by Kara Jaynes
Unfortunately, it seemed impossible now. Words of encouragement followed her as well as jeers and taunts. An older woman yelled at her to go home and find a husband, while a young boy yelled that he hoped to be as good at archery as her one day.
Isabelle felt her face redden at all the attention. She quickened her step, breaking free of the crowd. She practically fled to her room.
Her serving girl, Cerah, came shortly after with a light lunch, and drew her a bath.
Isabelle scrubbed away the dirt and sweat, thinking about what the next few days would bring. She smiled grimly. Whatever it was, she would be ready for it.
32
It’d been over a week since the tournament had begun. Isabelle won against every opponent she’d gone up against, using quick thinking, speed, and her archery to scrape by. Some were easy. One competition had been a game of swiftness, her opponent being a man so large she thought he might have ogre blood in him.
Other matches had been more difficult. She’d almost lost against a particularly vicious man who charged at her with maniacal swiftness, using his brute strength to weigh her down, but Isabelle had used her second weapon of choice; a hidden dagger kept in her boot, to stab him when he’d lifted his sword for a “kill” stroke.
Isabelle now stood in the center of the field, thirty feet or so away from the warrior woman who’d taunted her the day the tourney started. Her name was Bronwin, and she was watching Isabelle like she was looking forward to breaking every bone in her body.
Isabelle kept her face impassive. She didn’t know how the field would change, but she knew by now that it was unlikely to stay a plain field.
“Start!” the fussy servant hollered, and the field’s grass melted away to be replaced by sand. Large, stone blocks rose up, varying in height. Isabelle stumbled, trying to keep her feet as the ground shivered and bucked. She momentarily lost sight of Bronwin.
Isabelle slung her bow over her back, and yanked a couple of daggers out of their sheaths. She began to cautiously edge around the corner of the stone block closest to her—and almost got an axe to the face as Bronwin came hurtling around the edge, her square face contorted in a silent snarl.
Isabelle leaped back with a startled yell. Her instincts kicked in and she turned tail and ran.
The crowd erupted in laughter, clearly amused by the turn of events. Isabelle’s ears burned in shame as she scrambled over rough stone slabs and blocks. She was beginning to tire and she could hear the heavy footfalls of Bronwin in close pursuit.
Isabelle turned down another path created by the large sandstone blocks, and a particularly large one loomed before her. An idea came to her mind, and she reacted instantly. With a final burst of speed, she threw herself toward it, clambering to the top. Heaving to her feet, she feinted with a dagger in her left hand, throwing it at Bronwin.
The larger woman skidded to a stop, throwing herself out of the dagger’s path. Exactly what Isabelle wanted. She threw her other dagger, the knife flying true. Bronwin tried to deflect it, but was too slow. It grazed her throat, leaving a smear of blue dye.
“Isabelle Aryn is the victor!” a Fabled Hunter yelled, and the crowd cheered and yelled their support.
Isabelle’s legs shook as she took deep, grateful gulps of air. That was too close.
Bronwin shot her a look of pure hatred before stalking off the field. Isabelle fell to her knees as the ground shifted. The boulder she was standing on lowered to meld into the ground, grass reappearing.
“Isabelle Aryn, you have reached the final,” the herald called out, and the crowd hushed expectantly. “You and one other competitor have been undefeated. If you defeat him, you will be the next Fabled Hunter. If not, he will.”
Isabelle nodded, watching him. Who was the other champion?
Her question was quickly answered. Isabelle turned to look as a young man stepped through the crowd, walking with catlike grace. Tall and slender, he pinned her with a brilliant green eyed gaze, his red hair disheveled.
Jack.
33
“What are you doing here?” Isabelle hissed at Jack. They both stood in the center of the field facing each other. She was a tumble of emotions; happy, sad, hurt, and relief. She didn’t know what to feel.
Jack stared at her with startling intensity, his eyes shining with emotion. “Thank the heavens. You’re alive.” He took another step forward, smiling hesitantly. “I didn’t know you’d escaped from the witch.”
Isabelle felt anger well up inside of her. “You left me to die at Bethyl. If it wasn’t for Silvan, I’d be dead, or wishing I was.”
“Who’s Silvan? And what are you talking about? I looked for you,” Jack protested, his face flushing. “But I couldn’t find you.”
“Yeah right.” Isabelle folded her arms across her chest, tilting her chin up. “You told me you wouldn’t come after me if I went to the witch.”
“I only said that because I couldn’t think of any other way to make you stay,” Jack said. “I tried to enter the castle, but I couldn’t get past the wards of magic she’d put up.”
Isabelle rolled her eyes. “You’re lying. You’d be turned to stone if you’d really gone.”
Jack shook his head, pushing hair out of his face. “I had something of value that she was willing to trade for and let me go.”
Isabelle frowned at him. “And what could you possibly have that she would possibly want?”
Jack grimaced, opening his mouth to respond when the herald called out. “If the two final competitors would step forward,” he said, obviously unaware of their discussion. “Stand before the king.”
Jack bowed politely to Isabelle, unable to mask over his hurt. “After you.”
Isabelle marched over, trying to ignore the whirlwind of emotions she felt inside. She was incredibly relieved to see Jack, but why couldn’t he have saved her? She couldn’t deny it felt good to have him standing next to her again, like a piece of her that she didn’t know was missing had been restored.
King Ruald looked at both of them with interest, his daughter looking at Jack with immense interest. Isabelle felt the stirring of jealousy and quickly stomped on it. She couldn’t care less if she should find him handsome. Right?
“So Jack defeated our esteemed Sir Reginald, and Isabelle, Bronwin. Very interesting. You’ll forgive me if I didn’t expect that outcome from either of you.” He lounged back in his makeshift throne, still watching them. “Tomorrow, you will both face off against each other, but tonight, be friends. Celebrate! It is an incredible feat that you’ve made it this far. The two of you are invited to join us at tonight’s banquet.”
Isabelle felt a wide grin bloom across her face. Dining; with a king! She wished Mother could see her now.
She glanced at Jack and they shared a hesitant smile. Regardless of the outcome, it was an immense honor.
“Return to your rooms,” King Ruald declared, “and prepare for tonight’s events. Tomorrow, we will have our new Fabled Hunter!”
The crowd erupted in cheers again. Both Isabelle and Jack were led away by servants. Isabelle cast one last look over her shoulder at the redheaded man before he was swallowed up by the press of people.
Isabelle floated in a daze as female servants bathed and dressed her in clothing fit for a lady, fussing over her hair and appearance. She thought about Jack. He wanted to win this competition more than anything.
But so do I. One of them had to lose. She sighed, frustrated with the situation. She had to win. She had to. Could she give up the chance of a lifetime? For mere friendship?
For more than friendship, a thought whispered in her mind and she shivered. The servant dressing her clicked her tongue about cool summer breezes and fetched a silk shawl that was so flimsy Isabelle laughed at it.
The remainder of the afternoon passed with agonizing slowness. Dressing with the aid of several servants took what felt like forever. It was a great relief when another servant came to fetch her for the banquet.
The
dining hall was massive, chandeliers hanging down in a shower of sparkling crystal, their light bouncing off the white walls, making everything brighter. The king was already seated, as well as his daughter, Charlotte. Isabelle felt a twinge of uncertainty looking at her. Charlotte was dressed in a voluminous white dress, diamonds and pearls sewn into the fabric.
Isabelle was wearing a simple red dress that flared out at the waist, cream ruffles at the hem and edging the neckline. The servants had offered her jewelry to wear but she’d declined, hoping to avoid looking too frivolous as a potential Hunter. Now she wondered if she’d underdressed for the occasion.
Jack appeared a moment later, walking beside her as they approached the king. His hair still stuck up in the back, but he was dressed in well-fitted black trousers, brown leather boots that laced halfway up his calves, and a green loose fitting shirt that complimented his eyes. The style of his shirt reminded her of Silvan’s and she looked away.
“You look smashing,” Jack whispered.
“Thanks,” Isabelle whispered back. So do you.
They were seated exactly opposite from each other. Jack looked uncomfortable, and whenever their eyes met he looked away.
Dinner was almost overwhelming. Meats varied from roasted duck, goose, chicken, lamb, beef, and pork, even shark. Isabelle was careful to avoid the last. Coming from Stormview, she knew how quickly it could spoil and didn’t trust its freshness based on how far they were from water.
There were scalloped potatoes, honeyed carrots, plum pudding, and buttered rolls, the last being so soft, they felt how Isabelle imagined clouds might. Wine was served, as well as a mild punch that both Jack and Isabelle chose. It wouldn’t do to get drunk before such an important day.
Charlotte kept engaging Jack in conversation. He smiled at her, making her laugh with some of his good-natured jokes, but Isabelle could tell from the set of his jaw and the way he kept shifting in his seat that he was ill at ease.
Isabelle only selected a few of the dishes and was full before even half the courses had come out. She tried not to think about what a waste it was to have so much served. She hoped the servants got access to the leftovers.
The night wore on. She had a Hunter on one hand, and a fat nobleman on the other. The noble kept shifting his seat closer to Isabelle, asking her questions about herself and her life that Isabelle didn’t feel inclined to answer. He reminded her of the butcher back home. It was becoming increasingly warm, and Isabelle felt herself becoming more exhausted. She just wanted it to be over.
Just when she felt like she was either going to scream with frustration or smack the fat noble, the banquet was over. The king and his daughter stood and moved into a side social room, as the servants began to swoop in to clean up.
Isabelle stepped close to the open window in the room, breathing in the fragrant air from the garden.
“Isabelle.” Feeling exasperated dread, Isabelle turned to see the nobleman smiling down at her. “I see you have an interest in gardens. Perhaps when this is all over you would like to visit my estate. I’d be more than happy to show you around.”
“That sounds … lovely.” Compared to getting mauled by a troll. Maybe.
“I’m afraid Isabelle will have other engagements.” Jack appeared out of the swirl of silks and perfumes to stand by Isabelle, glaring darkly at the noble. “If you’ll excuse us.”
Isabelle could have kissed him at that moment. She accepted his proffered arm and he escorted her away from the bothersome noble.
“Thanks,” Isabelle said. “I owe you.”
“I want you to forfeit the tournament, Isabelle.” Jack’s voice was low, being careful not to let those close by overhear them. “For me.”
“What? For you? What about me?” Isabelle kept her voice low too, but it was an effort. “You know what this means to me.”
“And you know what this means to me,” he insisted. He looked down at her, his gaze locking with hers. He took a deep breath, his smile crooked. “That came out wrong. Let me try again. I’m going to compete in the tournament tomorrow, Isabelle, no matter what. I don’t want you to get hurt.” His jaw clenched, his hands tightening over hers a brief moment. “I care about you, and I don’t want this to ruin our friendship. Just … just know it’s a competition, and I intend to compete.”
Isabelle tore her hands out of his, unable to keep the hurt she felt from her face. She turned away. Things wouldn’t be the same after this. She could feel it.
“Isabelle.”
“Goodnight, Jack.” She left the room, retreating to her bedchamber. Undressing, she climbed into bed, pushing the window open a crack to let in a breeze.
She closed her eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. She kept seeing Jack’s green eyes, the light smattering of freckles across his nose, his smile … No. She pushed his image away from her mind.
He knew her story. He knew how badly she wanted this. But he wants this, too. She tossed and turned, rolling over onto her side, trying to get comfortable. Yes, he wanted it, but who was he to say that his need was greater than hers? If he really cared about her, why wouldn’t he step aside?
She had to do this, or go home and admit she failed. Her pride couldn’t bear it.
Pride. No. She pushed the thought away. This was about her family, not her pride, wasn’t it?
But Jack wouldn’t let us starve. She opened her eyes, staring at the far wall of her room in the dark. He would take care of me. Of my family. I know he would. All I have to do is forfeit.
Why did she want this so bad? Why was this more important than Jack?
It was a long time before sleep finally came to her.
34
The day of the final competition was beautiful. The skies were perfectly clear without a single cloud in sight. The air was warm, with a slight breeze to keep things from getting too warm. The ideal day.
The crowd of people was quieter today, a hush of anticipation lay over the tournament grounds.
Isabelle felt the usual twist of nerves in her stomach, but pushed them aside. She’d already won several times. She would win again. She hoped.
“Ready to lose?” Jack stepped to her, a smirk on his handsome face. She saw right through it. He was nervous, though he tried to hide it in his false arrogance.
“You wish,” she said, but felt a pang of guilt. She pushed it away.
“Well … good luck, anyway.” Jack’s eyes were somber as he walked away.
The rules were different today. The winner would be the best out of three competitions.
Several targets were set up in a line that ran down the long side of the field. Jack chose knives as his preferred weapon, and their first competition was knife throwing. Isabelle groaned with frustration. Jack was good with knives. Really good.
They both stood together, each given a belt of throwing knives.
Jack went first, moving down the line, throwing each blade with deadly accuracy. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Ten knives, more than half of them a perfect bullseye.
The crowd cheered. Jack turned and waved, giving an exaggerated bow, flourishing his hands. He turned to Isabelle. “Beat that, little girl!” The crowd’s laughter rose to a roar.
Isabelle’s hands shook. She knew she couldn’t beat it. She had to try, but it was already hopeless. She pulled the first blade from its sheath, and threw.
Thud. It was a terrible throw, hitting outside of the bullseye by a full handbreadth. The crowd groaned. Isabelle’s face flushed with shame, but there was no going back. She threw another, and another, moving down the line much more slowly than Jack had. Thud. Thud. Thud. She thought it’d never end; her hands felt sweaty and her stomach fluttered with nerves. Jack made her look the fool.
When she’d finally thrown the last knife, she turned to face Jack, ready to face his onslaught of insults. Instead she found him watching her, his green eyes sad.
“I hope you’re happy,” she hissed, and he frowned.
“No. I’m not.”
Is
abelle turned away.
The next competition was archery, new targets set out to replace the old ones. Isabelle smirked at Jack. There was no question as to who would win this round.
Jack went first again. His archery was decent, but he still only managed one perfect bullseye out of ten targets.
Isabelle walked over to stand where Jack had stood. She had to not only shoot better than him, she needed to give the crowd a show, to make up for her poor display with the knife throwing.
She aimed for a split second only, her arrow catapulting forward to hit the bullseye. She did it again and again. When she reached the tenth, where Jack had managed to hit the center, she split his arrow down the middle. She tossed her hair over her shoulder, matching Jack’s furious gaze with one of her own. “Who’s the little girl, now?”
Even King Ruald laughed, tipping his head back in mirth.
Jack shook with unconcealed rage, his eyes pinpoints of green fire. The darkness was there again, swirling within his gaze. What was it? “You’re going to pay for that, Isabelle.” His fists were clenched, his back rigid.
Isabelle turned away, ignoring him. She closed her eyes, letting the roar of the spectators’ approval wash over her. She was made for this. This was her destiny.
The fussy herald stood again, raising his hands for silence. “This is the final match. Isabelle Aryn and Jack Colsworth will go head to head, in combat. The weapons they use will be the king’s choice.”
The servant turned toward the king, putting his head close while they conversed for a moment, then turned back to the crowd. “They shall duel with swords.”
Isabelle stared at the herald, horrified. She’d never used a sword in her life. How was she supposed to win using a skill she didn’t have? She risked a glance at Jack, and was partially relieved to see the same thunderstruck look on his face. So he didn’t know how to use one either. Her gaze lingered on his body, and she felt the stirrings of fear. He was taller, faster, and much, much stronger. Their gazes met, and Isabelle stiffened, expecting him to gloat.
