Chapter 28
Ian watched from the sidelines as Robin’s prediction came true.
The spectators cheered loudly as Onric received a red flag, moving him forward to the final round. Lord Durando, a visiting friend from Allys, received the final red flag.
Perhaps Robin should have participated in Fletcher’s betting ring; it would be one way to get more gold for Bernard and the . . . Ian shook his head, realizing that she had likely fed the same information to the monk, doing exactly that.
The targets were pushed back another twenty paces, and the twelve contestants of the third round were called to the line.
Walking slowly, Ian focused intently on the fletching of one of his arrows as everyone chose their places in line.
Not unexpectedly, Onric was a clear favorite among the archers as well as the spectators. As he approached the line, he recognized Ormunder from the castle guard and called out his name, standing next to him.
Ian moved forward to the spot on Onric’s other side, but the Allysian nobleman got there first, joining in the casual conversation between Onric and Ormunder.
Ian took the next spot, standing next to Lord Durando, one place away from Onric.
He already felt grim from the recent conversation with Robin, and this further failure only amplified that. Maybe he could try to catch Onric for a moment when they walked off the field.
The final round of the tournament would consist of only the three best archers.
Ian knew he had a chance to be in the top three, but that would put him under too much scrutiny.
Standing here under the excited attention of the crowd was risky enough.
He scratched his beard, then lifted his hand to tug at the hood of his cloak, keeping it safely over his face.
“Durando,” Onric’s voice called from behind him. “Let me switch places with you.”
Ian turned a casual glance over his shoulder.
“Is something wrong with your target?” Lord Durando asked, laughing. “Or is the wind better over here?”
“No,” Onric said. “I just don’t want to stare at your ungainly face. It will distract my aim.”
Durando laughed again, but he happily switched places.
Ian waited a few moments for Onric to settle into place. When he risked a look back around the side of his hood, Onric was grinning at him.
Ian smirked back. “How did you . . .” Ian glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention to them.
“Brother,” Onric said, “I would recognize you anywhere, beard or no.”
“No one else seems to have noticed,” Ian said, defensively.
“No one else knows you like I do,” Onric replied. “I noticed you retrieving your arrows last round when I recognized the tense set of your shoulders and the direct focus of your stride.”
Ian looked down, snorting a little as he held back a grim laugh. It felt good to be seen. “Then you noticed Robin, as well?”
Onric immediately spun his head, looking around at the other archers and nearby spectators. “No, is she here?”
“She threw the last round,” Ian said, both pleased and peeved that Robin’s disguise had worked better. Ian picked up an arrow, preparing to nock it against his string in an effort to avoid looking at Onric.
“It is good to see your face,” Onric said, his voice falling to a quieter pitch.
Ian nodded stiffly in agreement.
“How are you?” he asked, testing the arrow against the string. “How is Father?” As the words left his mouth, Ian already wanted to take them back. While he was constantly concerned about the state of his father’s health, Robin’s recent revelation had made him angry. Angry over his father’s actions.
Onric, unaware of Ian’s internal thoughts, answered quickly and quietly. “He is the same. His leg appears to be healing now, having gotten through the week where everything appears worse before it starts getting better. But he has not opened his eyes or woken from sleep.”
Ian realized with relief that he was still equally as concerned over his father’s health. The anger was new, but it did not negate the concern. “And Mother?” he asked.
The horn blew twice, signaling the start of the round.
“She sits by his bed at all times,” Onric replied. “Erich and I relieve her as often as we can, but you know how stubborn she can be.”
Ian lifted his bow. The other archers were taking their time, likely feeling the pressure of this final round and wanting to draw out the excited entertainment for the gathered crowd. Ian welcomed the slowness—all the more time to talk with his brother.
The crowd cheered.
Ian turned to see that Onric’s shot had landed in the center ring.
Onric lifted an arm and smiled to the cheering people.
Ian kept his face hidden, remembering that he was highly visible because of where he was standing. He lifted his own bow and pretended to focus on his first shot. He had no intention of making it into the final round after this one, but he needed to at least pretend to try.
“Gareth visits Father every day,” Onric said as he leaned down to pick another arrow. “He asks about his health with so much concern you could almost believe that he cares.”
Ian exhaled and released his second shot. The third ring.
“The entire city is enamored with him,” Onric continued. “The hero who has already saved us from a Majis attack, who will save us from the future attacks. The people love him for it.”
“They clearly love you, though,” Ian said, risking a look at his brother as he nocked another arrow. “Let us not cede that kind of power too quickly.” Ian found that he believed the words.
“They still love you as well,” Onric said. “Although they are rightly confused at the moment.”
Ian drew back his bowstring. He had never doubted that the people of Iseldis loved him and his family. He had always believed that his father acted justly toward their subjects and that the people in turn loved and respected him for it.
He let his arrow fly. Second ring.
“Thank you for the gold you sent with Ashlin,” Ian said, resting his bow on his boot for a moment to rest his muscles. “That was generous.”
“Let me know whatever you need for whatever you are planning,” Onric said. “With Father out and you gone, the treasury is entirely under my command. Gareth does not quite have full oversight of all the castle dealings yet.”
“It was for Robin,” Ian said. “I am still working on the plan. Shedding blood to take back the castle is too high a price when fear still rules the minds of the people.”
“I agree,” Onric replied, shooting his next arrow. It hit the second ring. The crowd still cheered as loudly as they had the first time.
Ian grinned to himself. Of course they did.
They each had three remaining arrows to shoot. As much as he wanted to talk about Robin and River’s Talon and ask about Erich and Ashlin and the other people at the castle who made up his family, they needed to use their last few moments together wisely.
“What is Gareth’s next move?” Ian asked. “Have you been able to learn anything about his plans?”
Onric shook his head while considering the arrows in his quiver. “For someone who is so loud, he keeps his plans very quiet.”
Ian selected his next arrow. He looked up and down the field at the targets he could see clearly, trying to guess what ring he should hit in order to remove himself from the competition without being too obvious.
Judging by his opponents’ skill, he needed to focus on rings three and four, but he was not quite as confident in his shots as Robin was.
“He does send a courier to the monastery every evening after he has talked to his own close advisors, though,” Onric said.
Ian lifted his head. This was information they could work with. “Is the courier carrying written information? That should be easy to intercept.”
“It is often written,” Onric said. “But, the couriers take a different route every night to avoid being caught by ‘the thieves that run rampant in Iseldis.’ Gareth’s words, not mine.”
Ian lifted the bow to make his fourth shot. He aimed for the fourth ring. The couriers took a different route each night, but they still left and arrived from the same location.
He released the arrow. It hit the center ring.
The crowd cheered.
Ian raised his hand in the air, bowing his head but not fully turning to accept their excitement. Of course he would get a perfect shot when he was aiming for the fourth ring.
“Nice shot,” Onric said.
“When does the courier leave the castle?” Ian asked.
“Just before sundown,” Onric replied. “Tonight’s will either be a young man with a scar on his face or an older man who wears beads in his hair.”
Ian nodded, committing the words to memory. He shot his next arrow. This one hit the fourth ring. His final shot hit the eighth ring.
As they waited for the tally keeper to count the scores, Ian looked fully at his brother. “It was good to see you,” he said. “Keep yourself safe.”
“And you,” Onric replied. He lifted a hand in a familiar motion, reaching forward to grasp Ian’s shoulder like they often did. But, as if remembering they had an audience, he dropped his hand quickly. It would draw attention to Ian if they embraced.
But not if they clasped hands as fair and honorable opponents.
Onric held out his hand instead.
“Wait,” Ian said, reaching inside the inner pocket of his jacket to find the silver needle case he had brought with him. He reached out and clasped Onric’s hand tightly, transferring the needle case.
He held his brother for just a moment longer than was necessary, hoping that this was not the last time they would speak.
Onric accepted the case, sliding it carefully into his own pocket.
Then, with a nod, Ian turned away and left the field.