The Inner Seas Kingdoms: 02 - The Yellow Palace

by Jeffrey Quyle

  He was so focused on his shot that he didn’t hear the buzz of comment from those who noticed the success, nor see the glare that Sleek cast at him. He let all the world except his bow and the target drift away from his attention as he took each methodical shot.

  After that he repeated the same slow, careful process of aiming, adjusting, and shooting. His sixth shot came as the only other contestant who still had arrows fired her last shot, and after that, all attention focused on the methodical care Kestrel devoted to his efforts, as every shot landed in, or within an inch of, the bulls-eye.

  When he finished the release of his final shot, he felt his trance-like concentration begin to depart, and he saw how far ahead of every other competitor he had scored, despite his injury.

  The archers nearest to him turned and shook his hand, or slapped him on the back, and he accepted the congratulations, still somewhat in his self-induced daze.

  He looked and saw Sleek and Brace speaking vehemently to one another, Sleek making some point, and Brace protesting the claim, just before Margo and Picco reached him.

  Picco jumped into his arms with a breathtaking hug and a squeal of excitement, then climbed down off of him as Margo demurely gave him a sisterly hug and pat on the back afterwards.

  “You’re going to be the champion!” Creata exclaimed as he arrived. “With shooting like that there’s no way anyone else can challenge you.”

  “How long until the final match?” Kestrel asked, as he looked down at the reddened elbow on his right arm. He could feel it starting to swell and stiffen, and wondered how effectively he would be able to shoot in the final round.

  “It won’t begin for another hour,” Philip answered.

  “Kestrel, you’re going to make us late for our date!” Picco exclaimed. “Don’t try to use this as an excuse to avoid dancing with Margo and me!”

  “Are you okay Kestrel?” Margo asked, noting his glance at his arm and the way he cradled it protectively.

  “I hurt my elbow before the match,” Kestrel answered, shooting a warning glance at Clarce and Philip. “I think I need to put it in a sling until the next round begins.”

  Margo offered a shawl she had draped about her shoulders, and Kestrel stood patiently as she tied it around his neck and over his shoulder, then pulled it snug to support his arm securely.

  “Thank you, Margo,” Kestrel told her, giving her a peck on the cheek that made her blush.

  “Let’s go someplace safe,” Philip suggested.

  “The whole city is safe, with all these archers ready to shoot at criminals!” Picco said pertly.

  “Yes, but let’s find a place inside walls,” Clarce, seconded Philip’s idea.

  They all went to a café not far from the competition field, and sat around the table. Everyone other than Kestrel knew all the other finalists in the competition, and they talked over stories about the three men and one woman who would soon be on the contestant’s line with Kestrel.

  “What will you do with the money? What charity will you support?” Picco asked.

  “I don’t know. Philip and Clarce mentioned that earlier, and I haven’t got an answer. But I’ve got to win first to face that dilemma,” Kestrel replied, as Creata left the table.

  “Just do what the goddess tells your heart is right,” Margo told him. “I know you’ll make the right choice.

  Moments later, Creata returned with several beverages, including a mug of steaming drink. “Here Kestrel, this is willow bark tea. Drink this so your arm feels better,” he suggested as he pushed the mug across the table.

  Kestrel took the mug gratefully, and looked around the table at the circle of young humans who had become such good friends.

  “Here’s to all of you – good friends who I know have good hearts – the best of Graylee,” he proposed a toast as he raised his mug.

  “To the best of Graylee,” Philip replied as the others murmured, and they clinked their glasses together over the table.

  Clarce and Margo toasted each other, their eyes sparkling as they made contact, and Kestrel realized with a shock that the two were an affectionate couple.

  Kestrel drank the tea down as quickly as he could, then it was time to return to the field. The stands were crowded, and Kestrel realized that he would be competing before a full house.

  The five finalists lined up as the drums called them forward, and a judge came out to explain the rules. “The competitor to the left will fire his arrow first, and each of you will shoot your own arrow in order after the player preceding you is finished,” he explained, as Kestrel looked down the line. He was fourth, while Sleek was second. The woman finalist was the only archer to his right, he noted as he removed his sling and prepared his bow.

  “If it becomes impossible for you to score enough points to win the competition, we will tap you on the shoulder and you will step back out of the competition,” the judge announced. “Are there any questions?”

  None was asked, and the man stepped out of the way. The drums tattooed a brief flourish, and then a thump, and the first arrow was fired. The distance to the target was farther than Kestrel had ever faced in any elven competition, which caused him concern, until he saw Sleek fire the second arrow of the competition.

  Neither of the first two opponents placed their arrows within the bulls-eye or either of the two circles closest to it, both hitting wide to the right and high. The third archer fired his shot, and Kestrel watched it closely.

  As it approached the target Kestrel’s keen elven eyesight detected a minute rise and push to its course; he realized that they were shooting in a part of the competitive field that hadn’t been used by archers in any of the previous rounds. There was some cross current of air, perhaps subtly deflected and rising from an unseen fold in the ground. The third man’s arrow reached its target, striking high and to the right as well, within a hands’ breadth of the same relative target area the first two arrows had hit.

  Kestrel raised his bow and sighted along the shaft of his arrow. Given the distance involved, he gently raised his bow a fraction of an inch higher, then factored in a correction for the air currents he believed were crossing the field in front of the target, and released his shot.

  The arrow started high, then started to drop, until it crossed the spot twenty yards away from the target, where it rose and drifted right – right into the first circle around the bull-eye.

  There was a murmur of approval from the audience, and then Picco’s voice rang clear, “Kestrel is the best!” and he grinned at the girl’s audacity. He shook his arm in pain, though the willow tea had truly diminished the agony that was flaring from his elbow, and he watched politely as the woman on his right fired a shot that landed between Kestrel’s and everyone else’s.

  Second arrows were set to begin, and Kestrel watched to see how his competitors adjusted to their first results. The first archer seemed determined to fire the same shot, and got the same result, with a poorly scoring shot. Sleek adjusted his shot sufficiently to plant it just below Kestrel’s, while the third contestant over adjusted so wildly that his second shot barely hit the left margin of the target.

  Kestrel knew how small an adjustment he needed to make, and he shot his second shot into the bulls-eye, the first arrow of the finals to make the highest score.

  For the next four rounds they all continued to shoot their arrows singly, tension starting to build, as Kestrel and Sleek began to pull away from the other archers, while the first and third archers continually failed to find the right path for their arrows.

  At the start of the seventh round the judge stepped forward and tapped the first archer on his shoulder. The man whirled in surprise and shook his head no, but a few quick words were exchanged that persuaded him to leave the competition to a polite round of applause. And while he continued to hold a narrow lead over Sleek, with each round Kestrel’s arm grew sorer and more painful as he pushed the damaged muscles beyond their limits.

  With his seventh shot Sleek achieve
d his sixth straight arrow in the closest circle, surrounding the bulls-eye on every side, though none had gone in. The third contestant was tapped on the shoulder, to the surprise of no one, and Kestrel shot directly after Sleek. His aim was true, and he placed his fourth arrow in the bulls-eye, though the strain on his arm continued to increase significantly.

  The woman beside Kestrel took a good seventh shot, one that was only an inch outside the center, and the three of them each took an eighth shot as well, but the woman was released before her ninth shot, so that only Sleek and Kestrel remained for the final shot of the competition.

  Sleek needed a bulls-eye, Kestrel calculated, while he would have to miss the target completely to loose. He stood silently as Sleek held his shooting pose, taking more time than even Kestrel had ever needed to find the right place to aim, then at last he released his arrow, and glowed with satisfaction as it landed in the bulls-eye, bringing a round of appreciative applause from the audience.

  The last arrow of the contest belonged to Kestrel, and he only had to land it anywhere on the target to secure the victory.

  His arm was very tired and sore, but he knew he still retained the ability to hit the target. He aimed at his usual spot, checked the grass in front of him to confirm that the air flowed unabated, then released the arrow.

  The shaft flew as true as before, and the crowd broke into applause as Kestrel scored in the bulls-eye to win the tournament. He sank to his knees in pain, cradling his arm, as much relieved that the contest was over as he was happy that he had won.

  The judge came to see him, bending to offer his congratulations and to find out if Kestrel was okay.

  Margo somehow arrived ahead of his other friends at that moment, and slipped the sling around his neck to hold his arm.

  “We’ll make the presentation of the award now, if you’re able,” the judge said. “The prince arrived a few minutes ago and is ready to hold the ceremony, so that he can move on to his other engagements.”

  Philip helped Kestrel rise to his feet, and Kestrel stepped into a line with the other four finalists. They paraded out onto the field, as the prince and an entourage of guards and followers came out of the stands to meet them.

  It was Kestrel’s first encounter with the prince, and he examined the man carefully. The ruler of Graylee was a tall man, and thin, with light gray eyes and thin sandy hair. He appeared to be only a few years older than Kestrel himself.

  On the prince’s right hand was a man wearing deep red robes, and Kestrel shifted his attention to study the alert face of that man, where cunning intelligence was clearly writ. After a glance, Kestrel was convinced he was looking at Poma, the Uniontown ambassador who was the power behind the throne, advising and manipulating the ruler of Graylee in a way that was damaging the nation. The man reminded Kestrel of the ambassador Uniontown had sent to Estone, in appearance as well as in the arrogant attitude he displayed.

  Fans trooped out of the stands to circle the ceremony, which took place in the very part of the field where Kestrel had figured the slight breeze affected the flight of the arrows, and he felt the air flow around his legs before the crowds grew and blocked the movement of the air.

  The five archers formed a line, facing the prince, who stood with a bored expression on his face. One by one the archers were called forward in the order of their departure from the contest, and recognized in a desultory fashion, until Sleek was called forward before Kestrel.

  “Here is a man who is a champion in attitude and in deed, if not in name today,” the prince announced. “We give you the prize as runner up this year, the likely victor next year, Sleek, and we appreciate the support and friendship he provides to the throne.”

  Sleek raised his hands over his head as the crowd applauded.

  “You know your charity,” Kestrel heard Kai’s voice speak to him, quietly and inside his head, planting the answer that waited to emerge when he was asked a question he now knew the prince would ask.

  “And you know your purpose too,” Kere surprised him by also speaking to him.

  The two goddesses were working together on this occasion, and working through him, making him feel astonished, frightened, and alone to be the chosen messenger of two sets of deities united through him in their battle against a third set.

  “Your arm is healed, Kestrel. Remove the sling,” Kai spoke to him again.

  The prince was finishing warmly shaking Sleek’s hand, and Kestrel was about to be called up he could tell. There was a tingling in his arm, and he no longer felt any pain. He took off the sling and stuffed it inside his vest as the herald motioned him forward.

  As his arm improved, he felt a warmth on his chest, and he realized that the crest the goddess had placed there was beginning to warn him of a confrontation with Uniontown that was about to take place.

  “Here is our new champion this year, Kestrel, a newcomer to our city,” the prince said.

  Kestrel’s eyes shifted back and forth from the prince to Sleek, watching them both, waiting for something to happen, something that the presence of the goddesses had told him to expect.

  “Kestrel, here are the winnings from the entrants to this year’s tournament. As you know, it is your decision on which charity in our nation shall receive half the winnings to do good works. The other half of the fees goes to you,” the prince motioned, and a servant pulled a small wagon forward, loaded with leather bags that were filled with the coins of the entry fees.

  “I will advise you that there can be no more worthy cause to receive your charity that the establishment of a new temple in the center of Graylee, a temple to the new gods who have come to our people from Uniontown,” the prince spoke with a smile on his face, and Kestrel saw a smug smile on the face of Poma.

  And Kestrel knew where Kai had directed him to make his contribution, and what purpose Kere intended, and he smiled at the irony of the prince’s request.

  “There is a better way to honor the ancient traditions of Graylee and humanity, I think, your highness, and that is to leave my winnings to the existing venerable temple of Kai, the goddess of air, so that her priests and priestesses may use the money to purchase all the elves who have been ignobly cast into slavery, and manumit those elves, giving them their freedom and dignity back,” Kestrel spoke, and as he did a mighty rush of wind blew through the field, emphasizing Kai’s approval of his choice.

  The faces of the prince and Poma both changed from smiles to confusion to blushes of deep red anger at Kestrel’s words.

  “You dare to defy your prince?” the ambassador snarled angrily. “Are you a traitor to your nation?”

  “I am not a traitor,” Kestrel replied, “nor am I a weak-minded tyrant,” he added, looking at the prince, as the crowd murmured upon hearing the assertion. “I am the chosen champion of two sets of deities who honor, nuture and love us.”

  “You’re an impudent child who doesn’t know what foolishness you speak,” Poma responded. “Guards, give him a taste of discipline,” he directed two men who wore his own red colors, who stepped forward to attack Kestrel.

  Kestrel stepped back, and the others around him backed hastily away, clearing an opening into which the beefy guards stepped.

  “Watch out, Kestrel! Behind you!” he heard Philip call, and he whirled to see Brace emerge from the crowd as well.

  All three opponents had swords drawn, as Kestrel whirled his staff and pulled his knife off his hip. “Stay back Clarce!” he called as he saw his friend’s hand go to his sword. “This is my battle to win.”

  Brace charged at Kestrel first, swinging his sword viciously. Kestrel blocked the sword with one end of his staff, then swiped the spikes on the other end across Brace’s face, leaving welts and bloody scratches.

  Kestrel whirled and flung his knife at the closest guard in red, then turned away and stabbed the end of his staff into Brace’s midriff and pulled it away again.

  He stepped back away from his position, took up a new spot, and called his knife, which w
as embedded in the chest of a guardsman on the ground. “Lucretia, return!” he said softly, and waited for the haft of the knife to land in his hand.

  He looked at the other guard in red and threw the knife again, then turned to Brace and began to batter at the angry big man, showering him with blows from his staff that brutally forced Brace to back up. Kestrel sank the small hooks at the end of the staff into the flesh of Brace’s leg, then twisted and jerked the staff back, flaying the flesh painfully. He immediately struck his staff’s other end at Brace’s temple, knocking the man senseless, and he finally whacked his staff down hard in Brace’s wrist, knocking the man’s sword free as Brace fell to the ground.

  “Lucretia, come again,” he said softly, and the crowd gasped as the knife flew to his hand.

  “You,” he said to Brace as he knelt by the injured man, “may know that the elf woman you attempted to rape was named Lucretia. This blade is named Lucretia, named after her,” he said softly. “So remember in these last few moments of your life that this is Lucretia’s revenge for what you did to her,” Kestrel told Brace.

  He saw the man’s eyes widen in fear, then Kestrel plunged the knife into the stomach of Brace, and violently carved the long blade through his entrails, deliberately wreaking damage and pain before he pulled the knife free and stabbed it down into Brace’s heart, killing the large man.

  Kestrel’s emotions and spirits were running full of anger. He stood up, still compelled by rage, and looked around at the silent, shocked crowd. His eyes made contact with the ambassador, and he started to walk towards him.

  “You? You’re the champion of the old gods?” Poma said incredulously. “You’re the one anointed in the north? You defeated Amyrilon?”

  “I did,” Kestrel said grimly.

  “Guards!” the prince shrieked. “Take this man into custody!” The crowd around them shouted in shock, and the prince realized he had spoken too hastily, as two of his guards shot arrows at Kestrel, both striking him in the chest and knocking him backwards and to the ground.