Once inside the gatehouse the cart came to a stop and Cuen jumped off his seat.
Delcan turned back to the front of the gatehouse. Two large wooden doors reinforced with iron braces lay open at either side.
It was a surprisingly large space, wide enough to fit several carts and horses and the four guards that now surrounded them. As one of the guards approached Cuen, Stanlo stood to watch the merchant engage in another lively conversation.
Cuen’s discussion with the guards grew louder and more animated, echoing off the stone walls. Sandrion asked Stanlo what was happening.
"He is arguing with the guards about the King’s share."
"His share of what?"
"Of Cuen’s merchandise. A merchant must give to the castle a generous portion in order to gain permission to sell the rest freely during festival. A false sense of freedom merchants have, for of that profit the King also takes half. I am certain Cuen fights this battle every year."
Cuen stomped back to the wagon, growling. He began to lift sacks and crates out of the back.
"And I see every year he loses," Stanlo said with a chuckle.
Cuen gave him a hard look. "You boys have come as far as you needed with my help. You are here," he gestured toward the courtyard, "now, get out of my cart."
"Good luck, old man," Stanlo said as he gathered his quiver and bow. "I hope you make some money after the taxes you pay on your sales." He jumped off the cart and headed for the other end of the gatehouse.
"Here," Delcan said to Cuen. "Let us help."
He and Sandrion each grabbed a crate and carried it off the cart to a growing pile against the gatehouse wall. Royal servants moved in and out of the gatehouse with burlap sacks on their shoulders and crates in their arms.
"I need no help," Cuen assured Delcan. "But I offer you my thanks. You boys best head in yourselves. The tournament will not wait for you.” He stopped for a moment and smiled at them both. “Good fortune to you, boys.”
Delcan and Sandrion saluted Cuen the way their fathers had taught them to greet elders, placing the palms of their right hands across their chests and bowing their heads. They each thanked him for the use of his cart and headed for the courtyard.
Exiting the gatehouse, the castle’s great courtyard opened up in front of them. A group of armored soldiers in plumed helmets with visors closed marched past, the clanking of their steel boots deafening. Riders on stallions decorated with draping cloth galloped across the crowded space kicking up clouds of dust, unconcerned by those on foot. Women with baskets on their shoulders chased hurried men pushing loaded wagons. Children ran between them, cheering, their contagious laughter rising in high pitches, attracting contemptuous glances from gentle men and women cloaked in nobility. Somewhere amidst it all, jovial music played. An incredible scene. All that Delcan had hoped for and all that his sweet imagination could not have conjured.
Against the walls on either side tents had been pitched by merchants and farmers. Crowds had begun to form in and around them, all eager to purchase goods not readily available throughout the year.
To the far left, nestled by several smaller buildings, stood a massive building with a circular tower that stretched high above the outer wall. Red and gold danced in a flutter of banners atop it. From tales of castle gossip told on the streets of Berest, Delcan knew instantly this was the castle keep. Somewhere in that tower were the private quarters of the Royal family. And the Great Hall.
To the right of the courtyard stood another cluster of small buildings, visibly more humble and certainly of less importance for less guards stood by their entrances. Adjacent to one of these buildings, closer to the courtyard’s rear wall, was the stable. Mares and stallions alike, tied to nearby posts, grazed on piles of hay. Grooms and pages carried water for the stallions and armor for the knights. Near the far end of the wall, set aside from other buildings, stood the forge; on this day of constant distraction the smithy’s post was empty.
On the back wall, directly facing the gatehouse, stood open a large wooden door towards which most people were headed.
"You, there." The voice came from behind them. "All who wish to enter must be inspected," a guard said as he walked toward them. "How did you arrive here without my eyes seeing you?"
"We came in the wagon," Sandrion said, pointing at Cuen who was cursing incoherently as he climbed back on his seat.
The guard glanced over his shoulder and nodded. "What is your business?"
"Archery," Delcan replied raising his longbow.
The guard gave each of them a long look from head to boot. "From what region have you travelled?"
"Twilight Crossings."
The guard scoffed and shook his head, amused.
"Stop at the table and sign the ledger." He pointed across the courtyard at a crowd of men, all with quivers strapped to their backs. "Then make your way to the field." The guard crossed his arms and watched them as they did as they had been told.
Stepping into the yard, Delcan stopped momentarily, looking all around him. Among the spirited commoners and temperate nobles, he saw vigilant eyes. All along the top of the walls surrounding the castle, men, archers and swordsmen, with stern looks on their faces, looked down upon the entire courtyard. Among them, atop the gatehouse itself, strolled a man with a confident walk unlike any Delcan had ever seen. He wore no armor, no protective chainmail, only a leather vest over a wine-colored shirt and a matching cloak. A bold sword hung from his hip. He threw Delcan and Sandrion a careful glance as he passed.
“That is Malden," Sandrion said.
"The head of the guards," said Delcan, "captain of the knights."
"And the King’s advisor all at once. Stanlo says that Malden commands the kingdom nearly as much as Orsak himself."
"Stanlo." Delcan turned his attention to Sandrion. "What do you make of him?"
"He knows much about the kingdom, about Castilmont. The stories of the past."
"Things of which no one speaks in The Crossings anymore. Especially not my father."
Sandrion placed a hand on Delcan’s shoulder, "That is why we have come here," and smiled. "To acquaint ourselves with life— the genuine life of the kingdom." Delcan shook his head and laughed at his own words spoken by Sandrion’s sarcastic tongue. "Stanlo is no competition for us."
"It is not the tournament that concerns me. There is an air of distrust about him that makes me uneasy."
"Worry not about him." Sandrion threw his arm around Delcan and the two of them headed for the field. "I doubt he will survive past the first two rounds, after which we will never see him again."
They stood among the crowd near the rear gate and signed their names onto the list of competitors. Walking into the tournament field the music around them became louder and the ominous sense of watchfulness, of suspicion, that had struck Delcan upon stepping into the courtyard disappeared from his mind. Here he was, at Castilmont, soon to stand in the presence of the King of Paraysia, about to change both of their lives.
Chapter Five
The tournament field lay beyond a stone archway that opened up to a spectacular view of the valley. Looking over and beyond the surrounding walls one could see the green fields and quiet hills. It required little imagination to lose oneself in that vista and for a moment Delcan did, believing that the thin line of blue in the distance was indeed his first glimpse of the sea.
He turned to his right and nudged Sandrion, pointing. Against the side wall stood the berfrois—a wooden viewing stand nearly full with spectators, mostly men in colorful tunics. In the center, a raised platform covered by a canopy split the spectators into two groups; upon it stood a large empty seat adorned with silk streamers. On either side of it a smaller, simpler chair.
"There," he said. "The King will watch from there."
Two smaller tables arranged at the ends of the platform—out of the canopy’s protection from the sun or possible rain—faced one other. The backs of the chairs were to the seated audience.
Delcan was beaming.
He looked away from the berfrois and noticed the peasants crowding the edges of the field with no seats arranged for them, only a roped-off area where they all stood.
"And here," Sandrion said, turning back to the center of the field, "is the archery range, where I will show you all that you have yet to learn."
Delcan raised his eyebrows in an exaggerated expression of surprise and laughed.
The bang and clatter of armor hitting the ground echoed within the castle walls. It lasted for only a moment before being drowned out by cheering spectators.
In a space marked off by ribbons that stretched the length of the field two full-armored knights were engaged in a display of skill. One lay on his back after an apparent fall with his sword raised up defensively, the other preparing for a downward swing.
"The one with the red plume on his helmet," Delcan proclaimed. "He will defeat the other."
"The one on the ground?"
"He may be down but—"
Delcan’s words were cut off by the resounding of horns. The cheering ceased. The battling knights stopped and the one standing helped the other up on his feet. In the center of the viewing stands stood the king of arms with his hands raised high, as if embracing all those present at the tournament. Beside him, to the right of the King’s chair, stood Malden.
"Lords and ladies," he bellowed, clearly directed at those who sat on the berfrois at either side of him. "His Majesty, the King."
All those seated stood. Applause exploded instantly out of the crowds of nobles and knights, merchants and farmers. It swept over the tournament field in a wave that Delcan could almost feel rush past him on its way to the courtyard. Those who stood behind the roped areas cheered just as loudly, even as their faces seemed to lack any enthusiasm. Resentment for the King was visible everywhere if one dared look closely.
From the side of the berfrois closest to the field’s arched entrance appeared the King himself. A large, round man whose thick, brown beard hung from his face like a bee’s nest ready to burst. Around his shoulders he wore a dark green cloak lined with cloth of gold. His steps were calculated and heavy-footed. With him he carried a large cane covered in what was rumored to be dragon skin, on top of which sat a large, round diamond. Even from this distance, Delcan could see that within it, as if submerged in water, was enclosed a gold key.
"There it is," Sandrion whispered to Delcan. "The key."
"What do you suppose it opens?"
Sandrion shook his head. "A vault abounding with unsurpassed riches, I imagine."
"Ask me and I would say it is the key to the kingdom itself," Stanlo’s voice came from over Delcan’s shoulder. Delcan’s back muscles tightened. "The secret to his forty-year grip on Paraysia. He never leaves it out of his sight."
“Why, Stanlo,” Sandrion said. “I have known you only hours and I already did not expect such deep contemplation from you.”
Delcan snickered. Stanlo only scowled.
The King settled into the throne and raised his right hand. The crowds quieted.
"People of Paraysia," he announced in a thick and grave voice. "I give you the Festival of Flarians. The tournament of the people is now open."
The cheers rose and a band of Royal musicians played. On the far end of the field, pages ran about, setting up paper targets on bails of hay.
The archery contest began with nearly twice the number of commoners than knights competing. The first round eliminated one third. The common spectators standing at the side of the field shouted their support for each villager as he competed, the nobles sitting in the berfrois clapped politely.
The first test had required the firing of an arrow into the center of a round target sixty yards away. In this first round Sandrion qualified following Delcan, as did Stanlo. As was to be expected, all knights advanced to the second round. It would be an embarrassment to any knight and to the King himself if a trained warrior were to fail such a task. As in past tournaments, it was in the second round that knights began to be eliminated from the competition.
The archers remaining after the first elimination were paired—each of the thirty knights chosen by Malden to compete in the tournament was coupled with a commoner and the remaining peasants were matched against one another. Three targets were arranged, each at a distance greater than the next starting at seventy yards. Each competitor was required to hit the center of all three, each archer alternating between shots with the man against whom he was competing. The archer who hit the center of all three targets advanced to the next level. If both competitors succeeded, the distance of the farthest target was increased by ten yards until one of the two failed. Thirty of the remaining forty commoners were eliminated in the second round along with ten of the King’s knights.
The third round began with two squires wheeling in a contraption with six extending arms. A target hung from the end of each arm. They placed it ninety yards from the aiming mark. Crouching behind the machine one of the squires turned a crank that threaded a rope around a winch and made the contraption’s wheel turn. As the wheel spun, each archer was to fire at the targets; four of the six targets were to be hit in order to qualify.
As the third round concluded, seven men were left; three were knights. The four remaining commoners were Delcan, Sandrion, Stanlo, and a small, quiet young man who Delcan had hardly noticed through the previous rounds. He wore raggedy clothes that hung from him as if on a scarecrow and a wide-brimmed hat that cloaked most of his face in shadow, revealing only a delicate, boyish chin and high cheekbones. Of the four, only three may be chosen as squires; but only if they defeated the remaining knights.
The final phase of the competition seemed simple. It made use of only a single target upon which all competitors fired. He, who struck its center, or the nearest point to it, was considered the victor. Only this time the target was set at the farthest point yet, one-hundred-twenty yards, where no one other than Aston himself had ever struck the center mark. If none of the competitors reached the target, the contest would end.
A tall, long-limbed knight fired the first arrow; it struck the bottom of the target’s outer circle. The spectators murmured and applauded, mostly in appreciation of the task’s difficulty. Shortly thereafter, when Stanlo’s arrow struck the outer edge of the target’s center, the roaring exuberance that broke out through the commoners in attendance reverberated through the tournament field drowning any other sound. Stanlo stood in the center of the field with both hands in the air during the ovation.
After the audience quieted, a second knight followed, his arrow landing outside the center circle, only six inches from Stanlo’s. At this the nobles gasped and booed. The peasants once again shouted with elation. Now, only Sandrion, the last knight, Delcan, and the quiet lad were left to compete.
Sandrion's bow gave out a sharp twang as it released the arrow. His aim was true and the arrow's metal point hit the target at the bottom of the red center circle. Again, the audience cheered in a frenzy, all expecting this to be the closest any competitor would come to the target’s center.
Raising his bow to the audience, Sandrion said to Delcan,"Well, I suppose I'm the one to beat.” His demeanor was calm and cool but from the small beads of sweat gathered at Sandrion’s hairline Delcan knew better.
"You always are and I always do."
The last remaining knight took his turn; his arrow struck the center of the target and dangled by its tip for a moment before falling to the ground. More boos and hisses from the crowd drowned out the frustrated curses bellowed by the knight until Delcan stepped forward to take his turn.
Sandrion and Stanlo would be chosen; they had both defeated the King’s guards. It came down to Delcan and the other young man awaiting his chance. If each performed better than the last knight, he who surpassed the other would earn a place in the squire hood.
Delcan raised his bow. He did not close one eye, as it was c
ommon for archers to do as they aimed, while he pulled back the chord. Instead, he stood with his back straight, his left arm extended, locked in position, holding the bow in a relaxed fist. His right hand held the chord back with two fingers at his right cheek; his eyes gazing down the straight line made by the arrow.
Delcan would later tell Sandrion that he did not let the arrow go—it felt as if the projectile took flight on its own when it knew it was time. The arrow hit home with a thud slightly above Sandrion's and inches closer to the center mark.
Sandrion ran over to Delcan and patted his back with a beaming smile spread across his face. “Now, will you thank me for allowing you to win?”
They laughed and embraced. They each had just defeated the most skilled archers in the kingdom and for the moment the last remaining competitor was not even a passing thought in their minds.
“Go on; take your honor,” Sandrion said.
Delcan turned to the gathered crowd and gave a subtle wave. Their excited cries were now the loudest they had been thus far. As Delcan smiled at the applause from the audience, the remaining commoner walked past him and onto the aiming mark.
The crowd quieted in anticipation—a silence brought about out of respect for the young man as they waited for him to take his shot and fail. Certainly no other would beat Delcan at this point.
The young man aimed carefully, pulling on the bow with a steady hand, and fired. The audience’s silence lingered for a moment, perhaps in disbelief, after the swift arrow’s point struck the corner of Delcan’s own and penetrated the target’s center with undeniable precision. The crowd snapped awake and exploded in a roar of shouts and stomping feet. As he applauded, Delcan heard Stanlo spit out a curse, knowing that his chance at a squire hood had just been crushed.
Beside the King, Malden stood. A squire ran toward the target and crouched before it, closely inspecting the arrow’s position. After a brief inspection, he stood and nodded to Malden, indicating that the young man had indeed hit the mark.
From the platform on which the King sat, Malden spoke in his distrustful tone over the many voices, "Come forth and show yourself."
Dragon Fire Page 5
