by Kara Jaynes
“I’ll shoot them with an arrow,” Isabelle retorted irritably.
Aviina rolled her eyes. “I said hand-to-hand, stupid. Ugh. Whatever. You’re capable of walking, and I don’t see any wounds or signs of a curse. When is your moon cycle?”
“I had it last week,” Isabelle replied. “Can I get dressed now?”
“Fine.” Aviina watched her dress, a scowl on her face. She’d be pretty if she didn’t look like she smelled something bad all the time. She threw her hands up a moment later. “I’m just going to say this once. If you have any designs on Tyro, I’ll have your head, got it?”
Isabelle paused in the middle of pulling up her trousers. “What?”
“Don’t ‘what’ me. I’ve seen you looking at him.” Aviina’s hands were clenched at her side.
Isabelle could have laughed. “I don’t know what you’re seeing, but there’s someone else I like.” She paused, her heart skipping a beat. She’d just admitted it out loud.
Aviina’s face lost a little of its hostility, but she still looked suspicious. “Who? That Sir Reginald?”
“No.” Isabelle shook her head, buttoning up her trousers and tucking her blouse in. “A mysterious young man with—” She’d almost said silver hair, but how many young men in the provinces had silver hair? “—blue eyes. He’s not in the competition.”
“Hmm.” Aviina still looked irritated but not angry. She shrugged. “Okay. Tyro’s mine, and I’m a little territorial, that’s all. We’re engaged.”
Isabelle stared. She wasn’t sure why Tyro would be crazy enough to get mixed up with the likes of a harridan like Aviina, but that was hardly her business. “Congratulations.”
“Sure.” Aviina waved a hand toward the door, looking bored. “Head back to the training halls. Tyro and I will train you a little longer before it’s the next competitors turn to train.”
Isabelle trudged back, thinking about what she’d said. Silvan; kind, powerful, brave and unbelievably handsome. Just thinking about him put her stomach in knots. But there was Jack, too. Funny, clever, compassionate Jack.
Isabelle frowned, pushing thoughts of the redheaded man away. If he was here, she’d sort things out with him later. He wasn’t the one to save her from the witch and the curse. And if he wasn’t here, now was hardly the time to think of him. Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside the training halls to continue her preparation for the tournament.
30
It was the first day of the tournament. It dawned overcast and gray, but the less than perfect weather didn’t deter the competition’s spectators in the slightest. The streets, while always busy, were especially packed as everyone made their way to the tournament grounds.
Isabelle felt like she might sick-up from nerves. She’d hardly slept the night before, fretting over what could go wrong. She was a woman. Even the king had mentioned that the other women in the tournament were bigger and stronger. Unless there were some short, gangly teenage boys in the competition, she’d be the smallest competitor, and probably the weakest.
The competition would start at noon. She forced herself to eat breakfast, and dressed slowly, purposefully not rushing things. Deep breaths.
Silvan. Where was he? Would he find what he was searching for? He said whether or not he did was up to her. What did that mean? Did he want her to win the tournament? She bit her lip. He was a man of many secrets. Why? She didn’t know, but she wanted to.
She left her bow in her room this time, as she wouldn’t need it. She didn’t wait for a servant to escort her this time, content to walk alone. She’d never been to the tournament grounds, but following the steady flow of people, it wasn’t hard to find.
The grounds were decorated with blue, white, and gold pennants, lazily flapping in the early summer breeze. It was crowded, seemingly every inch of the area covered by people.
Standing on her tiptoes, Isabelle still wasn’t able to see over the heads of most people, but caught a glimpse of a large pavilion and made her way toward it.
Someone bumped into her, and she stumbled, knocking against someone else.
“Move it,” an angry woman’s voice spoke, and Isabelle was shoved over completely. She scrambled to her feet, angrily looking for who had pushed her, but the crowd had shifted and changed, so the woman was lost in the sea of people.
She continued forward, struggling against the tide. She’d just reached the pavilion when a herald stepped forward. “Hear ye!” he shouted into the crowd, face red from exertion. “The king has requested that the rules be repeated here, so competitors participate equally and fairly.”
The crowd quieted, but only by a little. Isabelle recognized the herald as the stuffy servant who had stood by the king during her audience. He glared at the flood of people, clearly not enjoying his job at the moment. “Rule one. You must have been approved by the king himself to participate in the tournament. You qualified by completing a quest, by finding a way to make the Four Provinces a safer place for his people.”
A cheer went up and the servant paused, irritated by the interruption. “Rule two,” he continued, “you must play by tournament rules. No outside weapons, and no magic.” There were some groans in the crowd, but the servant ploughed on as if he hadn’t heard. “Rule three has been modified this year,” he said. The noise dropped away to complete silence.
“As you know, most years our most gracious King Ruald has allowed only those of the nobility to compete as it guaranteed that the best and brightest became the Fabled Hunters, the law enforcement of our Provinces, the defenders against evil.” He paused, taking some much needed breaths before continuing, his face red from shouting. “But the king has decided that this year he would allow the common people to compete alongside nobles. To find, as our magnanimous king has said, ‘the diamond in the rock.’” He paused, dabbing at his face with a handkerchief. “With one difference. While any amount of nobles could become Hunters, so long as they passed the test, only one competitor will walk away with the title of Fabled Hunter this year. If you have any questions, talk to any of the Hunters stationed here. They should be able to address any concerns you may have. That is all. The tournament will begin in two hours’ time.”
The crowd roared its approval. Isabelle’s knees gave out and she fell to the trampled grass, her mind reeling.
One.
Only one would win the tournament this year. Why? Why had the king made that decision? It didn’t make any sense. She’d been hoping to squeeze into the top ten competitors, maybe into the top five if she got lucky.
She’d have to win. She’d have to be first.
How was she going to accomplish that?
A pair of worn out boots appeared in her vision, and a weathered hand reached down, held out to her. “You all right, doll?”
Isabelle looked up to see the rough man she’d met at the gates of the city. She put her hand in his and allowed him to pull her up. “Thank you,” she said. “I am fine.”
“Heat getting to ya?” He winked. “Good luck, girl. You’re going to need it.” He turned and strode away, using his broad arms and shoulders to muscle his way through the crowd.
Isabelle darted after the man, taking advantage of the space behind him so she wouldn’t waste her strength trying to get through. He went to the tents where the competitors were lining up.
Tyro, Aviina, and a handful of other Fabled Hunters were tying strips of colored cloth on competitors’ wrists.
Isabelle hurried up to Aviina, who was closest. She took a strip of red cloth, and tied it around Isabelle’s right wrist. “Good luck out there,” she said. “When they call red, you’ll step forward with all the other competitors who have red. When white is called, they will step out and so on. This is how they’ll divide the first round of competitors.”
“Okay.” Isabelle’s stomach felt like there were snakes in it. She put her left hand over it, trying to settle her nerves.
Aviina’s expression softened a little when she saw the motion. “Tyr
o says you’ve got a chance,” she said gruffly. “And he never lies. Don’t mess this up, Isabelle. We could use more female Fabled Hunters.” She turned and tied another strip of red on another woman. The woman was massively built, reminding Isabelle of the marauding warriors from the northern seas. She sneered at Isabelle.
“You won’t last a minute out there, twig.”
“Shut up.” Aviina bristled, standing on her tiptoes to glare up into the bigger woman’s face. “I’m smaller than she is, and I was a champion three years ago, you idiot.”
The large woman was taken aback by the verbal onslaught and fell silent, though she still scowled.
Isabelle looked around, trying to spot a familiar face in the crowd. There were more competitors than she would have suspected. When she mentioned it to Aviina, the little woman arched a dark eyebrow at her. “We always get fifty or so contestants every year. With commoners being allowed this year, it’s over a hundred.”
“But just one will win?” Isabelle felt another surge of hopelessness wash over her. “Why are we just hearing it now?”
Aviina shrugged. “I don’t know. Guess rumors never picked up on that important detail.” She tilted her head a moment. “Matter of fact, I’m not sure that detail was revealed until now.” She’d finished tying the strip of red on the large woman’s wrist and moved on to a short, wiry man.
Isabelle walked over to a water station where a bearded man stood passing out mugs of water, so short he barely came up to her waist, but was heavyset, his arms corded with muscle. “A dwarf,” she blurted out, then clapped a hand to her mouth, embarrassed.
The man roared with laughter. “Yes, lassie, that I am.” He handed her a mug, overflowing with cool water. “Best stay hydrated so you don’t lose your strength.” He eyed her curiously, running a hand speculatively over his beard as he studied her attire. “You’re not going to need armor,” he said. “Some of the other fools will be wearing it for show, but it will only slow you down. It’s not needed.” He pointed to her heart. “If you have the opportunity, strike hard and fast in a vital area, otherwise use your lightness and speed to strike three non-vital areas. Legs and arms are easy to get.”
Isabelle finished the water and handed back the mug. “Thank you, sir.”
His eyes crinkled in a smile before he turned to serve another competitor. Isabelle saw a group of men walking toward the east side of the pavilion and she hurried after them.
Tyro was waiting under a gazebo near a table filled with weapons. “Everyone pick their weapons of choice,” he said. “You may only have two for each round, though you’ll be allowed to switch in between rounds, if needed.”
Isabelle stepped forward and was immediately elbowed out of the way by eager males as they pushed and scuffled over first pick. Tyro watched them, his mouth a thin line of disapproval.
When Isabelle was finally able to reach the table, most of the weapons were taken, including all of the swords and maces. There was a small recurve bow with a quiver of arrows and a back strap of throwing daggers. Isabelle wasn’t nearly as proficient with daggers as she was with the bow, but Jack had taught her enough that she was more confident with those than any other as a second weapon of choice.
“Those with red, line up!” another Hunter barked, his face heavily scarred. He pointed a gloved hand to the field. “Ready yourselves. The first two that are called will compete first.”
Isabelle and several others obediently walked over. Isabelle felt jittery, full of energy. Like she’d have to run or burst into flame. She hoped she’d be called soon. She needed to get this over with.
Reaching the field, she frowned. It was completely empty. No markers, ropes or flags indicated there was going to be a tournament of any sort.
She glanced at the royal pavilion. The king was getting settled, his daughter sitting in a chair next to him. Isabelle stared. The princess was beautiful, her dark creamy skin perfectly unblemished, her black hair done up in intricate braids. She couldn’t be much older than sixteen. She glanced at Isabelle and smiled, nodding her head. Isabelle bowed back, feeling a surge of pride. So even the princess knew who she was.
People crowded around the field, anxious to watch the events. Isabelle craned her neck, trying to see where the other competitors were, but aside from those with the red marker, she couldn’t see any. She tried asking those closest to her, but no one would engage in conversation, each anxious for the tournament to begin.
The stuffy servant stepped onto the pavilion, raising his hands for silence. The crowd’s noise dropped away. This was it.
“The tournament is about to begin. Step forward, Braeden Roir, citizen of the city of Erum of the Northern Province!”
A tall young man with long golden locks stepped away from the gaggle of competitors and onto the field. The crowd roared and cheered their approval. The man grinned, raising his sword, the steel catching the dull light of the day in a gleam that ran down its blade. So the insufferable pig had found his way here. Isabelle remembered him from Tenebris’ maze.
“Step forward, Isabelle Aryn, of the Northern Province, from the city of Seabound!” No one here had heard of Stormview, so Isabelle told them she was a citizen of Seabound. Close enough.
Isabelle hardly heard the clamoring crowd. The blood pounded in her ears as she stepped forward to stand next to Braeden. The man grinned at her.
“I’ll admit I’m surprised you’ve made it this far.”
Isabelle glared at him. “No thanks to you, you bully. I can’t believe you hit me!”
Braeden curled his lip. “You’re lucky you had that fool mongrel with you. No matter. You’ll lose today.”
“The only one of us who’ll lose is you, Goldilocks.”
There wasn’t any more time to talk. A Hunter waved at them, and the two competitors walked over to stand at opposite ends on the large field. Isabelle smirked. This would be too easy. She’d pick him off like a fat quail.
“Let the game begin in three…” Isabelle tightened her grip on the handle of her bow, readying her stance.
“Two…” She took a breath, grounding herself. Braeden stood in a ready stance, like he was going to bolt toward her. He’d have to, and faster than she could draw and shoot.
“One! Start!”
The ground exploded in a shower of dirt and grass, long twisted roots climbing toward the sky. Isabelle gaped in amazement. She could barely see the sky, let alone Braeden. Glancing behind her, she saw a few Hunters mount gryphons and leaped into the sky. The Hunters held large mirrors so the king could watch the proceedings, even with the enchanted landscape.
Isabelle grit her teeth, and ran into the strange forest of dark roots. She had to win.
31
Heart pounding more with nerves than exertion, Isabelle wove her way through the dark undergrowth. She felt like an insect, scrabbling under giant leaves and roots, not unlike the giant’s world. She kept an arrow nocked to her bow. It was hard to navigate this strange forest. Everything was crowded together. Getting a clear shot at Braeden was out of the question.
Isabelle’s jaw clenched. She wasn’t going to lose. Not after coming this far. She knew regardless of the outcome, she was going to be a popular topic of discussion, and she didn’t think she could bear the shame if her parents heard of how far she’d come, only to lose.
The snap of a twig alerted Isabelle of Braeden’s presence. She froze, eyes scanning the foliage before her. There. He was creeping along, not yet aware of her hiding place.
Isabelle smiled. She lifted her bow in one swift motion and shot. The arrow smacked him right in the chest, Braeden shouting in surprise as blue dye exploded all over his tunic.
“Isabelle wins!” someone shouted, and Isabelle looked up toward the voice. A Hunter on his gryphon hovered in the air, watching her.
With a hiss, the forest dissipated, leaving Isabelle and Braeden standing on the field alone once again.
The crowd roared its approval, a few whistles and catcalls s
ounding in Isabelle’s direction.
Braeden’s face was a mixture of disgust and disappointment. He refused to look at Isabelle as he stalked off the field.
As Isabelle walked to the sideline, the fussy herald called out two other competitors. Isabelle didn’t even listen. Her body buzzed with exhilaration. She’d won her first competition. It’d been so easy, too!
She went to go get some water; the same dwarf was still there. He beamed at her. “Good job, lassie. I saw the whole thing. That do be man’s downfall with smaller opponents. They think they’re better than us, and get cocky.” He roared with laughter as he handed her a mug. “I doubt your next opponent will make the same mistake, so be on yer guard.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” Isabelle sipped the water, considering his words. He was right. But, she mused, I soundly kicked Braeden’s rear end. I defeated one competitor, and I’ll do it again.
“When will I fight again?” she asked the dwarf, and he shrugged.
“Probably tomorrow. They rarely have competitors fight twice in a day, unless you reach the finals. It wouldn’t be fair, otherwise.”
A Hunter walked up to her. “Isabelle Aryn. As the winner of your round, I’m going to request you to return to your bedchamber until tomorrow morning when you will duel again.”
“What? Why?” Isabelle’s stomach clenched. “Did I do something wrong?”
The Hunter’s battle scarred expression softened, but only just. “It’s to make sure someone doesn’t decide to slip a dagger between your ribs, thus effectively reducing the serious competition.”
“Ah.” She hadn’t considered that. “Thank you, I think I’ll take your advice on that.”
“You’d be a fool not to.” The Hunter turned and left, pushing his way through the milling crowd.
With her adrenaline wearing off, Isabelle was beginning to feel tired. She moved with the ebb and flow of people, keeping her head down. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself after the Fabled Hunter’s warning.
