Chapter 6
Chapter six
Favors & Kisses
Four arrows.
Four rounds.
Four perfect shots.
If Will had decided to throw the contest, he was doing a terrible job. My hand hurt from clutching the medallion so tightly, jaw very nearly locked in place as I continued watching the faces in the crowd, looking for the Devil’s eerie, mismatched eyes.
“You’re late, demon,” I muttered. “Are you really going to make me watch this?”
The final round came down to Will and two other men.
He looked back at me as he drew his final arrow.
Rocking back and forth on my feet, I just gave him a firm nod.
His win would not change what had happened between us in the courtyard, nor the fact that the Devil could appear at any moment to take me away, but still, I stayed.
Will was last in the line-up, and the first archer’s arrow went slightly wide, hitting the ring just outside the bullseye.
The man cursed and threw his bow into the dirt.
The second archer hit his bullseye, but just barely.
Will grinned as he drew, his body taught as the bowstring, every muscle focused on a singular purpose.
The breeze died for a moment, and he released.
His arrow struck true, hitting the dead center of the target.
Out of sheer habit, I began to cheer while he punched the air and whooped.
But the iron weight in my stomach only doubled as the crowd broke out into raucous applause.
He had won, and now I held my breath. There was still a chance.
The tiniest one I could imagine, but still a chance.
Perhaps, knowing that I had chosen the Devil would spur him into action.
Perhaps, even if I was taken to the Arden, it would be with the knowledge that Will had refused Helena and was waiting for me to pay my debt and come home to him.
Sheriff Scarlett met him at the center of the range and draped their family banner around his shoulders: a silver gyrfalcon soaring across a field of red.
Will held it tightly, grinning as he approached the royal box.
His eyes met mine for a moment, and my heart stuttered—hopeful and devoted and recalcitrant all at once.
“Well done, Mister Scarlett,” said Johar, rising from his throne.
Lady Helena also stood and moved closer to her father, the eager light in her eyes turning my stomach.
I pressed against the wooden barricade at my waist, leaning forward for a better view.
“You have won my daughter’s kiss, but first, what favor would you ask of me? ”
“My Prince,” said Will, dropping onto one knee in front of the platform, “I would take the oath and be one of your Royal Archers, to defend Athenium, and your family, to my final breath.” Sheriff Scarlett glanced up at the Prince, whose lips curled.
Behind him, Sadrine’s face remained passive and cold, almost disinterested.
“You do not wish to follow in your father’s footsteps?” Johar asked. “You are an only son, are you not?”
Will faltered. “I-I…I would never…wish to dishonor my father, Your Highness. But he has many worthy deputies to…to succeed him, and I only…I just…”
“While I am certain your skills would serve me well, Mister Scarlett,” Johar interjected, “I do require a test of loyalty and mettle for my Archers. Let us see if you can pass it before I make my decision.” He waved his hand at someone toward the back of the range, and my heart plummeted when I saw four men of the Iron Fist moving through the crowd.
Between them stumbled a ragged-looking prisoner with shackles around his ankles and wrists.
He was protesting, attempting to fight back, but was half-starved and had clearly suffered a recent beating.
All eyes were pinned on the man, including Will’s, as he was pulled forward and secured to a large post at the center of the archery range.
“Please!” he screamed, sunken eyes turning to the Prince. “Your Highness, I beg you! I am innocent, I have made no faerie bargains, please!”
Johar’s cruel mouth twisted into a sneer. “A flimsy protest, considering the evidence we have against you, Minister Gower.”
Gower. I knew that name. Angus Gower. One of Johar’s officials, a normally-plump little man who bounced around town, inspecting food stalls and dealing with issues such as rat infestations.
The last person I would ever expect to wander into the Arden, seeking a conference with the fay.
Horror flooded my body when I realized that this was no longer an archery contest, but a public execution… and a trap.
Johar turned back to Will. “This man has been found guilty of heresy and treason by a court of law, Mister Scarlett. He is sentenced to death. As one of my Archers, you would be charged with carrying out my justice. You may begin now.” My stomach knotted and I fought back the bile rising in my throat.
Sweet Will—the man who freed rabbits from snares because he could not stand to hear their screams—was being asked to kill a fellow human being.
Not only to kill, but to do it in exchange for the only thing he had ever wanted for himself, the only thing his family had not chosen for him.
This was how they planned to trap him in his father’s legacy and in a marriage with Helena.
I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t watch another second, especially not with the tears gathering in my eyes.
Every bone in my body, every fiber of my being pulled toward Will, desperate to block out the abject heartlessness of those around him, but I looked away.
He would not take the shot, and I did not want him to, but I knew there would be nothing left for us in the wake of his refusal.
He would not run with me, that much was clear.
I could not stay and watch him be sold off to Helena.
If this is humanity, I thought, then I want none of it. I am ready when you are, Devil.
Will’s impossible decision was made for him when an arrow violently cut short Angus Gower’s pleas for mercy, striking him hard in the center of the chest. The shot was so accurate and strong that it pinned his broken body to the post. For a moment in time, everything stopped, the only visible movement coming from the cluster of red feathers protruding from Gower’s breastbone.
They fluttered, carefree in the breeze, as a stranger stepped out from the crowd.
Hooded and masked, a quiver of red-fletched arrows on his belt, he walked with a predatory gait, holding a beautifully carved longbow in one hand.
As he moved, he pulled an arrow and nocked it.
The crowd gasped and the guards behind Johar’s family surged forward, but the strange archer turned and fired at one of the competition targets.
An arrow still sat in the outermost ring, and rather than hitting the bullseye, his shot struck the arrow itself, splitting it straight down the middle.
A chorus of murmurs went up around me and I clutched the wooden barricade at my waist, unable to tear my eyes away.
It was like watching a dancer. He walked backwards along the range, his feet swift and sure, firing a single shot at each target and striking not the center, but the other competitors’ arrows.
Each one split cleanly and perfectly in half.
He never stopped to test the wind, never paused to take aim, just drew and fired, drew and fired, one after another, maintaining his pace until he had split every single arrow on every single target.
Will’s winning shot was the last. As soon as the arrow hit its mark with a loud thunk, the crowd erupted.
Johar was standing now, guards close behind him, a wary expression on his hard-as-stone face.
With a grand sweep of his moss-green cloak, which was embroidered with patterns of brown and red feathers, the stranger turned to face the Prince.
The shadow of his hood concealed his eyes, but as he looked up, I saw that his mask seemed to have been made from fallen autumn leaves, adhered to the contours of his face and leaving only his mouth visible—a mouth which lifted into an arrogant and triumphant smile.
“What is the meaning of this?” Johar asked.
“My Prince,” the archer called out, offering a dramatic bow, “I beg your forgiveness. I traveled from Achaia to compete in your grand tournament, but found myself waylaid on the journey through the Arden.” A wave of gasps and laughter went up from the crowd, and he grinned up at Johar, who smirked.
“Why risk the Arden when I have established a ferry to bring travelers safely from Achaia to Nottingham?”
“Forgive my boldness, Highness, but the ferry tolls have become exorbitant as of late. I am only a poor hunter, living by my wits and wiles, and my arrows.”
“Red-fletched arrows,” Johar said, raising an eyebrow. “I forbade such costumes at my tournament, and yet you come dressed as the treasonous thief, Robin Hood, anyway.”
“I must beg your forgiveness once again. I only arrived this morning and thought it was the local fashion.” The stranger spun with a sweep of his cloak while the crowd laughed.
Johar seemed to relax, but then turned his attention back to Will, who stood there looking cowed while his father gripped his shoulder.
His eyes shifted apprehensively from the stranger, to Johar, to me.
“Mister Scarlett,” said the Prince. “Since you could not manage to do your sovereign’s bidding, you shall not receive my favor. It will instead be given to this stranger, who has shown more loyalty and skill in the last five minutes than you have in your twenty-two wasted years.”
“Your Highness,” the masked archer said, leaning casually on his longbow, “I will accept your favor, gladly, but I do not seek to deprive the young man of a kiss I’m sure he is desperate for.”
Will’s face darkened and the banner around his shoulders fell into the dirt, but Johar turned to Helena and waved at the two men.