Cyril heard Menard gasp behind him. He looked at the arrow. It had somehow flown low and plowed into the earth in front of the target, missing it entirely. Cyril couldn’t believe it. What did I do? Could I have overpressured the top of my bow that much? Blood rushed to his head and he suddenly felt very hot. He stumbled back from the shooting line and stood next to Menard. He could picture the disappointment on Catherine’s face.
“Don’t understand it, Cyril,” whispered Menard. “It was flying true and then took a dip. Could be some odd air currents out at the end of that field. Pulquin’s going to have the same conditions. You watch. He won’t even get close.”
Pulquin stepped up to shoot. Like Cyril, his left foot straddled the shooting line and he held his bow in his left hand. Cyril felt sick as beads of sweat broke out on his face. He took comfort in Pulquin’s terrible stance—his feet were askew in relation to the arrow’s flight line to the target.
Pulquin raised his bow, then awkwardly nocked the arrow, and yanked back the bowstring. The elbow of his pulling arm is much too low. It will make the release off of his draw fingers very uneven. Pulquin let go of the arrow with a twang, his torso twisting as he tried to see where it was going. The arrow shot high in the sky and looked as if it would land about 50 yards away from the mark. Cyril gulped as the arrow suddenly lifted and bobbed in the air as if it were skipping along through unseen currents. It struck soundly in the yellow band of the target.
Menard brought his hands to his head in amazement. Cyril felt numb. He stepped to the shooting line. Five more arrows. They’re all counting on me. He closed his eyes and tried to picture the Candlewax target range where he had always had such success. He thought back to the many tournaments he had won, the impossible shots he had made. Slowly, the feeling of dread drained away. My friends know I can do this. Menard knows it. I know it. He opened his eyes, looking for the target.
WHERE IS IT?
Cyril squinted at the end of the field. The target was gone! Has someone moved it? It should be right there! Cyril turned quickly to Menard.
“Target!” he whispered furiously to his counselor. Menard looked at him, confused. He tried again, “Menard, where is the target?”
“What do you mean, ‘Where is the target?’ It hasn’t moved, Cyril.” Menard’s bushy eyebrows were drawn together in a frown. Cyril looked for the target again. All he could see were the dark earth, the melting snow, and the open air beyond the mountainside. There was no target. Anger welled up inside of him. The Cinnans were cheating.
He placed his feet exactly where he had stood for his first arrow. No target. He knew it was out there. He closed his eyes and thought back to that first shot. They must have tampered with that, too. But at least he had seen the target. In his mind’s eye he remembered exactly what it looked like and where it was. He nocked an arrow and brought the bow and bowstring into position. It felt right. He loosed the arrow and allowed his draw hand to float back.
“Great shot, Cyril!” he heard Menard cry out. He opened his eyes and smiled. A bullseye. Behind him he could hear Catherine and Bessie cheering. He turned to wave and saw that the whole crowd was on its feet. A few of the Cinnans had begun to stomp in approval. Quor looked positively radiant. Magnus and Julia glared at him, Julia fingering the pendant feverishly.
Pulquin gave Cyril a curious look and settled in to take his second shot. Cyril had seen enough bad form from Pulquin’s first shot; he turned to watch Julia and Magnus instead. As he suspected, Julia was grasping the pendant and looking at Pulquin’s back with a wild glint in her eyes. Magnus appeared calm, but his hands were white as they gripped the arms of his chair. He, too, was staring hard at Pulquin. Then Cyril noticed something he hadn’t expected: The other Speakers were crossing under the rope and joining Quor. Neither Magnus nor Julia seemed to have noticed. Quor gave him a warning look and put a finger to his lips. Cyril smiled and looked away, not wanting to draw attention to them.
Pulquin’s arrow flew. It was a miserable shot. It went high and to the right, then veered dramatically left toward the target before it stopped in mid air and dropped ten yards short, right next to Cyril’s first arrow.
“Wha?” uttered Menard, looking at Cyril in amazement. Cyril shook his head gently and smiled. He drew his third arrow and nocked it. Right now I am winning. He straddled the line, careful to put his feet in exactly the same place as before, and pulled up his bow. He could see the target clearly. Wait. Something is different. It doesn’t look right.
What have they done? He lowered his bow. The target had shifted to the side. He could tell by the lines of snow that had worried him so much before. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the way the target had lined up in the melting snow. He took a deep breath. The target was really to the right of where it appeared to be.
Cyril raised his bow and took aim to the right of the target. If I am wrong, the arrow will overshoot and fly right off the mountain. He released the shot.
“Beautiful!” cried Menard. Cyril’s arrow had hit solidly in the white bullseye. Cyril smiled at Pulquin’s glare, turned, and bowed at Julia and Magnus. Julia had jumped to her feet, her hands balled into fists, the expression on her face twisting her ivory beauty into an ugly mask. Not far from Julia, Catherine was on her feet, smiling with a radiance he had never seen. Her eyes held his and he felt a current run between them. She blushed and looked at the ground. Next to Catherine, Bessie was jumping up and down and waving.
Pulquin took aim with his third arrow. This time Cyril kept his eyes forward, not wanting Julia and Magnus to notice the presence of the Speakers. Pulquin pulled back the bowstring and kept his upper body still. He could be good with practice, Cyril thought. Pulquin loosed the arrow. It was low, but straight. The arrow wavered up and down as if it were a needle passing in and out of fabric, striking the outer black band of the target as it took one last dip. Cyril almost laughed out loud, knowing that the arrow’s flight had shown the battle of wills between the Speakers and Magnus and Julia. Still, if it had hit while it had been rising it might have been a bullseye.
“They’re cheating, Cyril. We should call the tournament,” groused Menard, his chin jutting out.
“I don’t think that is such a good idea—they would claim that we have forfeited. Besides, we’re still winning.” Cyril walked up to the line. For once Menard was wrong. He thought about what Quor had told him in the Overlook Room. It made sense. The highest authorities in Cinna happened to be the same people who had stolen the amulet, the same people who had tried to kill Menard and Quor and him. An accusation of cheating would surely play right into their plans. No. I need to win the Duray Principas in spite of their cheating.
Cyril pulled his fourth arrow from the quiver and nocked it. He studied the target. It was where it should be. What are they going to do now?
“Psst. Cyril!” It was Menard. Was he still trying to convince him that they should stop the Duray Principas? He raised his bow and took aim. “Cyril! Wait!” Menard whispered loudly. Menard never interrupted while he was aiming. He lowered the bow.
“Check your arrow. You’ve nocked it backward,” urged Menard.
Cyril looked down and saw that he had placed the bowstring through the groove of the arrow’s nock with the cock feather on the bow-side. He could scarcely believe his eyes. How could I have done that? Every archer knew that this might deflect the arrow as it was shot. There were only three feathers on an arrow. The cock feather had to face out, and the other two feathers would glide by the bow as the arrow was shot.
Cyril’s face burned with embarrassment. He glanced around casually to see if anyone but Menard had noticed. Soah was watching him sullenly with his arms crossed. Pulquin was looking out at the target.
Cyril re-nocked the arrow. What a stupid mistake.
“Psst. Your feet, Cyril. They’re off mark.” Cyril looked down. They were indeed off mark. He changed his stance and looked back at Menard. The counselor nodded in encouragement. Cyril raised the bow and
pulled back on the string. He looked down the arrow at the tip and aimed for the target. Am I aiming high enough? Am I correcting for the breeze?
He held the position for a long time, sweat trickling down his back. The Cinnans are doing this. I know how to shoot. For an instant everything became clear once more. Yes! His fingers twitched, itching to release the arrow, but just before he could shoot he felt a fog settle over his mind like a heavy curtain. Cyril closed his eyes and lowered the bow before glancing back at Julia and Magnus. Julia’s eyes were fastened on him just as fiercely as her hand was fastened on the pendant. They narrowed in malevolent triumph. Cyril felt his temper rising and struggled to keep it in check. She knows she has me this time.
Maybe not. “Menard?”
“What is it, Cyril?”
“Come to the shooting line and help me. I seem to have forgotten how to aim.” Menard didn’t question him. In a moment he was at his side.
* * *
Catherine had known something was wrong even before Pokos nudged her. She and Bessie had watched Cyril’s first shot end in failure. Catherine’s dismay and bewilderment turned to anger as Pulquin’s impossible victories revealed Magnus’s strategy. Now her heart sank as she observed Menard’s assistance.
“Cyril’s in trouble,” said Pokos, his tail swishing. Menard was positioning Cyril’s draw fingers on the bowstring and lifting his elbow. It looked like a rudimentary archery lesson. “Whatever tricks they tried on him for the second and third shots didn’t work, so they are growing desperate.”
“What’s Menard doing?” asked Bessie, perplexed.
“Foul creatures of deceit,” growled Pokos.
“We’ve got to do something! We can’t let them beat us. Not like this!” Catherine pulled out her dagger. She held it and closed her eyes. Nothing! She couldn’t see an answer. She opened her eyes just in time to see Cyril’s fourth arrow strike the black ring of the target. She groaned. Cyril’s shoulders slumped as he stepped back. She resisted the temptation to run to his side.
Pulquin’s next shot spiraled into the white bullseye. He now had one bullseye, one yellow band, one black band, and one in the earth. Cyril was only ahead by one shot. Pulquin raised his bow triumphantly as the crowd got to their feet again. Menard gave him a rude hand gesture while his back was turned.
Menard and Cyril walked to the line in deep conference with one another. Menard waved toward the target and Cyril shook his head. The old counselor clapped him on the back and stepped aside while Cyril aimed. You can do this, Cyril, thought Catherine.
The arrow struck the green band, better than his last shot, but not good enough. Pulquin bounced to the shooting line and playfully snapped off an arrow without even taking time to aim. Once again, the arrow flew erratically toward the target like a goose feather caught in a swirling air current. It seemed to hover directly in front of the target, before it plunged forward. Bullseye. Catherine’s hands went to her mouth. Pulquin is winning. Please, Cyril. Please!
Suddenly, Catherine knew what to do. “Come with me Pokos. We are going to give Magnus and Julia something else to think about.” Pokos looked at her, a glint of admiration in his eyes. Together, Catherine and Pokos circled around to face Magnus and Julia. Catherine put herself directly between Julia and Cyril, her heart beating wildly with indignation. Julia was surprised at first, and a bit unsure, but then she fingered the amulet with narrowed eyes and Catherine braced herself as a fist of pain hit her belly. Catherine did not cry out, but smiled in determination at Julia. Is that the best you can do? Whatever happened, Catherine knew she could not cry out because that was sure to draw Cyril away from his last shot.
Out of the corner of her eye Catherine saw Pokos sit down directly in front of the high examiner of Cinna and glare. Magnus jumped to his feet and pointed back to where they had been watching the Duray Principas. Pokos continued to sit and glower. Magnus tried again to get Pokos to move. Catherine thought she heard the rumblings of a growl. The great fairrier cat was not going anywhere.
Magnus looked over at Quor, finally noticing the other Speakers standing with him. In a fury Magnus raised his hand, and all of the Speakers but Quor fell to the ground. Quor crouched, struggling to keep his footing. Julia stood to help her father, grasping the pendant and smiling at the men now writhing in the muddy earth. Catherine saw Quor raise his head and look furtively at Cyril, and then back at Magnus.
Catherine risked a glance at Cyril, who looked over his shoulder at her. Their eyes met and in that instant Catherine saw that he understood. He smiled.
Cyril raised his bow and Catherine held her breath. If only we can keep Magnus’s and Julia’s attention a little longer. Cyril’s arrow sped toward the target. It was a perfect shot. Everyone in the stands leapt to their feet. Catherine screamed and laughed. Bessie ran over to her, grinning. Even Mekrita jumped up and down with excitement.
Magnus whirled toward the crowd. Catherine heard only furtive rustling noises as everyone quickly took their seats. Julia focused on Pulquin once again, while the Speakers managed to get to their feet with Quor’s help. They huddled around him, looking doubtful. One of them had a nosebleed and was holding his belly. Pulquin could still win with a bullseye. Catherine watched as Magnus stood next to his daughter, both of them staring intently toward Pulquin as he raised his bow. Catherine waved her arms and jumped up and down in front of Julia, who quickly used the amulet to sweep her aside.
Suddenly Pokos leaped at Magnus, pinning him to the mud with a snarl, his eyes a murderous yellow.
“I spare you, but if you move I shall shred your clothing from your body!” he growled. “All will see that you are just an evil, selfish old man. Tell your daughter that she must remove the pendant now and give it to Quor, or I will do the same to her. This is one shot that will fly fairly.” Quor translated. Magnus struggled under Pokos’s heavy paws, the great cat’s teeth inches from his throat. Magnus glared at him furiously.
Pokos’s smile was predatory. “That doesn’t work on me, you fool. Now tell her!”
Pulquin lowered his bow uncertainly, watching Magnus and Julia. Julia swayed precariously from step to step as she made her way to Quor and removed the pendant. As Quor reached out to take it, she sneered at the Speakers covered in mud. Without hesitating, Quor took the pendant, grasped Julia’s elbow, and pushed her face first into a cold, muddy puddle.
Julia’s shock turned to rage as she looked up at Quor, who stood with arms folded and jaw set. She spat, shaking as she rose, only to slip and slide again in the soft earth. Her gown was covered in filth. No one offered her a hand.
“Shoot, Pulquin. Finish the Duray Principas!” roared Pokos, still glaring fixedly at Magnus. Quor nodded firmly at Pulquin.
Pulquin raised his bow and took careful aim. This would be his first true shot. Finally, he loosed the arrow... and it fell short by thirty yards. Menard and Cyril yelled so loudly that their voices echoed in the mountain air.
Catherine felt a hand on her arm and whirled to look at Quor, surprised. At his feet, Julia still struggled in the mud. Catherine felt Julia’s eyes boring into her. She shuddered and met her glare.
“You deserved to lose, Julia.” Catherine heard the words leave her mouth, but cared little that Julia would not understand. Julia finally scrambled to her feet and, with a look of pure hatred, turned her back on Catherine. Well! Maybe she understood after all.
Quor touched her shoulder. His solemn eyes searched her face. He placed the necklace over her head and held up her hand. The sound of stomping feet filled the air. Catherine touched the pendant and grinned.
Pokos released Magnus, who staggered back to his chair and sunk down, staring, unseeing, at the earth in front of him. Julia made her way to his side, her mouth open in disbelief. She took his hand and glanced back up the hill to the entrance of the Cinnan fortress. Shaken and pale, Magnus looked at his daughter. Catherine wished she could read their thoughts. Quor appeared puzzled. They are blocking him. Catherine guessed that they h
adn’t planned on losing the Duray Principas.
Several Cinnans suddenly converged on Magnus and Julia. Magnus rose to his feet and took his daughter’s arm, glancing at the pendant around Catherine’s neck. Instinctively, Catherine covered it with her hand. The Cinnans prodded Magnus and Julia until they began to move toward the fortress.
* * *
Pulquin walked over to Cyril, who stopped his banter with Menard as the Cinnan archer drew closer. Pulquin pointed at Cyril and then at himself. They watched as he drew back an invisible bowstring, ready to shoot the target.
“What? What does he mean?” asked Cyril.
“He wants to know if you would teach him,” answered Quor from behind them. “It could be that you have started something in Cinna, Cyril. Almost everyone is thinking about making bows and arrows. What impressed them most is how you won without using any thought force.”
“Thought force? You mean cheating? Of course I thought about how to hit the target. And I thought about hitting it. I could feel the bullseyes before they happened,” murmured Cyril.
“Yes, but some of his best shooting is when he isn’t thinking at all,” added Menard with a chuckle.
“I don’t know, Quor,” said Cyril. “It may not be a good idea for Cinnans to become skilled archers. Why, there is nothing you couldn’t hit if you really learned the principles behind it and practiced. Imagine—real skill combined with your... your other talents.”
“They have already learned so much from you, Cyril. Pulquin says that he is going to start practicing every day,” said Quor. Pulquin nodded enthusiastically. For a moment Cyril forgot that he had just won a life-and-death struggle against this man. Pulquin seemed so mild and harmless.
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