“And how did you do that?” the girl added another question. “There are rumors about you, let me tell you. I usually manage to generate the most rumors of anyone in the palace, but I think you’ve outdone me today,” she looked at him with a smile that sat below serious eyes.
“Lucretia, stay back,” Kestrel tried to shush her away. “The door to my room is open and I didn’t leave that way. You go on back someplace safe and stay out of this,” he warned her, then crept forward cautiously, his knife in his hand.
He stopped just outside the door and listened. There was a momentary swish of material, as in the sound of someone’s pant legs rubbing against one another, but there seemed to be only the single person moving about. Kestrel jumped through the doorway, knife held at the ready, and made Tewks give a momentary squeak of fear.
“Thank goodness it’s you!” the boy said when he recognized Kestrel. “Where have you been? What have you been doing?” he asked as he looked at the bloody stains on the robe that Kestrel still wore from the night before.
“So this is your dangerous invader?” Lucretia asked from behind Kestrel.
“Never mind. I know where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing,” Tewks said in an insinuating tone.
“No. Stop it,” Kestrel immediately interrupted the boy. “I just ran into her in the hallway,” he said. “And I told you to go someplace safe,” he turned to Lucretia.
“Oh, I’m safe around the boy,” Lucretia said breezily, “though my reputation might not be. You’re the one who may prove to be a challenge to my reputation!”
“I’ve been looking for you all morning,” Tewks said. “Do you want to join the tournament or not? If you do, we need to go right now. You can answer my questions on the way,” the boy was ready to take control of Kestrel once again.
“What kind of tournament?” Kestrel asked. He vaguely remembered some mention from the day before, but could recollect no details amidst all the action he had experienced.
“Archery, although I’m sure you would prefer knife-throwing,” Tewks told him.
“Now, get dressed. Change into something presentable,” the boy commanded.
Kestrel reached over to unpin the tattered, bloody robe, when he realized Lucretia was still standing behind him. “Oh go ahead,” she told him. “I won’t mind.”
“Out. Go out,” Kestrel told her in a commanding tone. He found that the girl was less intimidating than he had first perceived, and less irritating as well, perhaps.
“I’ll turn my back,” she replied gamely, and as she did, Kestrel shrugged the robe off, then picked up his pack and pulled out a set of wrinkled, but fairly clean clothes, that he pulled hastily on.
“That’s what you call presentable?” Tewks asked. “We’ll have to make do with it,” he said.
“Oh, I think it gives him a certain roguish appeal,” Lucretia was looking at him with an appraising eye.
“Let’s go. Let’s go,” Tewks said heading to the door at a rapid pace, like a shepherd trying to manage his flock. He passed Lucretia and strode out into the hallway. Kestrel picked up his bow and quiver of arrows, then followed immediately, and Lucretia trailed after. Kestrel saw Tewks disappear down a lift tube, and he hopped on one, then felt Lucretia bump against him as she crowded onto his platform.
“Where were you last night?” she asked in a serious tone.
“I passed out,” Kestrel told her.
“Exmoor’s men said they killed you. They said you went down fighting. Ripken’s upset,” she told him. “You’ll cause quite a stir when you show up at the contestant’s field.”
“Good. Maybe that’ll distract the other contestants,” Kestrel replied as they reached the lobby level.
“Would you stop distracting him?” Tewks told Lucretia. “My boy’s in training right now. Let’s go,” he said to Kestrel. “Follow me, and try to keep pace.”
And with that they were out the door. “I’ll come watch you later,” Lucretia called after them as they sprinted away.
Kestrel followed Tewks on a long journey across the palace grounds, past the banquet hall where they had dined the night before, and then further on, to a wide, open green space that was crowded with a milling throng in the open spaces between numerous archery ranges.
“One more, one more to sign in, as part of Lord Ripken’s entourage,” Tewks brazenly ran ahead of Kestrel and leaned upon a registration table.
“I don’t know,” the registrar replied. “It may be past the sign-in deadline, and besides, Lord Ripken may be losing some ability to have his way. He lost a new fellow last night, didn’t he?” the man asked, signaling to Kestrel that there were unseen political dynamics at work in the palace, and that they extended all the way to the tournament competition.
“Lost a man? What weak-livered liar is spreading that goat manure? Isn’t this Lord Ripken’s new man right here, the very one I’m bringing to register? How desperate are some cowards in the court that they have to lie about my lord’s great warriors?” Tewks sorrowfully shook his head as Kestrel stepped up to the table next to him.
The registrar and his assistant looked at Kestrel shrewdly. “How do we know this is who you say it is?”
“Tell him where you came from, Kestrel,” Tewks immediately answered.
Kestrel took a deep breath, realizing he was going to have to revert to the tedious slow-talking manner he had to use among those in the North Forest who hadn’t grown accustomed to his accent. “I come from the Eastern Forest,” he told the registrar.
“There, see?” Tewks said. “Who could fake an accent like that? You heard how badly he spoke didn’t you?”
“We did,” the registrar grinned. “I don’t know that it’s the best proof, but we’ll let it pass.” He picked up a ledger book and flipped several pages. “Go to the third range in the northern quadrant, and hurry. Your contest starts in two minutes.”
Tewks immediate took Kestrel by the sleeve, and started running. “Thank you,” he called over his shoulder.
“Here,” he said breathlessly seconds later as they reached the end of their sprint, “here’s your last competitor,” he told the proctor at the field, pulling Kestrel forward.
“Go to the end of the line,” the proctor said in a bored voice. “No time left to practice.
“Archers, prepare your bows,” he called as Kestrel was still moving towards his spot.
“Archers, stretch your strings,” he instructed them.
“Archers, release your arrows,” the end of his words went unheard as nearly two dozen strings all snapped at once.
Kestrel reached the empty end of the line, and took a deep breath to settle himself. It had been a long time since he had shot competitively – back in Graylee, at the tournament early in the summer of the previous year, before the conflict in the city had broken into the open. Since that time, all his arrows had been shot in conflict, in struggles across numerous battlefields.
He aimed carefully, ignoring all other matters, all other competitors, and examined the results of everyone else’s first shots as he pointed his arrow towards his target. Most of the other shots were high, a typical mistake made on a first shot; archers tended to be too excited with their first effort, and often over-muscled that first shot, lifting it above its intended goal.
And there was a very slight breeze as well, one that he was most exposed to, standing on the end of the competition. The air gently blew from right to left. It was another factor he needed to compensate for.
Everything was a reminder to him of the importance of taking time in a competition, and he took another relaxing breath, lowered and adjusted his aim to the right less than a hair to compensate, then focused again, and smoothly released his arrow.
It was a true shot, he knew as soon as it left his bow. He reached back and pulled out his second arrow calmly, then looked at his target, and saw that his first arrow had struck true in the center. The range for this competition was longer than the first round of shots had be
en back in Center Trunk, at the first royal competition he had participated in. It had been at that very competition that he had received the gift of the purloined arrow from Dewberry, her first act of kindness towards him. It had been on that day that he had met Lucretia, Lucretia of the Eastern Forest, and become enchanted with her classical beauty, he realized.
He told himself to focus, to attend to what he was doing, and then he realized he had already shot his second arrow while his mind had been out gathering wool. And the second shot was firmly planted in the center of the target alongside the first.
He gave a small snort of amusement, then paid attention, as he began to mechanically fire his arrows at the target, making minute adjustments from shot to shot, as the breeze shifted, as the sun rose and the air warmed, as the distractions around him slid away from his awareness, and all he did was fire arrows.
“Kestrel. Kestrel!” he heard Tewks voice behind him, calling him, and he broke out of his trance.
“Kestrel,” the boy called again, “you’re done. You’ve shot the eleven arrows. Stop! Everyone already knows you’re perfect!”
Kestrel turned to look at the boy. As he did, he saw that the other archers at his range were already finished. Those furthest from him were walking towards their targets to collect their arrows. The scorekeepers were standing behind the competitors, tallying scores. Kestrel turned and looked at the targets; he had been perfect. Every arrow had hit the green color of the center. Among the targets closest to his, every other archer had missed with at least three shots.
“You’re a ringer, aren’t you?” asked the contestant next to him, an elf who appeared to be of mixed heritage, like Kestrel. “Who’s your sponsor?”
“Lord Ripken,” Tewks promptly answered. “We’ll have his lordship’s colors on Kestrel before the next contest. Go grab your arrows and we’ll be on our way,” the boy motioned to Kestrel, who did as directed.
“I can’t wait to see the look on Exmoor’s face when we present you to Lord Ripken,” Tewks chuckled as they walked at a quick pace. His words seemed to trigger a feeling in Kestrel, a tingling in his soul. There was something familiar about the sensation, something he couldn’t identify, but it was a feeling of warning. And most inexplicable, he knew that somehow the warning had multiple meanings, multiple paths of interpretation, including some paths that might prove correct or incorrect, depending on something else. It was a deep, dense, rich, incomprehensive feeling that rattled about in his soul, and he faltered momentarily while trying to keep up with Tewks.
“Is everything okay?” the boy asked. “Are you hungry?” they were passing a bakery tent, and his guide guessed that Kestrel was smelling the aromas from the tables of goods inside. “Here, we’ll grab something,” he ducked in, clattered some small coins on the table, and picked up two rolls, one of which he gave to Kestrel, as they then resumed walking across the firm turf.
“There they are, those are the stands of the patrons of the games,” Tewks pointed to a half dozen elaborate stands, draped in velvet curtains, built of rich woods, ornate in every way.
Ripken and a guest sat on one such elevated stand, watching out over the crowd and the competitions, half-listening to Targus who stood beside him, leaning over and speaking.
Targus spotted them approaching, and grabbed Ripken’s shoulder, then pointed.
His lordship looked out and recognized the pair, and Kestrel saw a momentary grin crease his lips.
The pair of new arrivals reached the front of Ripken’s stand, and Tewks did a quick bow. “My lordship, we are here to report that Lord Kestrel won his first match of the day already, and will move on in the tournament,” the boy reported.
“None of the other competitors,” Tewks raised his voice so that he was almost shouting, as he turned his head slightly and projected his words towards Exmoor’s stand to the right, “could come close to matching his skill.
“I request permission to cloth him in your colors for the rest of the tournament.”
“Tewks, you negligent scaliwag,” Targus spoke up, “you should have had him in colors already. That will be three thousand more lashes you’re due on top of the thousands you have already earned!” the aide to Ripken had a gleam in his eye, and Ripken gave another small grin, then bobbed his head in a slight nod of ascent.
“Take him to get colors,” Ripken spoke. “My lord Kestrel, it’s a delight to see you here in contrast to some rumors that had circulated this morning. Thank you for participating on our behalf.”
“They really like you,” Tewks said as he dragged Kestrel away. “Let’s go put some colors on you.”
“Where do we go to do that?” Kestrel asked.
“Lord Ripken has a wagon over there, where he keeps the supplies and tokens and goods; the extra outfits and silks are kept there with all the freebies. He has to give away a lot of stuff to the crowd today to maintain his place in their hearts; he’s the most popular man in the palace after the king, more popular than the prince even,” Tewks explained as he started to lead Kestrel to the right.
“I thought you said the supplies were that way,” Kestrel pointed left.
“They are,” Tewks confirmed. “I just want to take the long way around and parade you in front of Exmoor on the way,” he grinned at Kestrel.
“You know, you’re getting easier to understand. Are you working on your accent?” the boy asked.
“Maybe you’re just getting used to it,” Kestrel replied.
“Don’t look!” Tewks spoke out of the side of his mouth. “Here’s Exmoor’s stand; we’re passing it now.”
There was the sound of muffled oaths and exclamations as they passed, and then Tewks took them on a wide turn to double back around and head to the supply wagon. As they passed in front of Exmoor’s wagon a second time, at a wider distance, Kestrel felt the inexplicable feeling again. It was stronger, and it was defining itself within him somehow, he knew.
“Kestrel, I think we have trouble,” Tewks spoke, distracting him away from his internal evolutions.
“Here come three of Exmoor’s thugs,” the boy warned.
Kestrel turned and saw the men approaching. He pulled his knife out of his sheaf. The men were spreading apart, facing Kestrel. “Tewks, get behind me,” he ordered the boy, then reached out and pulled the boy back to protect him.
Exmoor’s men pulled out knives, and the milling crowd became aware of the pending confrontation. People scrambled for safety, isolating Kestrel and Tewks.
“Now,” one of the elves from Exmoor shouted, and as they did, Kestrel felt the feeling within himself again, and he knew this time what it meant. His body was momentarily enveloped in a blinding flash of light as the knives approached him, and Kestrel felt his whole chest burn momentarily with pain.
Then the volley of knives struck him in the chest, and they knocked him backwards. The knives fell to the ground, as Kestrel staggered backwards; he stumbled into Tewks, then stopped his momentum and stood straight again. The witnessing crowd around was oohing and aahing and screaming, while the Exmoor crew was staring in stunned horror. “Go get him Lucretia!” Kestrel tossed his knife at the man on the right side of the trio.
“Lucretia, return,” he called moments later, as the man swooned to the ground. The knife flew back at Kestrel, and the other two assassins began to run away.
“Go Lucretia,” he threw the knife again as soon as he held it.
“Kestrel, what happened?” asked Tewks, whose view of the whole incident had been blocked by Kestrel’s body.
Kestrel didn’t reply. He knew what had happened. With one quick sweep, he reached down to the edge of his shirt and pulled the garment up over his head, then looked down. Across his entire chest, wrapping around the shoulders, extending down to be stomach and down below his belt line, covering his whole ribcage, reaching up, nearly climbing his neck, was a brilliant, colorful re-established and expanded version of the body shield that Kai had given him in Estone.
It was the same be
autiful design it had been before; on a portion of his body it was reestablished over the same expanse of his skin the original design had covered. But beyond those boundaries it now covered additional portions of his body, where it was a multi-colored rich panoply of images that recounted various elements of his recent life story. He looked down and saw a yeti, and a gnome, and a Parastole. He recognized Alicia’s face and Margo’s and Arlen and Silvan too. The shield covered over and incorporated his Estonian ship tattoo, bringing the ship to life with colors and depth so well that one could imagine the sails were constantly billowing in the wind. Below the ship a small swarm of imps and sprites slept in the healing spring. And beside them was an uncovered patch of still exposed skin that he did not understand.
“What in the world is that?” Tewks asked in awe. “You didn’t have that when you changed clothes this morning. What was that flash of light? What happened?”
“Let’s move on,” Kestrel said apprehensively. He pulled his shirt back on, turned Tewks, and pressed his hand against the boy’s back to set him in motion. “I’ll explain as we walk. Let’s go get those silk colors.
“When I was in Estone, one of the human gods, the goddess Kai, declared me her champion, and she put a shield quite a bit like this on my chest. It saved my life by resisting knives and arrows many times, until I lost it,” Kestrel explained.
“That is incredible! And I think I actually believe you. So how did you get it back? What’s different now?” the boy asked.
“It’s too long a story to explain today,” Kestrel postponed the amazing revelation that Tewks sought. “Now show me to the wagon.”
They left behind the dead men of Exmoor and the panicked crowd and soon reached a large wagon guarded by six men who all wore white and green jackets, hats, pants, and robes. “A set of silks for his lordship’s contender in the tournament,” Tewks said authoritatively.
The boy was full of bluster, Kestrel observed, but he wondered how much of it was false bravado and how much was genuine. Tewks deserved to have self-confidence, he thought, for the boy had good judgment and good connections around the court apparently.
The Inner Seas Kingdoms: 04 - A Foreign Heart Page 24
