CHAPTER 8: A Magic Arrow
They left Sedlik’s house at first light and were standing near the gate of the Palace of the Old Kings before the sun rose above the dome of the Senate. Kyric could only stand and stare.
“It’s been abandoned since the end of the Long Winter,” Aiyan said. “The Royal Library is all that remains in there — it’s a vast collection of Aessia’s oldest tomes and scrolls. Every book is hand written, and there’s history in there you won’t find in the Eddur.”
A donkey cart driven by a long-haired boy came to a halt in front of them, and a midget with a longbow arrow in his hand climbed down. “Pitbull,” said Aiyan, going to him.
Kyric had seen midget performers the day before at the circus tent, but they had not looked like this fellow. Pitbull was bigger. Beneath thick spectacles, he had the face of a grizzled bulldog and was built like a tree stump. His skin looked more like hide, and thick arms grew from clusters of muscle that served as shoulders. A barrel chest atop legs that seemed carved from stone made Kyric think that this man could not be easily knocked aside.
The games pavilion lay nearby between the palace and the royal residence and they talked as they went. Pitbull handed Kyric the arrow. Steel tipped with white feathers, it looked well made. The fletching was shield cut and offset, like his own, and the balance point a little forward of center. He would have no problem with it. Symbols that Kyric didn’t recognize had been painted along the shaft.
“This arrow has a deep enchantment laid upon it,” said Pitbull. “It is a magic arrow but it doesn’t work on its own. If you can reach out with your spirit self and touch the arrow, it will allow your intuition to guide it, and you cannot miss.”
“Do not use it in every round,” Aiyan said. “Save it for when you really need it. You’ll still need to shoot as well as you can.”
“This is it? This is how I’m going to win?”
Pitbull grinned. “There’s other spells I’ll be using. Do not worry, my boy. You’ll soon have the gold arrow in hand along with all the buxom girls you can manage.”
They crossed a paved square with an enormous fountain in the center, and came to a three-story structure that stretched along the field of contest. The upper floors were private box seats and the lower floor, built openly with wide arches, served as a place for the athletes. Clusters of men with all manner of bow converged there along with some heavily muscled fellows, weightlifters or wrestlers. Kyric looked for Jazul Marlez but didn’t see him.
One of the bigger ones spat without looking, and suddenly Pitbull turned on him growling, “Spit that close to me again, buddy, and I’ll tear your leg off.” The man shuffled away from him.
Aiyan pointed across the field to the stonework terraces where the commons were seated. “We’ll be over there. It will be a long day, do you have enough water? Then good luck, Kyric. I know you can do it.”
Kyric walked into the pavilion alone. He didn’t like this. Cheating with magic. And this Pitbull didn’t act like he thought a magician would. But Aiyan had insisted that the very life of Princess Aerlyn could be the prize here.
Mother Nistra had once said something about magic, that it still existed after the War of Mages in a lesser form. Rather than contradict nature, it could only reinforce the natural, push it along so to speak.
And this story Aiyan had told him shook Kyric hard. He had tasted the black blood and seen the flaming blade and there was nothing for it.
He waited in line to have his name written down and be given a wooden medallion with a number burned into it. Those who already had numbers began stringing their bows. Finally they were marched to one end of the field where a dozen targets stood. At least two hundred men, and a few women, gathered there.
This was the qualifying round. Each target had three rings and a shot inside each ring scored a point. Each archer was required to score six points with only three arrows or be eliminated. The distance was a hundred paces, far enough to raise a question in Kyric’s mind with the added pressure of only three shots.
Half of those who shot ahead of him failed and were dismissed from the field. When his turn came he told himself he could place all three in the center ring on a good day. But his first shot hit just inside the outer ring.
“One point,” called the judge.
Kyric felt like everything was off. His breathing wasn’t steady and his form was slack. If he did that again he wouldn’t get a third shot.
He slowed his breathing and shot again, hitting inside the middle ring.
He now had to hit inside the center ring to qualify. He reached for the magic arrow.
He didn’t know how to touch an enchanted arrow with his spirit. He tried for a feeling of confidence in his gut that the arrow knew where to go then let it fly. Kyric felt like the magic didn’t work, but he hit inside the center ring anyway.
He heard a cheer and looked to see Aiyan and Pitbull on the front row of the stands among a quickly growing crowd of spectators, slapping each other and whooping like he had just won the gold arrow.
Now began the tournament. The next round would be groups of four, a dozen shots each, the two best scores advancing. Kyric’s first few shots hit the outer ring, but then he found his focus and his arrows started landing in the center and he finished with a fair score. He stood in second place with the last man to shoot, a young Jakavian with fiery eyes. With one arrow left, the Jakavian needed only a solid hit in the middle ring to finish ahead of Kyric, but just as he released, his arm jerked and he yelped in pain. His shot missed the target entirely.
“Stung by a bee!” he cried. “I got stung by a bee! No fair — I should get to shoot again.”
Kyric glanced over at the stands. Pitbull was laughing so hard he nearly fell over, and Aiyan had to hold him up.
The judges examined the Jakavian’s arm and found no sign of a sting or any other injury and pronounced that the shot would stand, and that Kyric would advance.
Now he only had to survive five head to head matches to be one of the final pair. They brought out new targets with four rings and bulls-eyes painted in blue and set them back another fifty paces.
They paired him against a soldier from Sevdin. Kyric found his range on the first shot and won easily with one arrow in the bulls-eye and eleven arrows surrounding it. He shot just as well in the next round, but his opponent was very good and he barely won. He flubbed a shot in the next pairing, but he won by default when the man he was shooting against developed a cramp in his hand and violated the time limit trying to work it out.
Once again, Pitbull roared with hilarity, elbowing Aiyan, who sat still with a quiet smile, simply enjoying the games.
Kyric paced an angry circle. Why did the little man have to enjoy his power so much? The way he celebrated each of his dirty tricks was so arrogant.
He stepped up to the line for the next round with a hot head and loosed all his dozen in quick succession, hardly pausing to aim. He won with two bulls-eyes, and the crowd cheered for the show of rapid fire. Kyric looked around for the other contestants and found only three — an old greybeard with a straw hat, a tall strong-looking girl about his own age, and a pale fellow dressed in red leather boots and a lacey silk shirt.
The judges called a recess so that they could hold the stone-throwing, and Kyric went to the pavilion and sat on the grass outside. Aiyan found him there a few minutes later.
“What are you so angry about?” he said.
“The way we have to make a mockery of these games so that you can meet a princess. By using magic to deprive these men of their chance, we dishonor them.”
Aiyan gave him a hard look. “We aren’t a couple of kids pranking the Games of Aeva. We are at noble purposes here. You know the truth of the threat — you’ve tasted it. If you find your part in this unpleasant, let me tell you that this is nothing. It gets much worse than this. So whatever this is really about, just stop it. Step up and be the man you know
you can be.”
Kyric let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head. “I don’t know why I’m so angry today.”
Aiyan’s tone softened. “I know why. It’s the black blood. Even if only for a moment, you were used on the deepest level, in the core of your heart. No one recovers from that in a few days.
“Remember that for a true warrior, all battles are battles of the spirit. When we burn, it is not with anger. We burn with our own inner fire. I know that you know how to do this. I know it.”
Kyric didn’t say anything, and they watched the stone-throwing for a time. At last Aiyan said, “The one who’ll give you trouble is the fellow in the red boots. I’ve been watching him. He uses an old Baskillian war bow — wood and horn composite — and he’s an exceptional shot.” Aiyan paused for a moment and his eyes narrowed. “There’s something about him,” he murmured. “I would like to get a close look at that one.”
He pulled an orange from his pocket and gave it to Kyric. With a final nod, he turned and left him alone.
The stone-throwing ended and a judge called Kyric back onto the field along with the three others. Someone loudly announced their names to the crowd. Kyric swallowed. Half of Aeva had just heard his name.
They had replaced the old targets, the new ones having a red spot in the center of the blue bulls-eye. If they had used these earlier, Kyric was sure that all his bulls would have been in the blue, the outer portion. They paired him with the greybeard, whose name was Orpa Tomae. Tomae shot like a machine, every movement precise, and he scored as high as one could without a single bulls-eye.
When Kyric stepped up to the line he selected the magic arrow and closed his eyes, seeing himself in the clover field at the convent, losing all self as he raised the bow, but the clover field became the place of his dreams and the wind that blew there became a wind of the spirit, and it blew through him and along the arrow. He opened his eyes and loosed it without hesitation.
It struck the red spot. Kyric tried to remain in the spirit field, and vaguely aware of the roar of the crowd, he shot his other arrows and finished with two more in the blue. He was one of the final pair.
When the girl, Elmi Hilake, was called to shoot, the crowd applauded wildly, and they shouted encouragements to her as she went to the line. She shot as well as Kyric had against Tomae, but it wasn’t enough as the man, Stefin Vaust of Drendusia, scored seven outer bulls to win easily. The crowd cheered him politely, but their hearts had been with Elmi.
The judges announced that for the final round they would trade shots at the same target. Then they moved the line back another fifty paces. The flip of a coin decided that Kyric would shoot first.
He estimated the distance to be about a hundred and thirty yards. He would need to use a little more arch than he was used to. And with Vaust standing at the same line watching, Kyric felt a bit uneasy. He took a deep breath and loosed his arrow in the place of spirit. It struck near the bulls-eye, but not quite in it. Vaust hit the outer bull at the edge of the red.
Kyric’s next ten shots alternated from just inside the blue to just outside of it, and with every answering shot Vaust one-upped him, so that with one arrow remaining, Kyric was far behind. To win, he would have to hit the inner bull and Vaust would have to nearly miss the target.
Kyric drew the magic arrow from his quiver. Vaust took a step toward him.
“Is that an enchanted arrow?” he said with a curious smile and a bit of a dialect.
Shocked, Kyric didn’t know what to say. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Well, there’s little magic symbols painted on the shaft. I thought maybe you were superstitious and bought a supposed enchantment from one of those fakirs.”
Kyric grinned in embarrassment. Stop it. That’s the most obvious of all the signs. Surprised, he found that he was entirely unpracticed as a liar.
“Not at all. Those were already on the arrow when I found it. Everyone knows there’s no such thing as a magic arrow.”
“Indeed,” said Vaust with a polite nod.
The line judge called out, “No speaking to the shooter while he’s at the line. Step away and give him some room.”
Vaust backed away and Kyric had to close his eyes and simply breathe for a moment. He stepped into a waking dream where the red spot on the target became a glowing eye. The spirit wind filled him and nothing of his self remained. Strings of power connected the arrowhead to the glowing eye. All that Kyric had to do was let go.
The arrow struck the red spot dead center.
The crowd screamed as one, and a sliver of light sparked in Vaust’s eyes. He gave Kyric an examining look. “Now that was a remarkable shot,” he said coolly, nocking his last arrow. “I will certainly remark upon it.”
Kyric edged to the side and scanned the crowd, finding Pitbull standing in his seat next to Aiyan. He had removed his spectacles, and now he tapped at his elbow with one finger, and he appeared to be speaking furiously.
Vaust drew the bowstring back, held for a moment, then as he released, his face clenched in pain, but that was all. His shot landed on the edge of the blue and he was the winner.
Pitbull staggered to one side, his mouth open. He said something to Aiyan then sat down, shaking his head and making futile gestures to the sky.
Vaust touched his elbow gingerly. “It’s all right now,” he said to Kyric. “Had a sharp twinge there just as I released.” He smiled, barely suppressing a chuckle, a curious light in his eyes. He looked at Kyric strangely. Knowingly. Like he knew the arrow was enchanted, and that a spell had been cast upon him.
He reached out to shake Kyric’s hand. “You are a good archer, Kyric Ospraeus. I will see you on the platform.” Vaust held the handshake for a moment, as if he could learn more of Kyric with the touch. In turn, Kyric looked him in the eye, and though he had never seen Vaust before this day, he suddenly remembered him. No doubt he had seen him in a dream.
Kyric had heard during the qualifying that a prize for second place would be given this year — a silver arrow. So he would be on the platform with Vaust. Perhaps all was not lost. Maybe he would get the invitation to the royal reception as well.
Apparently that ceremony would be held at once. While a gang of workmen hauled the platform onto one end of the field, the crowd spilled out of the far side of the stands for a closer look. The judges ushered the two of them to the platform before they could be surrounded.
“My arrows —,” Kyric began.
“They will be collected for you,” a judge assured him.
A master of ceremonies announced them to the crowd with booming voice. Two young women set laurels on their heads, and two more hung ribbons with small ornamental arrows, gold and silver, around their necks. Kyric’s arrow seemed to be solid silver and weighed close to a pound, and he figured that if he pawned it he would have food and lodging for a month. Along with the gold arrow Vaust received a piece of paper with an elaborate seal.
As they stepped down from the platform, Kyric saw Pitbull passing nearby and was about to call out to him when Jela came out of the crowd and threw her arms out in a great hug.
“You were so good,” she cried. “You were wonderful. You almost won.”
While Jela carried on, Pitbull circled behind Vaust, stopping and taking a hard look at him over his spectacles. Vaust stiffened and looked behind, but Pitbull had already slipped away into a throng of spectators.
Jela turned to Vaust. “You were good too.”
Vaust bowed. “Stefin Vaust.”
“Of Drendusia. I heard. I’m Jela.”
“I am charmed to meet such a lovely lady.”
Jela blushed. She said to Kyric, “He’s a gentleman as well.”
“Are the two of you related?” said Vaust.
Jela giggled. “No. He’s my uncle’s friend.”
“How very fortunate for him.”
Jela giggled again, then noticed the paper in Vaust?
??s hand. “You didn’t get an invitation to the reception,” she said to Kyric.
He shook his head. “The nobility are not interested in those who come second.”
“That’s not fair,” she said. “You have a prize arrow as well. And you were so looking forward to meeting Princess Aerlyn.”
“You may have mine,” Vaust said, “so long as you bring Jela as your guest.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Jela said. “But won’t they be expecting you?”
“Oh I will be there,” Vaust said. “My employer is very close to Senator Lekon. I don’t need a pass to get in.”
“Who is your employer?” Jela asked.
“Kleon Morae,” Vaust said, pointing to Lekon’s private box atop the pavilion.
Kyric looked up, and there stood Morae next to the Senator, looking down at them, still wearing the same red hat with the black plume.
With sudden inspiration Kyric said to Vaust, “I’ve heard he’s a generous man, good to work for. Do you not love him?” And he waited for the lie.
This time Vaust laughed aloud. “No I do not. He’s an unforgiving tyrant. But he has much to offer in the way of advancement. I believe he’s soon to be Archon Morae.”
He spoke the truth. Kyric was sure of that.
“In that case,” Kyric said to him, “I accept with gratitude.”
Vaust began to hand him the invitation then paused. “Remember,” he said, nodding towards Jela.
Kyric took the paper and Jela covered her mouth with both hands. “I’m going to the royal reception,” she screamed. “I have to go tell everyone. Wait,” she said, having a sobering thought. “I don’t have anything to wear.”
“You do not have to dress like royalty,” Vaust told her. “I’m sure that you will be most lovely in what you have.” He bowed again and kissed her hand. “Until tomorrow night then.”
Before he walked away he gave one last nod to Kyric. “Be seeing you.”