“What is it?” asked Cassie.
“A morning star. Tarian’s least favourite weapon, as Mab is well aware.”
Movement drew their attention back to the herald, who had puffed out his chest and was preparing to speak. “Your Majesty, my lords and ladies,” he announced, his rich baritone ringing out around the arena. “Today we shall witness an event rare in the annals of Faerie: a battle of champions. Today the Queen’s current champion, Cadel son of Clud son of Morthwyl, will compete against her former champion, Tarian daughter of Brangwen daughter of Eyslk.”
Loud applause met his words. He smiled and nodded acknowledgement. “The contest will consist of two trials. If by their conclusion no clear winner has emerged, a further trial of single combat will decide the victor.”
“Sounds exhausting,” murmured Cassie, before Einion shushed her.
“Queen Mab herself has chosen the weapons: spears, bows, and morning stars.” The herald glanced at Tarian and Cadel to make sure he had their full attention. “She has also decreed that any combatant caught using magic before the contest’s conclusion will forfeit the contest—”
A murmur rippled through the spectators, and Einion hissed, “No magic? This could get bloody.”
“—and thus the prize,” finished the herald.
One of the watching nobles, who had had more mead than was good for him, shouted out, “That’s all very well, but what is the prize?”
The herald puffed out his chest again. “To the victor goes the mortal hostage.” He pointed at Cassie, and every head turned to look at her. “To do with as they please.”
“Me?” yelped Cassie, her heart thumping. She turned to Einion. “They can’t do that, can they?”
“Mab can do whatever she wants.”
Her gaze tracked back to Cadel, and her mouth went dry. “Evenly matched, you said?”
He nodded.
“You forgot something, herald,” shouted Mab. “The victor will also have the grateful thanks and undying affection of their Queen.” She grinned. “Not to be sniffed at, eh?”
The Queen’s sally provoked appreciative laughter from her courtiers and a scowl from her muscular champion. Tarian, meanwhile, stood stone-faced. Cassie wondered what she was thinking.
A cold nose pushed itself into her palm—Drysi trying to comfort her—and a disquieting thought struck her. Tarian ordered her dogs to protect me. Was that because she was confident she would win, or because she thought she wouldn’t?
TARIAN EYED THE grey gelding a page had brought her. A fine looking beast, but did his intelligence match his good looks? She mounted up, grasped the reins, and walked him round a bit. His mouth was sensitive, and he responded to her slightest command. She found herself grinning. Though it had been two years since she last sat on a horse, it was as though she had never been away.
That thought wiped the smile from her face. This is what Mab wants me to feel. She glanced to where the Queen sat talking to some of her courtiers, then away again.
Cassie was sitting on the other side of the roped-off sward, and Tarian was glad to see Drysi and Anwar flanking her. She was also glad Einion was her escort. That Mab had assigned her old friend to the task gave her some comfort. Einion was loyal to the Queen, but he was also fair-minded and would protect Cassie from any taunting from the more unruly nobles, especially those with a grudge against mortals.
“Is the mount acceptable?” The page was looking up at her.
She nodded, and with a relieved look he stepped back to allow through a servant carrying a sheaf of spears—not the heavy boar spear with the cross guard she had hanging in her hall, but light throwing spears. She took one, hefted it to test its balance, shook her head, and selected another. This one felt right, so she nodded acceptance and wheeled her mount round to see whether Cadel was ready yet.
Like her, the big Fae was now on horseback, clutching a spear. His chestnut stallion was a lot larger than the gelding, but then he weighed a lot more too. She didn’t mind. Spear throwing wasn’t about size or even power but about skill.
“The rules are simple,” announced the herald from the sidelines. “Behold,” he gestured, “the target.”
A portable gibbet had been wheeled into the arena, and from its crossbeam hung a small, circular target made of straw. It had been marked with three concentric circles—the outermost dyed blue, the next red, and the innermost yellow.
“Each contestant will have three spears. You must throw each one before you pass that marker.” Again the herald pointed. Ten paces from the gibbet, a servant had thrust into the turf a short staff from which hung a white pennant, fluttering fitfully. “If the spear misses the target or fails to remain embedded, no points will be awarded. Otherwise: a hit in the blue circle scores 1 point; in the red, 2 points; and in the yellow, 3 points. The Queen’s current champion will go first.”
The herald turned to the servant standing next to the straw circle and signalled. The man set the target swinging and ran for it.
Cadel hefted his spear and kicked his stallion into a gallop. He had almost reached the pennant when he launched his spear. Tarian watched it fly towards the moving target. So certain was he of his aim, he didn’t stop to watch it hit, but wheeled the chestnut round and cantered back towards Tarian. Only when the watching courtiers began to clap and cheer did he raise his hand in casual acknowledgment and twist in the saddle to check the outcome. The spear’s tip was embedded deep in the straw, right in the heart of the yellow bull’s-eye.
She cursed under her breath. He had made it look much simpler than it was. A steady eye and a strong hand were not enough for this event. The rider had to keep an eye focussed on the swinging target, coordinate the movement of both hand and horse, and throw at just the right moment. She hoped her skills and instincts had not atrophied in the past two years. Well, she would soon see.
“Three points to Cadel,” announced the herald.
The servant hurried to halt the straw circle and tug the spear free. Tarian waited for him to set the target in motion once more and stand clear. Then she kicked her horse into motion and hefted the spear. As her mount thundered towards the pennant, sending clods of turf flying, she stood up in her stirrups, pulled back her right arm, and narrowed her attention until her whole world was the circle of straw swinging like a pendulum.
She held her breath and waited until the moment felt right. Now.
Her back and shoulders were in the throw, and as soon as her fingers had released the spear, she sat back in the saddle and reined in the grey. Unlike Cadel, she watched the spear’s trajectory. Sunlight glinted off metal as it flew towards its target, and stuck, still quivering, in the red circle. She cursed under her breath as polite applause met the strike.
“Two points to Tarian,” announced the herald.
Cadel curled his lip at her as she rode back to pick up another spear. She ignored him. There were still two throws to go.
Cheers and claps met his next throw, which once more found the yellow bull’s-eye. Tarian blotted out the distraction, took a more comfortable grip on the spear’s shaft, and readied herself. She had misjudged the target’s path last time, left her throw a fraction too late. She would not make the same mistake again. She kicked the grey into a gallop, stood up in the stirrups, and drew back her arm. As she thundered over the turf, her eyes were fixed on the target, her arm a coiled spring.
Almost, her instincts told her. Almost. Now.
As she threw, a flash of bright light blinded her. She couldn’t help but flinch, and was still blinking aside the afterimages when she heard the herald announce, “In the red again. Two points.”
By Oak, Ash, and Thorn! I’m lucky I even hit the target.
The flash had come from the group of courtiers standing near Cadel’s pavilion: sunlight reflecting off something shiny—a silver buckle, a goblet . . . It could have been an accident, but she didn’t think so. She gave the courtiers a hard look then, aware of Mab’s keen gaze, rode back to collec
t her third and final spear.
Cadel’s horse thundered past her, as he came in for his final throw, and she turned to watch him go. Perhaps it was carelessness or complacency on his part, or perhaps it was due to the presence of a large divot under hoof. Whatever the cause, Cadel was nearing the pennant when his stallion stumbled, unbalancing him. Even so, his spear managed to hit the target, though it struck the red circle rather than the yellow.
A round of applause went up. Most of those watching hadn’t noticed that Cadel had hurled his spear when he was a fraction past the pennant, but Tarian had. She wondered what would happen next.
The herald gestured for quiet and stood up. “Disqualified,” he announced. “No points.”
“What?” Cadel’s bellow of outrage made Tarian grin. “What do you mean, disqualified?”
“You threw after the pennant, not before,” said the herald. He looked at Mab for support. “The rules are quite clear on that point, your majesty.” She nodded her approval, and Cadel had no choice but to fall silent.
Still grumbling, he rode back to the starting point, dismounted, and thrust the stallion’s reins into a page’s hand. Then he folded his arms and jutted his jaw, and glared at Tarian as though daring her to do her worst. She couldn’t resist it. She winked at him, earning a scowl. Suddenly his six-point total didn’t seem so out of reach.
“Lady?”
The page was holding up two spears. She took one, weighed it, and nodded. “This will do.”
It was time to see if she could put into practice what she had once known and had had to relearn in the previous two throws. Mindful of how close she herself had been getting to the pennant, she reined in the grey a little on this final run. Then the moment was here, and she hurled the spear with all her might. The throw was a good one, straight and true, and she was sure it was heading for the bull’s-eye, but at the last moment a gust of wind came up out of nowhere, and once more her spear point struck the red circle and hung there quivering.
Boar droppings!
Tarian cast a suspicious glance towards the Queen. While the combatants were forbidden to use magic, the Queen was not, and she had a suspicion Mab was playing with her. A bland smile met her stare. She could make a public accusation, she supposed, but what good would it do her? At least she hadn’t lost the bout.
As she rode back to the start, the herald announced, “Two points to Tarian. Each contestant has earned six points. I declare this trial a draw.”
Cadel’s scowl had been replaced by a smile, she saw, as she dismounted and flexed her throwing arm to work the stiffness out of her elbow. She sighed, sank onto a stool, and beckoned a page over.
“Fetch me a cup of mead, will you?” He nodded and scampered away.
CASSIE GNAWED A thumbnail. Where are the butts?
Tarian and Cadel had each been given a short bow. Pushed into the turf at their feet were ten arrows, Tarian’s fletched with red feathers, the Queen’s champion with green.
Or are they going to use the same target they used in the spear throwing? Two servants in the Queen’s livery began to wheel the gibbet and battered straw target away. Evidently not.
As they unhooked the rope boundary and pushed the gibbet through, two more servants hurried in the opposite direction. They were each carrying a crate, and judging by the air holes in the sides, the crates contained livestock.
Drysi and Anwar stopped using Cassie’s thigh as a pillow and sat up. Drysi whined in the back of her throat, stood up, and sat down again. Clearly she wanted to investigate the crates but wouldn’t leave Cassie’s side. Anwar growled at his mate, and she gave a very human sounding sigh, and rested her head on her paws.
Cassie stroked Drysi’s head. “Good girl.” She turned to Einion. “What’s in the crates?”
He grinned. “Wait and see.”
“I just hope Tarian’s archery is better than her spear throwing.” She paused. “I sound like an ungrateful bitch, don’t I?”
Einion shrugged. “With reason. Some would say you would not be a prisoner if it weren’t for Tarian.”
Cassie snorted. “We’re even then. Because she wouldn’t have been forced to return to Faerie if it weren’t for me.”
Her reply made him blink. “Such greatness of heart.” He became thoughtful. “Perhaps that is why . . .”
“Why what?”
He seemed in two minds whether to answer then he shrugged. “The Tarian I knew cared little for others’ welfare. And you are a mere mortal. She must have changed more than I realised.”
She ignored the insult implicit in his words. “You knew her?”
“We were friends.” She waited, but Einion didn’t elaborate. “Look. They are about to start,” he said.
At the herald’s signal, the two servants removed the lids and tipped the crates on their sides. Out of them tumbled rabbits. Lots of them.
What’s the collective noun? wondered Cassie. A warren? A colony? She had looked it up at the library for a member of the public once, but she couldn’t remember the answer. There were twenty of them at least. Not the large, tame, white ones that children kept in hutches in their back gardens either, but brown, wiry little beasts with plenty of running in them. The rabbits scattered in all directions, and Tarian and Cadel each nocked an arrow to their bow and took aim.
A rabbit hurtling straight for Cassie gave a high-pitched shriek as a red-fletched arrow pinned it to the turf. Another, hard on its heels, leaped over its dying companion and continued towards her. At the last minute it caught sight of the wolfhounds, now standing stiff legged and trembling with eagerness. It jinked to the right and darted past. She turned to watch it go, ducking as it occurred to her that someone trying to shoot the rabbit could hit her instead.
“They may shoot only those inside the perimeter,” reassured Einion.
“Oh.” She unhunched her shoulders and turned to see how Tarian was faring. To her amazement, the archery contest appeared to be already over. The turf bounded by the ropes was covered with dead or dying rabbits, and the herald was noting the colour of the arrow that had despatched each one. In one case, two arrows, one of each colour, sprouted from the small brown body.
“Poor things,” said Cassie. “Why couldn’t they have used a straw target?”
“They were destined for the pot.” Einion sounded indifferent. “At least this way some had a chance of escape.”
“It’s still barbaric.”
The herald completed his tally and signalled to a man in a cook’s apron. While the cook and his assistant gathered the dead rabbits into several large baskets, the herald held up his hand for silence.
“A draw,” he announced. A wave of disappointment swept through the spectators. “I assure you, lords and ladies,” he sounded defensive, “that it is indeed a draw.” He turned to the Queen in appeal. “You majesty. Is it not so?”
Mab rose from her chair and silence fell. “It is so,” she called, and the herald smiled his relief. She glanced at the two combatants.
Cadel was scowling—It seems to be his natural expression, thought Cassie—and Tarian was impassive.
“A final bout should settle this, that of single combat.” Mab turned to a page. “Fetch the morning stars.” She sat down once more.
The Queen’s words evoked a murmur of anticipation that Cassie didn’t share. Hadn’t Einion said the spiked ball on a chain wasn’t Tarian’s favourite weapon? And if so, how could she possibly win?
Chapter 10
Tarian adjusted her grip on the handle. Cold iron take it, but this thing is clumsy! Every time the heavy ball swung at the end of its chain, the weapon’s centre of gravity shifted. The trick was, if she remembered correctly, to use that to her advantage, to build up momentum by whirling the ball then to direct the accumulated energy at her opponent. It was easier said than done, however. She was as liable to spike herself as Cadel.
The big Fae didn’t seem to share her reservations. He grinned and swung his own morning star almost neglig
ently. But his hands and wrists were larger and stronger than—
The flicker in his gaze alerted her, and she wrenched herself backwards just in time. Wicked spikes whooshed past her nose so close she could feel the slipstream. She gave herself a mental slap. Keep alert or he’ll have you.
A mass intake of breath went up from those watching, many of whom were now leaning forward on their stools. The Fae enjoyed nothing more than bloody combat, especially if they weren’t personally involved, and Mab’s expression was avid, the tip of her tongue poking out. The only person present who didn’t seem to be enjoying herself was Cassie. Her eyes were wide, and she had covered her mouth with her bound hands.
Tarian snapped her attention back to her opponent. Concentrate.
She shook the tension from her arms and shoulders, took a firmer grip on the handle, and shifted her weight forward. She began to circle Cadel. He faced her, eyes watchful.
Since she didn’t have the physical advantage, she decided to try something else. There was nothing in the rules against it. “You know why Mab’s doing this, don’t you?” she taunted, keeping her voice low so he alone could hear. “She’s tired of you. She wants me back.”
Cadel’s ball whipped down, smashing into the turf where Tarian had been standing, sending clods flying. The force of the blow drove the spikes deep, and he struggled to free them. Seizing her chance, she whipped her own ball towards him, but he was nimbler than he looked and sidestepped. She grazed his left biceps, bloodying his sleeve but doing little damage.
He bared his teeth at her and resumed his tugging. With a spattering of grass stems and soil, the spiked ball came free. Moments later it was hurtling straight at her in a blow meant to disembowel. She flung herself backwards and rolled over twice, her knees and elbows thudding on the turf, before coming to her feet again. The tunic covering her abdomen was torn; beneath it a bloody cut began to smart. If magic had been permitted, she would have healed it. Fortunately, it looked worse than it was.
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