She heard another low growl from Pokos. She tried to catch his eye but he kept his head lowered, sniffing the snow. Catherine handed her rope to Cyril, who looked at her curiously, and ran ahead to walk with Pokos.
“Pokos? Are you alright?” she asked under her breath.
It seemed as though Pokos would never answer her. When he did, his voice was as cold as the coming night. “If Spat and the rest of the Allianan scum get back to Lackanay with those fairrier cat furs, more Allianans will try to sail through the Memoir Straits. More cats will die. What is the point of the prophecy, Catherine, if we just start up the cycle of killing again?”
Catherine had no answer.
“I will not let a single fairrier cat skin reach Alliana. First I will lull them into a false sense of security, make them think that I’m harmless, even friendly. Then I will pretend to be guarding and slip to the back. I will pull down the last Allianan and finish him before he can make a sound and drag his body into the woods before anyone is the wiser. I will pick them off one by one...”
Catherine stopped, horrified. They were fifty yards ahead of the others.
“But Pokos, you couldn’t do that. It’s murder!”
Pokos refused to listen. “I would save Felonious Spat for last. Quor had better have the good sense to keep clear. If all goes well, I could be finished in an hour. Ten minutes of killing and the rest for burying the fairrier cat skins they wear. Do you think Menard and Cyril would help, Catherine?”
“Help? I think this hatred you have for the Allianans is going to end up killing us all, Pokos. Can’t you see that? What’s next, eating men?” Her voice grew loud with emotion.
Pokos stopped walking and stared at her, his yellow eyes shocked and unblinking. Then his great head bowed and with a violent shudder he ran out of sight.
Menard and Cyril prepared as if for battle. They crafted two bows, just in case something happened to one of them. There were four extra bowstrings, and a stockpile of arrows that had each been carefully weighed and balanced, every one of them perfect. Quor watched in admiration as Menard and Cyril worked with silent focus, checking the bows from every possible angle, flexing the wood and testing the bowstrings.
The bows were beautiful. Cyril quickly found his favorite and concentrated on getting to know it. The elastic outer sapwood of the yew tree formed the back of the bow, and the heartwood, with its resilience and strength, formed the face, which nestled smoothly into Cyril’s left hand. Unstrung, it was taller than he was.
Catherine and Bessie steadily crafted more arrows, knowing that they might find a use for them beyond the Duray Principas. Catherine affixed the flight feathers with beeswax and threads of linen, and Bessie, who had always been good with a paring knife, found that she was also good at whittling the nocks at the end of the arrows, notched to hold the bowstring. The arrowheads were cast of bronze to Menard’s specifications, not too big, not too heavy. Menard and Quor filed and sanded the rough edges from the castings before affixing them to the arrow shafts.
With a cartographer’s practiced hand, Catherine mixed goat’s milk, lime, and ground pigments and painted thin, encircling bands of green, black, yellow, and red—colors of the Candlewax crest—on the shafts of a dozen arrows, just below the feathers. Below that, she painted the Crystallian thistle emblem with its prickly leaves wrapping around the arrow.
The target had been set and measured by both Pulquin and Cyril. There were to be two days of practice on the tournament field, one for Cyril and one for Pulquin, followed by the Duray Principas.
The first practice day was Cyril’s. He slung the quiver of arrows over his shoulder and made his way down the steep steps leading to the tournament field. Carrying the bow made Cyril feel like a missing appendage had suddenly returned. Menard followed behind with more arrows and the extra bow. The air was crisp, the sun was out and, best of all, Catherine was just a few steps behind Menard. Without looking he could picture her short blonde hair, her gray-blue eyes. Her full lips. He tried to focus on the Duray Principas. Then Cyril relaxed and allowed his mind to slide once more into the pleasant picture in his head.
He had wanted to kiss Catherine for so long that it was becoming a fixation. He remembered telling her that she fletched the arrows well, an innocent enough remark to be sure. But she had looked up at him and smiled so genuinely that he had nearly jumped over the table and kissed her right there in the Overlook Room.
Behind him on the steps Cyril heard her laugh at something Bessie was saying and resisted the temptation to turn around and watch. It was so easy to look at her face. How she had ever passed as a boy, he couldn’t fathom—what a blind fool he had been! Cyril smiled at the memory. And Ty liked her. When they got back to Lackanay he wanted to take her riding. His heart had pounded when she announced his name as her champion for the Duray Principas. There was nothing he wanted more than to win this contest.
The contest. Cyril blinked and looked around him. The Cinnans had placed the targets on one of their farming terraces that followed the curve of the mountain. They were shooting from the inside curve, across rows that had been harvested of cabbage just a few weeks before. Any arrows that overshot the target would sail into the open space between the Cinnans’ mountain and the next peak. No one had wanted to put the targets in the more open valleys of the fairrier cats’ territory on the other side of Cinna Fortress.
The snow was almost completely melted, leaving thin, white stripes in long, curving rows. Cyril didn’t like the contrast between the dark earth and the white snow. It distorted the space between the shooter and the target, interfering with his sense of how the arrow would arc in space to find its mark. I’ve dealt with worse conditions. It won’t make a difference. And anyway, Pulquin would have to deal with the same problem. By the time of the Duray Principas, it could even be melted, providing the weather didn’t turn on them.
Quor was standing at the shooting line, waiting. He looked strained and pale. Far away, the large straw butt was covered with a linen sheet. A bullseye of white was surrounded by Candlewax colors of red, yellow, green and black. From 120 yards away, the target looked about as big as an orange might look from ten feet away.
Each contestant would shoot six arrows, alternating with the other contestant. Menard and one of Julia’s friends, an older Cinnan by the name of Soah, would do the scoring. In the case of a tie, the contestants would both shoot three more arrows. Menard would be allowed to stand close to Cyril as he shot, and Pulquin would be allowed an assistant as well. Julia and Catherine would be required to observe the contest from beginning to end.
“You have done this before?” asked Quor with a nod toward the target.
“Don’t worry, Quor. It will be fine,” said Cyril with some satisfaction, remembering how he had felt dangling from the cliff of All Souls Ravine.
“That’s right. Cyril’s good at forty, sixty, ninety yards. Most archers can’t do all those with real accuracy like he can,” said Menard.
“But this is one hundred and twenty yards,” observed Quor.
“Sure. That’s fine, too,” said Menard with a wink at Cyril.
Cyril held out his left forearm and Menard checked the laces of the leather bracer that would shield him from the bowstring as he loosed the arrows.
“Didn’t know the Cinnans would find practice so interesting, Quor,” remarked Cyril, nodding at the full stands.
“They have never seen archery before. It is very interesting,” he said distractedly, still looking intently at the tiny target.
Cyril noticed that Bessie and Catherine were sitting together at the very top of the stands. Pulquin was sitting in the third row. Magnus and Julia had not come. Cyril smiled at Pokos, who was lying in a patch of snow behind him, and then drew an arrow from the quiver. Pokos held his gaze, his eyes an olive green. Menard waved Quor back.
Cyril straddled the white chalk shooting line with the target over his left shoulder. He nocked the arrow and raised his bow arm and drawing arm t
ogether in a graceful, sure movement that he had done countless times. With the first three fingers of his right hand, he pulled back farther on the bowstring until he felt his hand brushing his jaw.
Over the field, the contrast of the bright snow and dark mud flickered in his vision. It is only practice. He sighted in on the target and loosed the arrow, not moving a muscle except to let his hand float back after he uncurled his shooting fingers. It felt like a good, clean shot.
Cyril saw his arrow and mentally flinched. It was high up in the target’s red ring, which was adjacent to the white center.
“Very good, Cyril!” cried Quor enthusiastically. Menard shook his head and put his finger to his lips.
“Must be the new bow, Cyril,” said Menard consolingly. “Needs to settle a bit.”
Cyril drew another arrow from the quiver. He set his feet once more and took a deep breath. He would only have six arrows in the Duray Principas. He needed to make every one of them count. He nocked the arrow and raised his longbow. This time he gently pushed with his bow arm just a bit more than he had before. He felt for the caress of the bowstring on his face and sighted on the center of the target once again. He loosed the arrow.
“That’s more like it, Cyril!” crowed Menard. The arrow had hit the center of the white circle, a perfect flight. Quor looked back and forth from Cyril to Menard. A wide smile crept over his face. Catherine and Bessie cheered from the stands. Cyril forced his mind back on the target. He shot fifteen more arrows until the white spot of the target was obliterated. At last he turned to the stands and waved at Catherine and Bessie. They were jumping up and down in a most undignified way that made his heart soar.
“Quor and I will get the arrows. It will give us another chance to go over the scoring rules,” said Menard, clapping a hand on Quor’s shoulder and marching off to the target.
Cyril felt drained and happy. He would practice with the spare bow of course, but he felt sure that he was ready for the Duray Principas.
The next day dawned, chilly and bright. Menard, Quor, Cyril, Bessie, Catherine, and Spelopokos solemnly made their way down to the tournament field to watch Pulquin practice. The stands were empty. Finally they decided to take turns waiting for Pulquin. He never came.
At sunset Quor made his way back to the Overlook Room and found Cyril. “I fear treachery tomorrow. Magnus, Julia, and Pulquin have blocked their minds to all of the Speakers. I was able to sense one thing: They expect you to stop the contest. To do so would play into their hands.
“Tell no one of this,” said Quor, looking at Menard across the room. “But you must win the Duray Principas.”
Cyril felt his unshaven chin rubbing against the pillow and yawned. All night long he had dreamt of the Duray Principas. He sat up and swung his arms in circles, trying to loosen muscles that were stiff from tossing and turning. He stopped in mid-swing, noticing for the first time the sagging form of a sleeping Menard sitting on the floor. The older man’s chin rested upon his chest, his back to the door, sword still clasped in his hand.
Cyril got out of bed and smiled. His counselor was right, as usual. If Menard could slip into the room, so might someone else with different intentions.
“Come, Menard. Take my bed and rest a while.” Menard’s head jerked up and his sword hand tightened its grip. For a moment he surveyed Cyril standing there and then scrambled awkwardly to his feet.
“Sorry, Cyril. Must have dozed off.”
“No one would have gotten by you, old friend. Thank you.”
Menard yawned hugely and scratched his whiskers. “These Cinnans—never can tell what they are thinking. Seems like they have rules but then they can’t be trusted. Didn’t want to take any chances. I’ll just sleep here a bit, now that you’re awake. Just while you’re shaving.” He plunged into Cyril’s bed, leaving his sword on the floor.
Cyril went to the bathing room and began to lather up. The simple ritual of shaving helped to clear his head. He soon heard Menard snoring loudly in the next room.
The Duray Principas was set for ten o’clock, time enough for a breakfast of cool sludge, raw carrots, or some other tasty Cinnan specialty. Cyril made a sound of disgust; he wasn’t hungry anyway. Catherine’s face flashed through his mind and the knot in his stomach tightened. He rinsed the straight razor and made his way back to the bedroom, picking up the unstrung longbow from the polished stone floor next to the bed. He ran his hands over the wood. It was a fine bow. He hoped to take it back to Candlewax with him, if all went well. He paced his room while Menard got some much-needed sleep.
Two hours later, the quiet Cinnan fortress was a hive of activity. It seemed as if every living soul would attend the Duray Principas. The stairs down to the fields were jammed with a progression of silent citizens on their way to the spectators’ stands. Menard and Cyril stood at the shooting line, where they tied on the bowstring. They did the same for the spare bow. Hanging from Cyril’s back was his quiver of arrows, nine in all. Six for the initial round, and three for a tiebreaker if they were needed. Menard had a full quiver for the spare bow.
The stands quickly overflowed to the field below. The crowd squeezed behind the shooting line, held back about twenty feet by a cordon of rope. Seated in special chairs in front of this crowd were Julia and Magnus, Catherine, and Bessie. Spelopokos sat on the ground next to Catherine’s chair, surveying the activity. Catherine gave him an encouraging smile and waved, her hair shining in the sunlight like gold. Cyril lifted his bow and smiled back. Quor stood nearby, ready to translate. It looked as if he had skipped breakfast, too. His expression was tense and his face was paler than usual.
Dressed in fine green wool from head to toe, Julia wore a silver circlet over her forehead. Her shiny black hair fell smoothly around her shoulders. The silver and onyx pendant rested upon her chest. Cyril found it strange that the stones, so vibrant against Catherine’s skin, were naught but cold and lifeless on this woman’s body. Then their eyes met. She had caught him staring, and he watched, disgusted, as a satisfied smile crept across her face. Magnus took her hand and scowled at Cyril. Don’t worry. I find your daughter as attractive as a dead snake.
He turned his attention to the clear morning. The sun cast the shadows slightly to the right as it rose behind them. The air was fresh and far above freezing. Conditions were nearly identical to those on Cyril’s practice day, but with a slight breeze to consider. The lines of melting snow, though thinner, were still prominent, setting a dramatic contrast of light and dark between the shooting line and the target. It looked as tiny as ever at 120 yards.
The stairs had nearly cleared when Soah and Pulquin started down to the fields. Pulquin carried his longbow. The crowd parted to let them through to the shooting line.
Cyril looked at Pulquin’s bow. For a people who made do without longbows, it looked surprisingly well made. Cyril wished he could inspect it first hand, but that task was left to Menard. The old counselor marched over to Soah and Pulquin and held out his hand for the bow. Pulquin tossed back his shoulder-length dark hair as he complied. He was thin, of medium stature, and the bow matched his height. He might have a difficult time pulling hard enough to go the distance.
Menard checked the nocks and grip, looked down the bow, and then drew back on the string. He gave it back to Pulquin and then turned his attention to the arrows. They were fletched with goose feathers, just like Cyril’s, only the markings on the shaft were silver and black, reflecting the Ancient Onyxes. Menard handed the quiver to Soah and nodded, walking back to Cyril with a look of consternation on his face.
“Elm wood. Don’t know how they did it, but it’s a good longbow. Not as good as yours, mind you. Might even have a slight warp in the lower half of the bow, but you could shoot with it, Cyril. Arrows look fine, too.” Menard’s voice trailed off as Soah approached to inspect Cyril’s bow. He put Cyril’s bow through an identical inspection, nodded, and walked away.
Magnus stood up and faced the stands. All sounds of shuffling ceased. He
raised his hand and the crowd got to their feet.
“The laws of Duray Principas are enacted,” translated Quor. “Catherine, princess of Crystallia, the petitioner, and Priestess Julia of Cinna, the combatant, must remain on the field until the winner is decided. Their proxies must complete the contest of longbow target shooting, with six arrows each at a distance of one hundred and twenty yards, and three arrows to break a tie if needed. Any failure to complete the task will result in forfeiture. The judges for this contest are Soah of Cinna and Menard of Candlewax. The best marksman shall win.
“Cyril, king of Candlewax; Menard of Candlewax; Spelopokos the fairrier cat; and Bessie Brine of Swiggins are for the petitioner, Catherine of Crystallia. I, Magnus, high examiner and high priest of Cinna; Pulquin; and Soah are for the combatant, Julia, high priestess of Cinna. The losing party will forfeit the pendant. The winner shall decide the fate of the others.”
Magnus motioned for the crowd to sit, then turned to Cyril and Pulquin.
“Let the contest begin!” roared Quor. Magnus took his seat. In a lower voice, Quor said, “You have the first shot, Cyril. May it be excellent.”
Cyril was used to drowning out the sounds of tournament crowds. The odd silence behind him was unnerving.
“Take your time, Cyril. Keep your focus,” murmured Menard reassuringly.
Cyril straddled the shooting line and breathed slowly in and out until his heart returned to its regular rhythm. He felt the breeze on his cheek and neck. It will require only a minor correction. He nocked his first arrow. Across the field he saw the white circle at the center of the target. Cyril fixed his gaze on it until everything else faded. It isn’t so far. He brought the bow up in a smooth arc, pulling back on the bowstring at the same time. His pulling fingers were relaxed without being soft. The bowstring found its place on his nose, lower lip, and chin. He loosed the arrow, knowing it would find its mark.
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