“LADIES AND GENTLEFOLK!” Booms Sir Handsomelot right in my ear. He's sneakier than the prince.

I jump and the tension I'd placed on the bow to string it rebounds and the wood thwacks me. Only from practice running on rooftops do I keep my balance and keep from falling on my rump as I almost trip on the bow between my legs. I rub my stinging hind end and glare at the grinning, unrepentant announcer.

“Seems Sir Ri has indeed shown up. Quite frankly, there have been discussions on when and if you were going to show, my young friend. You made me a sack of gold.” He clicks his heels and bows at me before winking conspiratorially, a leather bag appearing in his hand. It jangles when he tosses it in the air and catches it. “You see, I knew you were just a shy lad.” He drops his voice to a whisper the audience can still hear through the mage-powered speaker. “The ladies scare you, aye? It’s smart to be wary of beauties that can muddle the mind with but a glance. That’s alright, I’m sure there’s many a young lass who would gladly help our young hero, hmm?”

Squeals and laughter comes from the many tens of thousands of spectators, and I grow red as a tomato. I duck my head, trying to appear busy with my bow.

“Aww, we’ve embarrassed him. Better move on before the lad faints.”

I poke at him with my bow, but he blithely moves aside with a laugh, moving on to Sir Xonier, who's booming with laughter at my expense.

Sir Handsomelot wiggles his eyebrows at the big knight. “Sir Xonier. Pleasure, my man. How you doing?”

I sputter in outrage.

“Why does he get the easy questions?” I grumble, stringing my bow a second time as Sir Handsomlot continues chatting up both Sir Robin and Sir Xonier as if they were old friends.

He slaps them on the back and turns to the crowd.

“Now confirmed, all are in attendance.” Sir Handsomlot throws an arm over my shoulder, jabbing me in the ribs with his other hand.

I hiss out a breath, jerking sharply. My ribs are still tender from where I haven't let them fully heal from.. well... everything. At least it's now a dull ache all over my body instead of the blinding pain of a few days past. Ran and Rose were quite the pair in helping me heal, even if it was a few minutes of near unbearable pain. A bitter-sweet pang enters my heart at the thought of my friend. I hope she's happy and living the life back with Natasha. I should visit after... this.

I narrow my eyes at Handsomlot, extremely tempted to poke him with one of my hidden blades as he blathers on. Just one little poke. Won’t even draw much blood.

He must see something in my eyes, as he pales slightly, but doesn’t remove his arm. "Now, during this competition for our heroic prince, it is important for his protector to be skilled with both long range and short range defense and offense. And as our queen is fond of saying, 'the best defense is a better offense.'" He finally removes his arm from about my shoulders to bow to our lovely queen. She sends Sir Handsomlot a smooth smile that reminds me of a cat I once saw playing with a mouse. If the queen had a tail, it’d be waving.

Sir Handsomlot gulps. “My esteemed queen, so very wise and gracious and merciful to us little folk who don’t always think before we speak.” He bows deeply, his red feathered hat of the day brushing the dirt at his feet.

The smile becomes more genuine, and I hear Handsomelot release a breath in relief.

“For our favored prince, it is just as important to be able to see a threat and eliminate it from near or far.” With a breath, he continues, his voice smooth and deep, echoing in the reverent near-silence of the arena, “So shall this tournament be, a champion we shall see. When nigh comes from afar, when Hope drifts with the gales, so shall our champion arise from beyond the sea to answer our pleas. A champion to uphold. A champion to defend. A champion to wage war. A champion to guard our peace. With these words we so swear, shall our victor taste sweet grace. Non afar from far above as he seeks to guard us from evil below. Shall we all strive to be the champion of our hearts, until we arise from ashes past to dawns sweet christening, memories held in wonder of joy's gracious journey. Upon the day of ashes rise, upon golden wings, shall evil scatter on worlds sweet embrace.” We all silently bow our heads as the prose comes from a voice smooth yet hearty. Such is the voice of a bard. The crowd is silent, unwilling to break the stillness as the last word lingers.

I test the string as Sir Handsomlot describes the rules to the waiting crowd. Hans made me study them inside and out this morning, so I tune him out as I pull the sting to my cheek.

A moment of panic shocks me to my core as the string creaks just slightly and I realize in everything... I forgot to oil it. But then it gives and a cool relief flows through my veins. The string is still strong and pliable, Momma must have oiled it while I was... out of commission. She always was good at that stuff. A smile pulls at my lips, glancing at the stands. She promised to be in the stands, even though I tried to get her to stay away.

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She said she'd tan my hide if I tried to keep her away. I believed her. I've faced monsters of both creatures and men... yet my mother terrifies me.

Unbidden, I feel my mother through the crowd as if she were standing beside me. The warmth of love throughout her soul and the depth of her faith. But hidden beneath the rest is a broken and jagged, painful hole. There the accumulated grief of the past years have festered. I look in the direction I can feel her, but cannot see her through the many heads bobbing and moving and speaking.

If my Gift was so useful all the time, I might like it.

It jabs me with a quick overwhelm of the emotions raging around me as if in retribution to that thought, but fades as quickly as it came.

I wince, shaking my head. I'd say it’s as naughty as Ran, but I don't think it's actually alive... Right? Right.

I shake my head to push away the thoughts and my Gift, then pay attention as Sir Handsomlot describes the process to the crowd.

We start at fifty yards with five arrows. Whoever hits center three of the five steps back to sixty yards, increased by ten yard increments.

The catch? When we get to a hundred yards, the target will be moving. After that, we get to aim for five knights on chargers with a specially painted arrowhead that will explode red on contact. What is it with the crowd and their bloodthirsty ways? At least we don't have to battle live animals like the challenges of old.

The muted roar that comes from the people is the equivalent to that of what my father described of the ocean. Ebbing and flowing but never ceasing. I huff a breath, then continue testing my perfect bow to give my hands something to do.

I smile and trace one of the leaves etched into the limbs. I always took this bow for granted, along with the swords and daggers Pa gave me years back. It all had to have cost a small fortune.

The recurve at the top makes the bow makes it the equivalent of a hundred pound draw longbow, but Father had something done to it—there is a slight shimmer at the edge of my sight when I look at the edges, almost how the ward glows around the fairies when they’re in ball form. Something I’ve been able to see ever since Rose infiltrated my mind.

I always knew something special resided in my bow... now I think Pa may have been something beyond a mere swordsman. He was a Dragon-Bonded warrior, and he knew of Gifts. He knew of them enough to somehow get my bow warded... and possibly by fairies.

I'll put it to the test in ways that it has not seen in quite some time, and somehow, I look forward to it.

I smile to the sky, silently thanking Father for preparing me for this day. He might not have known where life would lead me, but he did his very best to train me all he knew before he passed on.

I rub a tear with my shoulder, shrugging away the bitter-sweet memories of better days.

“And with no further adieu, I bid the High Prince welcome and ask him to declare the start of the second trial in the Prince Protector Competition!” Sir Handsomelot bows to the prince as the crowd hoots, hollers, and stomps until the stands shake with their enthusiasm.

The Crown Prince stands and comes to the pulpit-like stone a horse length above my head. I despise being this close, and the prince smirks at me as if he has some innate wisdom on that very fact. I keep my face carefully expressionless, but my eyes glower.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he begins, “I thank all for being a part of this momentous occasion. This glorious nation's backbone is not her crown nor her might, but her people who stand when others would fall. Who rise when others would remain silent. Whose compassion knows no bounds and strength tests the worlds’ tapestry.” I glance up to find his eyes on me, seemingly imparting something I cannot fathom. I breathe a sigh when he looks back to the crowds, leaning forward as his words pitch a deeper tone. “You, my beloved friends and family, are the blood and bone of Irisia. Without you, a crown would be a mighty lonely item to bear.”

The crown prince glances back at his father, who nods sagely while a servant holds the large crown with blue accents on his head to keep it from toppling. The prince turns with a reserved smile as the people laugh. “What you all have waited with bated breath is here. Without further needless words, would you be so kind as to help me sing the Rise of Irisia?"

I near silently join them in the haunting melody, thankful to put away the gruff voice I must put on when I wear this mask—even if it’s just for a moment.

Among our kin ‘till the sweet end,

For King and Country we so stand,

Brave and bold, strong and wise,

Meek and frail, healer and scholar,

Hear our prayer, O High One.

May our land prosper, undivided,

Holy by thine divine Hand.

Second of Four, Beulah, Beloved,

Depths of change flow beneath your shore,

Whilst tides of promise rise on a winged dove.

Fear not her calling,

Change is sweet in her timing.

Treasure wisdom but fear tepid souls,

for where one stands, the other falls.

Second of Four, Beulah, Beloved,

Depths of change flow beneath your shore,

Whilst tides of promise rise on a winged dove.”

Stomping feet and crying voices merge to make the ground shake and tremble beneath our feet.

The Prince holds up a hand, allowing the silence to fester as anticipation builds in the leaning forward of the men, women, and children in the crowd.

“Knock your arrows!”

We place our arrows and draw. The fletching tickles my ear. The Crown Prince blows an elegantly tooled trumpet as long as my leg that reminds me of a slender sea shell. Her song that emanates from the elegant trumpet is a voiceless cry into the day that is as beautiful as it is haunting. It is the sound of wind rustling through golden fields. It is the sound of a wolf crying for her mate. It is the sound of a mother singing to her babe. It is life and loss, hope and joy, all eclipsed into one single, haunting cry.

As soon as it ends, the whistle of eighty-four arrows breaks the silence.