Honestly, I’m a little baffled Galinor doesn’t have one yet. All he had to do was find a cave. Around here, that’s not terribly difficult.
I stamp down my irritation. It’s not his fault. He’s not familiar with the area.
Archer glances up the canyon wall not far from us. “There’s a cave there.”
I don’t see it, but I don’t doubt he’s right.
“With any luck, we’ll run into a grim boar on our way,” Archer says.
A strange look crosses Galinor’s face, and I don’t think he believes we’ll be lucky to find a boar.
We mount our horses and choose a trail that looks like it may lead us to the canyon wall. The sun is high in the sky, and it won’t be much longer before Archer and I will have to turn back.
“We passed a patch of waspnettle on the way here. Did you notice it, Archer?”
“I did.”
“Do you think you can find it on our way back?” I hope we may find an inger nest in it.
He doesn’t answer. We’ve come to a river running through the bottom of the canyon. The bridge looks questionable, and just as Archer’s mare is crossing, the rotted side support gives way. His horse lunges for the opposite bank.
“Archer!” I cry as the bridge crashes into the river, sweeping the planks and rope away with the rushing waters.
“I’m fine,” he calls back. Somehow he made it safely to the other side before the bridge went into the river.
I scan the river’s course down the canyon. I point. “There. It’s wider, but it looks like it might be shallow. We’ll cross and meet you.”
“I’ll see if there’s maid-of-the-shadow in the cave and meet you there.” Archer motions to the trail that climbs the canyon wall.
Galinor and I turn our horses, and we continue down while Archer goes up the cliff. Now that we are alone, neither of us knows what to say. I steal a glance, and he smiles back at me, his face warm and open.
I made the right choice in choosing him.
Once Archer is out of sight, Galinor comes to a stop, and he takes my hand. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
It feels nice to have my hand in his. If he’s successful with the tournament, which I know he will be, then this is the hand I will hold for the rest of my life. The thought gives me a funny feeling—a happy feeling, I’m sure. It’s not something I can really put a finger on, so I push it away. With Galinor smiling at me and his beautiful eyes looking at me like I’m exquisite, it’s hard to dwell on much else.
“You still trust Archer?” Galinor looks a little disapproving. “Didn’t he tell your father where to find us?”
I shake my head. “He said he didn’t. He’s the only one I could trust to come with me.”
He doesn’t like it, but I’m not sure what to do about that. If it weren’t for Archer, I would have never found him.
“He’ll help us,” I say. “I can’t express how deeply I want you to win.”
Galinor squeezes my hand and nods. “All right. If you trust him, I will trust him as well.”
The trail is long but fairly easy. Soon we meet Archer. He has already crossed the stream and is waiting for us.
Careful to avoid the powdery white flowers, Archer hands the cluster of maid-of-the-shadows to Galinor, who tucks them in his saddlebag.
I beam at Archer. I knew he’d find them.
“Now we need to find the waspnettle,” Archer says.
I glance at the sky.
We need to hurry.
***
I’m sure we should have passed the patch of waspnettle by now. Everything looks different. “Archer, are you sure this is the way?”
He’s riding far ahead of us, and I’m not sure why. He’s acting like a guide—distant and a little unapproachable. I had hoped he and Galinor would get on well. So far they’re courteous to each other but far from friendly.
“I’ve run across fresh grim boar sign. We’re tracking it,” he calls back.
This is news to me.
Feeling vulnerable, I absently feel for the bow on my back. I’m not sure you could kill a grim boar with an arrow, but it can’t hurt to have it with me.
It’s getting cooler as we venture farther into the deep woods. The sunlight can’t penetrate the ancient evergreen trees, and it’s dark and musty smelling. I don’t think I’ve ever been in this deep. Strange brown and yellow mushrooms cling to the ragged old bark of fallen tree trunks, and there are strange creatures calling back and forth from the branches with weird high pitched clicks. They sound like they’re no bigger than rodents or birds, but the shrill noise has me on edge.
We pass a muddy, shallow pond. By the looks of it, several boars have wallowed in it. The bugs are thick here, and once again I wish I had Yuven’s repellent.
“Your forests are much different from ours in Glendon.” Galinor eyes the wallow.
I glance at my prince, finding comfort in his presence. He rides next to me, close enough our legs occasionally brush. He has one hand on the reins and the other on the hilt of his sword. He must be uneasy as well.
“Tell me about your kingdom,” I say, wishing for a distraction.
His face softens, and his dimples show as he smiles. “Our forests are primarily deciduous trees with a few groves of fir and spruce scattered here and there. There are large meadows, a few freshwater lakes, and wildflowers are plentiful in the spring and summer. Our winters are short—only three months compared to your five. We grow many vegetables and fruits.”
“I’ve heard cattle thrive in your meadows.”
Galinor nods. “Glendon is well suited to their grazing needs. There’s also an abundance of game in the woods.”
“What is the castle like?” I ask, wondering what my future holds.
“It’s not as fine as your palace,” he says. “We have no golden accents or large windows, but it is beautiful in its own right. It’s stone with the usual buttresses and towers.”
“It sounds lovely,” I say, and I mean it. I’m sure I will be very happy there.
He’s quiet, and it looks like he’s lost in thought. “If I win—”
“When you win,” I interrupt.
He grins and shakes his head. “If I win, you will stay a princess. Will you miss the chance of being a queen? I am second born.”
“I don’t care about any of that. There’s a lot of pressure placed on queens-to-be. So much is expected of Leonora.”
I meet his eye, and it looks like he’s struggling for words. “We’re a simple people, as you’ve probably heard.”
I nod. It’s unusual for great warriors, artists, or scholars to come from Glendon. They are a farming kingdom and mostly self-sufficient. They are known for their kindness and not for their grandeur. Glendon hosts no great tournaments, festivals, or feasts. Or at least they haven’t in years.
I toss my hair over my shoulder. “You’re afraid I will be bored there.”
He sighs and then nods. “You are bright, beautiful…vibrant. I feel like I will be trapping an exotic bird in a plain cage. As much as I want to keep her, is it really fair to the bird?”
“You are kind. I would rather be a bird in a plain cage with a kind keeper than a bird in a large and beautiful garden with a cold master.”
He’s about to answer but is interrupted by a guttural grunt in front of us. We both whip forward. The grim boar’s near a mud hole. Instead of fighting, it runs when it sees us.
I kick my horse, and we race after him, Archer in the lead, and Galinor at the back. I dart trees and jump over rocks. We crash through streams and brush.
It’s exhilarating, this mad dash. I had no idea. No wonder my brothers look forward to hunts like they do.
Finally, the grim boar stops and makes to charge us.
Archer’s on the ground a second before Galinor, but my prince is right behind him. My hand shakes while I fumble for my arrows. I take aim, but I’m not sure I can make the shot without hitting one of the men.
Archer has
a hunting spear, and he’s faring better than Galinor with his sword. Every time Galinor attacks, the boar makes to gore him with his tusks, and the prince has to pull back.
Willowisp dances under me, spooked by the squealing beast. It’s as large as the one that attacked Rigel, if not a little larger. She lets out a frightened neigh, startling the boar. It darts around Galinor and charges at me.
“Around the tree! Bring him back this way!” Archer yells.
I kick Willowisp and yank her around the large pine. The great tree shudders as the boar smacks it with his tusks, only narrowly missing us. We race forward. Archer has already drawn his bow and is taking aim. The boar chases us, grunting and squealing like a demon creature.
The arrow flies, and the sounds of the chase cease. Archer runs past us, spear at the ready. I turn just as he plunges the spear into the pig’s chest. Galinor is behind him, and he too sticks the boar with his sword, though it’s clear to see Archer already killed it.
Galinor stares at the dead beast, looking a little shocked, but Archer is running toward me. He holds out his arms, and I fall off my horse and into him. I struggle to catch my breath as he holds me tight, running his hand down my hair. “Are you all right?”
I nod and put a hand on my chest. My heart is racing, and despite my deep breaths it won’t slow down. Once I finally catch my breath, I laugh.
“I thought I was going to die!” I say, and I can’t hide my glee.
Archer takes a deep breath and allows himself a small chuckle. “I think I just about died when it charged you. Do you know what your father would do to me?”
We’re laughing together, and then I feel Galinor’s eyes on us. I step from Archer’s arms.
“You’ve killed your first grim boar,” I say, trying to be as easy with him as I just was with Archer.
He shakes his head. “Archer killed it.”
I glance at the boar, and I know he’s right. Archer’s arrow went straight through the creature’s eye and into its brain. It was most likely dying before he stabbed it with the spear. It was most definitely dead by the time Galinor reached it.
“It was your kill,” Archer says. “I helped, but you dealt the last blow.”
We all stare at the boar, and an uncomfortable, awkward silence falls over our party. My exuberance fizzles away.
“How do I get it back?” Galinor asks.
“We’ll have to drag it to your camp. Where’s your fabric pull?”
Galinor grits his teeth and closes his eyes. “I don’t have one on me.”
Archer nods, saying nothing, and retrieves one from his own pack.
“With any luck we’ll find a waspnettle patch on the way back,” I tell Galinor brightly.
He’s mad at himself, and he won’t meet my eyes. He stalks around the other side of the boar and helps Archer slip the fabric under the beast.
I sigh. This isn’t how I imagined the day would go.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Woodsman's Cottage
For once, Galinor is prepared. He has his gauntlets with him and is able to search the waspnettle without being stung. The sun is lowering at an alarming rate. Galinor’s already been looking through the patch without any luck for nearly half an hour. Archer and I watch, but neither of us venture in. Galinor is better dressed for retrieving this particular item.
I glance at Archer. He’s frowning at the horizon. We both know we should have set back for the palace long before now, but I don’t want to leave until I know Galinor has the inger egg.
“I’ve found one!” he calls from the middle of the thicket. He holds up a green speckled egg, and I squeal, elated.
Archer sighs, relieved we can leave.
Galinor makes his way back to us, batting at the wasps hovering near his face. The waspnettle is thick, and the ground is uneven. The prince stumbles a few times, and I gasp every time, thinking he’ll fall. He carries the small egg in the palm of his steel covered hand, holding it like it’s precious—which it is.
“How many items do you think Lionel has?” I ask Archer, keeping quiet so Galinor doesn’t overhear.
Archer thinks about it before he answers. “I don’t think the question with Lionel is how many items he will retrieve, but rather, how soon will he have them all.”
I roll my shoulders, feeling stiff. “And Rigel?”
“I know nothing of Rigel, but those from Errinton are known for their…resourcefulness.”
I squirm, feeling the weight of the competition. “Should we go for the eldentimber resin? It’s not yet dark.”
It’s the second day. Lionel may already be back at the palace with all his items. Unlike Galinor, Lionel is very familiar with Lauramore. I don’t doubt Percival chose several of the items with him in mind.
“Not tonight, Pippa. If you are discovered, Galinor will be disqualified.”
I want to argue, but Archer is right. The stakes are too high. Galinor reaches us. For the first time today, my prince looks confident.
“You did well,” I say, beaming at him.
He takes the egg to his horse and fumbles to open the saddlebag with his gauntlets still on.
I step forward, nervous. “Careful not to drop the—oh no!” I shriek in horror.
When he tries to save the egg from its perilous drop, Galinor crushes it in his hand. Runny white and dark yellow yoke run through his fingers. My sweet, kind prince looks about ready to murder something.
“It’s all right,” I say, rushing to him.
“It’s not all right,” he snaps. His face falls, and he bows his head. “I’m sorry, Princess.”
I wish he would stop treating me as if I were as fragile as that egg. My fingers wrap around his chin, and I jerk his face back up. “Galinor, we’ll find another.”
“It was the only one in the nest.” His voice is tired.
I take him by his shoulders and stand on my tiptoes. “We’ll find one tomorrow. It won’t take long.”
“Pippa—”
“No! You will not give up. You will not.”
He nods. “Do you really believe I can do this?”
It doesn’t matter what I believe. He must do it, so he will.
“You will not fail.”
***
“Don’t say it, Archer.”
I’m weary and more disheartened by the broken inger egg than I wanted Galinor to know.
“I wasn’t going to say anything, Princess.” Archer is unusually respectful.
I glance at him. He’s been quiet since we parted ways with Galinor, and I’m not sure what he’s thinking, though I am fairly certain he believes I put my trust in the wrong prince.
I feel so guilty at my thoughts, I think I might cry. Galinor is kind and strong, and I am cruel to doubt him. The scavenger hunt isn’t his event, that’s all. The tournament is designed to test a man in many ways. He’ll do better with the joust. From what my brothers have said, he’ll excel at the hand-to-hand event.
What about the archery tournament? Or the dragon?
I shake my head.
“What is it?” Archer asks.
“I am very tired.”
Willowisp plods under me, as if she too feels the day was too long. The setting sun shines golden on her mane and body. It will be dark before we reach the palace.
I will be found out. Galinor will be disqualified.
I will marry Lionel.
“Stop it,” Archer says sharply. “You’re brooding. The tournament isn’t over yet. The scavenger hunt isn’t even over yet.”
“Do you think he can win?” I ask, voicing my fears. Saying them out loud makes them more real, and panic rises in my chest.
“You are unfair to him, Pippa. Give him a chance.” He pauses. “You are also unfair to the other twenty-seven men you never discuss. Just because none of them look like Galinor doesn’t mean they won’t win. The chances are high it won’t be Lionel, Rigel, or Galinor.”
“You think I should stop meddling?”
He rolls his
eyes. “I believe I’ve been saying that from the beginning.”
“Then why do you help me?” I’m watching him, waiting for his answer.
His eyes flick to mine. “Because you need me.”
I laugh. “I wish you could compete in the tournament, Archer. Then I would have no doubt who the victor would be.”
Too late, I realize the implications to what I just said. I turn to him, my mouth working as I try to find a way to amend my words.
He raises an eyebrow, amused. “I fight for you, and then you choose whomever you wish to marry? Wouldn’t that put an interesting spin on the tournament?”
I scowl at him, irritated for no reason. “And why should it be like that? If you were to win such a hypothetical tournament, you should have the princess. That’s how it works.”
“If I was allowed to compete—and let’s remember I am not—I am still a lowly archer. Archer’s don’t marry princesses.”
We’re in murky territory, and I should leave it alone. It’s not in my nature to leave things alone.
“That’s ridiculous. What difference does it make if you’re a master archer? It’s only one social step under a knight—just one. I could marry a knight if he were to win the tournament. Why couldn’t I marry you?”
Archer’s no longer smiling. In fact, he looks angry. “To be a knight, you must be a lord’s son. I am not.”
“You’re a lord’s grandson. Doesn’t that count for anything?” I demand, yet again bringing up the tender subject.
His eyes are flashing. “My mother chose to marry my father, knowing full well it would forfeit any right to a title she or her offspring would have.”
“It’s so unfair!”
“Enough! I would not wish to compete anyway,” he snaps, his voice hot and angry.
I feel like I’ve been slapped. I look away, my eyes hot with tears. I pushed too hard, and I’ve hurt him. I know that. But he is my friend, and what he said was cruel—even if it is true.
Archer clears his throat. “Pippa, I’m sorry.”
I nod, refusing to look at him.
“Princess, I know my place. Let’s not confuse things with fanciful what-ifs.” His voice is soft and remorseful. “We are friends. Let’s not fight over something neither of us would want.”
Pippa of Lauramore Page 7
