Tossing the Caber (Marriage Market Misadventures #7)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Beacon

As a son of the Sure-of-Foot elf Clan and first-place-medaling elite athlete, Beacon takes pride in his strength and stability. Meaning that while working to free the massive wagon’s wheel from a deep divot in the road, he stays mindful not to humiliate himself by slipping in the mud.

The wagon, built by Gearwick mages and enchanted to drive without horses, has done a solid job of getting their traveling party down the great mountains of Dun Steorra, but only fifteen miles from his hometown, Tunbrae, the contraption has run out of magic.

Beacon has little use for magic. He knows none of it and doesn’t spend much time around people who know of it, either. As a dedicated introvert, Beacon tries not to spend much time around anyone but especially not some odd elf who’d go on about magic incessantly.

The wagon’s failure to get them to Tunbrae without issue is further justification for his disinterest. Magic isn’t trustworthy.

Not to say practitioners are nefariously inclined; it’s more that he doesn’t like to stake his survival on something he doesn’t understand and can’t control.

Not when the most reliable thing Beacon knows is his own body.

With a groan full of suffering and exhaustion, the wagon finally pops free. Beacon grunts as the sudden kinetic release launches the wagon’s frame into his chest, but he braces himself instinctively and manages to not lose his footing.

Raibull, a cheerful fellow on Beacon’s athletic team, seizes his shoulder to stabilize him. Beacon forces himself not to shrug the heavy hand off. He huffs ‘thanks’ and slaps Raibull on the back before extricating himself.

Once he’s certain the wagon is secure, Beacon steps away before anyone else can attempt another ‘helpful’ gesture.

“Well done, mate,” Senta, the burly woman at the wagon’s ass, calls. Beacon offers a half-wave of acknowledgement.

Successful athletic teams prioritize strong ties between members.

Being internally-focused means Beacon is uncomfortable socializing outside of training or games, but for the most part, his teammates understand he prefers to be left to his own devices.

They attempt to compromise, but sometimes, the dramatic shift in social expectations makes him miss the reserved culture of Tunbrae, where public interactions are expected to be reserved and respectful.

However, there are reasons Beacon opted to travel high into the Dun Steorran mountains, all the way to Stehr’s Peak, to join one of his country’s most elite athletic teams rather than transfer to the closer stadium in Emberleigh.

The dedication to their craft, pride for their people, and history of medaling in Beacon’s strongest events factored in, but Beacon would be somewhat embarrassed to admit that wasn’t the primary decision-making factor.

“How much juice does she have left in her?” Raibull, still far too close, shouts to the greater traveling party.

The head of the caravan, Ottan, bellows something that doesn’t sound promising. The frontmost wagon is too large to abandon on the narrow dirt road; the smaller, horse-drawn wagons trailing behind won’t be able to steer around it.

Potential solutions fly in all directions like arrows in a gale.

If their coach had been on the journey with them, she’d have had the final word, but the damn woman broke her leg just before the caravan headed off.

She instructed Beacon to not let them do anything overwhelmingly stupid in her absence, so when the overall consensus veers toward setting up camp and waiting for a rider on horseback to seek an enchanter from Tunbrae to fix the wagon before the rest of the procession can continue, Beacon hastily intervenes.

“That would delay us at least an extra day,” he says, nudging Ottan so they know to mind his softer, scratchy voice. “We’d miss the opening ceremony.”

Everend’s Midsummer Marriage Market is the largest event of the year.

While social obligations set Beacon’s nerves on end, there’s precious little he cares for more than his professional responsibilities.

Beacon is prompt, efficient, and diligent.

It’s what landed him with multiple offers to join professional teams across Everend, and he doesn’t intend to compromise that reputation over some unreliable magic.

Beacon gestures to Senta. “Empty the wagon’s cargo into the others. Senta and I will pull it the rest of the way.”

Senta raises her eyebrows at being volunteered for an exhausting act of drudgery, but doesn’t argue. She doesn’t want to do nothing for half the day either, waiting around in the forest when they could be eating and sleeping in beds rather than under tents or on hard wooden floors.

After a moment of consideration, Ottan nods. They set to handing out assignments and quell the grumbling of those unenthusiastic about reorganizing all the heavy materials they put in the enchanted wagon to avoid burdening the horses.

Once he has approval, Beacon goes straight to the back of the wagon.

He drags heavy boxes across the floor one after another; they contain everything from training weights and shot-put balls to sharp-soled cleats and the axes that will be used to fell trees destined for the games.

It’s hard, honest work—the only thing that makes Beacon feel properly alive.

With the wagon as light as it’s getting and the cab unhitched to make room for the hastily-assembled harnesses to be attached to the frame, Beacon peels off from the loud group, leaving the lot still bickering about where to put what now that space in the other wagons has been substantially depleted.

Senta is already there when Beacon grabs his harness, the scent of fresh leather filling his nostrils. He fastens the buckles over his chest, eager to get going. “You look like a pack horse,” she teases. “And you’ve made a nag of me, as well.”

“Then stop nagging,” Beacon grouses.

Senta only laughs. “All good?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s have off and leave these whiny asses behind.”

Sweat-soaked, exhausted, and exhilarated, Beacon gives one more heave before he and Senta release their grips on the wagon and start unbuckling their harnesses, the clinking buckles smothered by the sound of cheers.

Even the reserved elves of Beacon’s hometown aren’t impervious to the sight of one of their champions hauling a massive structure into the central square’s perimeter.

Freed from the bonds, Beacon nearly catches himself celebrating like he’s achieved a full twelve o’clock on the caber toss—his signature event. The ensuing applause is the only time Beacon ever feels connected to other elves. Spirit, enthusiasm, pride—that’s what he does this for.

Beacon’s gaze sweeps the waiting crowd. He locks onto the waving arms of two elves in plain clothes and bright smiles and finds himself lunging over the wagon’s hitch so he can run to meet them.

Arms open wide, Beacon gathers his parents in a fierce embrace, lifting them both clear off the worn cobblestones.

“My boy!” his father wheezes, smaller body crushed in one of Beacon’s thick arms. His mother is of height with him and doesn’t need to stretch to drop a kiss on his temple.

Beacon nuzzles his nose into her warm, dark hair, breathing her in.

Then he releases his grip and leans back to look at them, a hand on each of their arms.

“Mother,” he murmurs, inclining his head at the Sure-of-Foot Clan matriarch. Then, to his father, he dips a bit lower, showing the same respect for the shorter man. “Father, it’s been too long.”

Maura and Donlan Sure-of-Foot have good standing in Tunbrae, and through their guidance, so does the rest of the clan.

Beacon fits in well on the outside, where communal spaces between clans require a specific degree of formality.

Within the privacy of their clan walls, however, relations can become more animated.

With respect to this, Beacon makes sure to savor moments of quiet with his parents before they return home and subject him to his extended family, many of whom Beacon cannot fucking stand.

Cupping his cheeks, Maura scrubs Beacon’s untamed stubble between her work-worn hands. “The mountains have been good to you!”

A rare smile creeps over his lips. “I wish I could say the same about the sun.” Descending from the colder heights into the warm grip of summer is never the most enjoyable experience.

Beacon has a much paler complexion than his brown-skinned mother, along with fiery red hair inherited from his paternal grandfather.

Exposure has left his skin ruddy and sore.

Maura laughs and bops the tip of his peeling nose with her finger, after which his dad takes advantage of Beacon’s moment of surprise to ruffle his sweaty hair.

Beacon bats both their hands away. “I take it back,” he grouses. “Maybe a few more months of separation would be best.”

“Save your attitude for Auntie Primrose,” Donlan advises.

Not about to grace that comment with a response, Beacon squeezes both his parents’ hands and removes himself, heading back to meet those of the travel party who arrived alongside them. On account of their increased burdens, several smaller wagons have fallen behind.

Eager to put off returning to the Sure-of-Foot compound for the first time in a season and a half, Beacon busies himself in assisting with the discord unleashed by the defunct wagon.

They work for hours. It’s irritating how many of his teammates fall apart without direct orders from Coach, but Beacon sticks close to the merchants who know how to handle fractured plans and helps guide his fellow athletes into a semblance of functional order.