red on another woman. The woman was massively built, reminding Isabelle of the marauding warriors from the northern seas. She sneered at Isabelle.
“You won’t last a minute out there, twig.”
“Shut up.” Aviina bristled, standing on her tiptoes to glare up into the bigger woman’s face. “I’m smaller than she is, and I was a champion three years ago, you idiot.”
The large woman was taken aback by the verbal onslaught and fell silent, though she still scowled.
Isabelle looked around, trying to spot a familiar face in the crowd. There were more competitors than she would have suspected. When she mentioned it to Aviina, the little woman arched a dark eyebrow at her. “We always get fifty or so contestants every year. With commoners being allowed this year, it’s over a hundred.”
“But just one will win?” Isabelle felt another surge of hopelessness wash over her. “Why are we just hearing it now?”
Aviina shrugged. “I don’t know. Guess rumors never picked up on that important detail.” She tilted her head a moment. “Matter of fact, I’m not sure that detail was revealed until now.” She’d finished tying the strip of red on the large woman’s wrist and moved on to a short, wiry man.
Isabelle walked over to a water station where a bearded man stood passing out mugs of water, so short he barely came up to her waist, but was heavyset, his arms corded with muscle. “A dwarf,” she blurted out, then clapped a hand to her mouth, embarrassed.
The man roared with laughter. “Yes, lassie, that I am.” He handed her a mug, overflowing with cool water. “Best stay hydrated so you don’t lose your strength.” He eyed her curiously, running a hand speculatively over his beard as he studied her attire. “You’re not going to need armor,” he said. “Some of the other fools will be wearing it for show, but it will only slow you down. It’s not needed.” He pointed to her heart. “If you have the opportunity, strike hard and fast in a vital area, otherwise use your lightness and speed to strike three non-vital areas. Legs and arms are easy to get.”
Isabelle finished the water and handed back the mug. “Thank you, sir.”
His eyes crinkled in a smile before he turned to serve another competitor. Isabelle saw a group of men walking toward the east side of the pavilion and she hurried after them.
Tyro was waiting under a gazebo near a table filled with weapons. “Everyone pick their weapons of choice,” he said. “You may only have two for each round, though you’ll be allowed to switch in between rounds, if needed.”
Isabelle stepped forward and was immediately elbowed out of the way by eager males as they pushed and scuffled over first pick. Tyro watched them, his mouth a thin line of disapproval.
When Isabelle was finally able to reach the table, most of the weapons were taken, including all of the swords and maces. There was a small recurve bow with a quiver of arrows and a back strap of throwing daggers. Isabelle wasn’t nearly as proficient with daggers as she was with the bow, but Jack had taught her enough that she was more confident with those than any other as a second weapon of choice.
“Those with red, line up!” another Hunter barked, his face heavily scarred. He pointed a gloved hand to the field. “Ready yourselves. The first two that are called will compete first.
”
Isabelle and several others obediently walked over. Isabelle felt jittery, full of energy. Like she’d have to run or burst into flame. She hoped she’d be called soon. She needed to get this over with.
Reaching the field, she frowned. It was completely empty. No markers, ropes or flags indicated there was going to be a tournament of any sort.
She glanced at the royal pavilion. The king was getting settled, his daughter sitting in a chair next to him. Isabelle stared. The princess was beautiful, her dark creamy skin perfectly unblemished, her black hair done up in intricate braids. She couldn’t be much older than sixteen. She glanced at Isabelle and smiled, nodding her head. Isabelle bowed back, feeling a surge of pride. So even the princess knew who she was.
People crowded around the field, anxious to watch the events. Isabelle craned her neck, trying to see where the other competitors were, but aside from those with the red marker, she couldn’t see any. She tried asking those closest to her, but no one would engage in conversation, each anxious for the tournament to begin.
The stuffy servant stepped onto the pavilion, raising his hands for silence. The crowd’s noise dropped away. This was it.
“The tournament is about to begin. Step forward, Braeden Roir, citizen of the city of Erum of the Northern Province!”
A tall young man with long golden locks stepped away from the gaggle of competitors and onto the field. The crowd roared and cheered their approval. The man grinned, raising his sword, the steel catching the dull light of the day in a gleam that ran down its blade. So the insufferable pig had found his way here. Isabelle remembered him from Tenebris’ maze.
“Step forward, Isabelle Aryn, of the Northern Province, from the city of Seabound!” No one here had heard of Stormview, so Isabelle told them she was a citizen of Seabound. Close enough.
Isabelle hardly heard the clamoring crowd. The blood pounded in her ears as she stepped forward to stand next to Braeden. The man grinned at her.
“I’ll admit I’m surprised you’ve made it this far.”